RACE DAY: THE FINAL COUNTDOWN
By Dimity + Sarah
By Dimity + Sarah
The work is done; the cows are in the barn; it’s taper time, gals. Because you know nearly every running-related detail of our lives, we thought we’d share with you the prep work and thoughts we have leading up to a half-marathon, which we’re pretending starts at 7 A.M. on a Sunday. (Visualize along with us: We’re also imagining we each take first in our age groups and knock substantial times off our respective PRs, thanks to our amazing training and preparation.)
Dimity: Head over to weather.com and start to check the forecast obsessively, or at least four times a day up until race day. Each time, I’m slightly bummed there isn’t an hourly weather map available yet for Sunday’s race.
Dimity: Get slightly concerned my training isn’t going to kick in. I know taper time, when miles are minimal, is when my mind goes even more into overdrive, so I try to take that into account, but my legs don’t feel as fresh as I think they should by now. They always come around by race day, but I wish there was some gas gauge–like window on my quads to allow me to see them getting revved.
SBS: Shooting out some e-mails to rustle up a playdate for race-day afternoon for at least one of the kiddos, thus ensuring less chaos in the house. Maybe I’ll even be able to slip in a nap. (The mere thought makes me redouble my e-mail efforts.)
Despite being on deadline for a Runner’s World article, I spend at least 20 minutes studying the racecourse. Like my older daughter, Phoebe, prepping for her weekly spelling test, I want to make sure I know things backward and forward. Does that long hill start at mile 8, or end there? At what street is the turnaround before we head back toward the finish line?
Dimity: After checking the weather for the third time today, I head to my drawer o’ spandex and see what outfit I want to wear. Unlike a certain someone—ahem, SBS—I don’t have specific race outfits, although these days I run in some kind of shirt from the Another Mother Runner collection. When I’m dragging, and somebody yells, “You’re one badass mother runner!” or laughs at my shirt, I get a momentary boost.
To make sure I’m covered, I will wash all of my favorite sports bras, as well as two bottoms (one pair of capris, one skirt).
SBS: Laundry day here in Portland, where it takes workout clothes a good two days to air dry. Wash several skirts as I debate patterned versus dependable black. Give a whiff to my wool arm warmers: slightly pungent, but not overly ripe. Leave them out, but toss in several bras, as I want to wear one that makes me look slightly bodacious under my AMR tank.
SBS: Blow off boot camp. If Ashleigh has us do too many lunges and squats, my legs will be toast. Right about now is when I start consciously conserving my energy and being kind to my legs. When I hear the UPS guy knock on the front door, I forgo answering it. I know he’ll leave the package without a signature, resulting in one fewer set of stairs I have to tromp up and down.
When I’m in the kitchen at lunchtime, eating leftover pizza, I check the cupboards to make sure I have all the ingredients for my race-morning smoothie, plus good bread for toast. I add bananas to my grocery list, as I want to ensure they are the perfect ripeness on Sunday morning.
SBS: It’s gadget time. I spend way too much time making the. perfect. playlist. Maybe it’s a little heavy on the Fitz & The Tantrums songs, but they put a spring in my step. Then I connect the iPod to download my “Half-Marathon Heaven” playlist and charge the device, which reminds me to plug in my Garmin. Got to be sure all batteries—not just my body’s—are fully charged.
SBS: Knowing it’s the sleep you get two nights pre-race, not the night of, that can make or break race-day performance, I get a bit anxious around 8:45. I decide tonight’s the night to pop an Ambien to ensure sweet slumber. Ear plugs and “Hollywood shades” complete my sleep kit.
Dimity: As I wait for my Tylenol PM to kick in, I settle on two potential outfits. Capris, tank, and long-sleeve tech tee if it’s below 50—I’ll tie the tee around my waist if I get hot—and skirt, tank, and long sleeve if it’s between 50 and 60.
“Slow and steady. I like to get my money’s worth from every course!”
—KRISTINE (Strangest thing seen on a run: It’s a tie between two deer having a National Geographic moment and a man running naked.)
“I’m a bit of a rabbit, unfortunately, because I just feel so good after a nice taper. This has never proved truly disastrous for me, but I’m sure my times would be faster if I could learn to control it!”
—PHOEBE (Loved running alongside a friend for the pal’s first race, because “I was able to mix the encouraging friend part of me with my ‘Get ’er done, dammit’ coach part.”)
“Run fast and don’t fall down.”
—SUZANNE (Took this advice from her now 7-year-old daughter, who was 3 at the time.)
“Slow.”
—STEPHANIE (“I think I like saying ‘I’m a runner’ more than I like running. I hope that’s not weird.”)
“Competitive, but I know my limits.”
—BOBBI (Takes out her earbuds during races if somebody strikes up a conversation.)
“Enjoy every mile.”
—HENRIETTAE (Loves hearing the national anthem before a race starts.)
“I am competitive, but only with myself. I love to encourage other runners who seem defeated.”
—TRACY (Race-day philosophy: If you’re physically prepared, it’s 90 percent mind over matter.)
“Laid-back but persistent.”
—AMY (Doesn’t run through injury: “At first twinge, I’m taking a break.”)
“Fly and die. I am not one of those people who can sprint the last quarter-mile of a race.”
—RACHEL (Was once chased by a pack of Chihuahuas while on vacation. “It was the fastest mile I ever ran.”)
“Neo-conservative borderline trashy? I don’t think I know what a racing style is.”
—AMANDA (Entertains herself on long runs by taking photos with her iPhone and using Facebook. “Seriously.”)
SBS: After a short, easy, shake-out-the-legs run, I shave my ’pits and legs. Wishing I’d remembered to apply it sooner, I slather on some self-tanner. Wonder if there’s enough time to give a glow to my pale gams?
Speaking of color, I’ve been paying careful attention to the shade of my urine. What hue is pale straw, anyway? I decide pee the color of Crystal Light Lemonade is fine for letting me know I’m well hydrated.
Dimity: Head to the expo to pick up my number. As I walk around the expo, I peruse the schwag bag slyly so that it doesn’t look like I only race for mini Luna Bars and free GU, which, truth be told, I kind of do. I head to the T-shirt table and check out the tees. If they’re unisex or ugly, I usually opt not to take one, or, if possible, I’ll grab a smaller size so one of my kids can use it for PJs. I’ve taken too many shirts I didn’t like on sight, then had them clutter up my dresser before donating them to Goodwill. If I’m with a friend, we may peruse the booths, but I’m usually an in-and-out kind of girl. I’d rather shop for running clothes and shoes when I don’t have a race hanging over my head.
SBS: I take the kids to the playground, resisting the strong urge to take a nap. (I don’t want to mess with my ability to fall asleep tonight—no sleep aids for me the night before a race.) I plant myself on a shady bench and read the New York Times on my phone, refusing to push my kids on the tire swing for fear I’ll wrench my back. For Mama, this visit is all about resting, not playing.
Dimity: Definitely have one beer and plenty of water with my dinner, usually pasta with veggies and a salad. Then indulge in dessert, ideally a piece of carrot cake. Never know what may happen tomorrow, so I might as well enjoy tonight.
Dimity: After checking the hourly forecast for the last time tonight, I solidify my outfit choice. I lay the tank flat on my bed and position my race number squarely in the middle of the bottom half. Without letting the bib shift a centimeter, I fasten all four pins, then pick up the tank. The number, without fail, is slanted or off center. C’est la vie.
Dimity: Climb into bed at 9:30, my usual bedtime, and pretend like I don’t have a race tomorrow. Good luck with that, says my mind.
Dimity: After tossing and turning and finally falling asleep around midnight, I wake up about 2 A.M. feeling like my bladder might explode. Empty it and think, only 3½ hours of sleep left. Get back to sleep, ASAP!
Dimity: Rise and shine. Or snooze a few times, then rise and shine. I first head downstairs to get breakfast and some water boiling for tea: want to rouse the intestines so that I can use my home bathroom. Check the weather again, and promise myself it’s the final time.
SBS: Wake up a few minutes before alarm sounds, hop out of bed to brush my teeth, and peer out bedroom window to determine weather. As usual, the mere act of standing in the morning gets things moving. Poop for first of what ends up being three times this morning.
Strip off pajamas to begin the anti-chafing ritual. It begins, easily enough, with swipes of BodyGlide. Then comes the layered effect with broad swaths of Asics Chafe Free; applying the chalky white liquid is like whitewashing my inner thighs. Yes, the process takes almost as long as the actual race, but this combo is my no-fail, anti-chafe strategy.
Dimity: I arrive at the racecourse about 30 minutes before the gun goes off. I like to have enough time to drop a bag, get in line for the Porta-Potty, and soak in a little of the atmosphere, but I don’t like to be there with too much time to spare, or I’ll get too nervous or cold.
First, I drop my bag. Although I like to travel lightly, after a fall race I know I’ll want my fleece jacket. If you’re racing with a bunch of people, consolidate your items into one or two bags, then have the fastest runner check it. She can grab it and have your goodies waiting for you at the finish line.
Then I scope out the Porta-Potty line. If it looks ridiculously long, I’ll investigate other options. If I’m only going number 1, I check to see if there are any woods or out-of-the-way fields around.
If not, I’ll bide my time and hope the line moves as urgently as I have to pee.
SBS: I walk a block or two away from the race hoopla before starting my warm-up of easy running, then strides. I try not to attract attention to myself, as I don’t resemble the slight, fleet-feeted runners who bust out aggressive warm-ups. I’m just looking to work out a few kinks and break a light sweat.
Afterward, I pick up my Amphipod belt and make sure a Roctane is in the outside mesh pocket for easy access at mile 4. With 10 minutes left to the start, I pop two pieces of Jolt Energy Gum into my mouth. Caffeine is my now-not-so-secret race-day boost since I otherwise eschew it.
Dimity: Jump in the corral and make sure my two GUs aren’t hanging out of my pocket. If I’m alone, I may strike up a conversation with a fellow runner, or I may hang solo. Depends on how I feel. I definitely like to line up toward one edge of the road, leaving me more personal space.
SBS: I “pardon me, excuse me” my way to the middle of the appropriate starting corral. Once situated, I stand stock still with my elbow cocked, locking in a satellite signal on my GPS. Then I shift my attention to my nano, checking for the, oh, 78th time it’s not set on shuffle so that Fitz and his fellows will come on at the precise moment I planned midrace. I thread my Yurbuds cord under my bra strap and down my shirt, then plug it into my iPod. I cue up “Half-Marathon Heaven,” and I’m ready to go.
Dimity: I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s get this party started.
“Unstoppable.” —Marci
“Relief.” —Karen
“Like I can conquer the world and anything it throws at me.” —Rachel
“An immediate urge to hit the restroom for some sour tummy relief.” —Emily
“Great, but wondering if I left some in the tank.” —Christy
“Like I’m going to die.” —Jane
“Victorious, even though I haven’t won.” —Lesley
“Thankful, exhausted, and ready for a beer.” —Lauren
“Like I might cry.” —Tyler
“Strong and alive.” —Carolina
“Emotionally full.” —Kelly
“Invincible.” —Bobby
“Happy and grateful” —Robin
“Like a champion! Like a badass mother runner! Oh, and sorta like I want to drop . . . but that’s normal, right?!” —Kelly
“Thankful I can run.” —Amanda
“In disbelief I did it.” —Nina
“Exuberant! Exhilarated! Energized!” —Carol
“Like I have accomplished something for myself.” —Rene
“Honestly, a little queasy. A sense of satisfaction usually takes a few hours to settle into my bones.” —Kate
“Very emotional.” —Tracey
“Like a superstar!” —Amber
“Happy to be done and happy to have done it.” —Molly
“Competent.” —Terri
“Complete.” —Kendra
“High.” —Angie
“Untouchable. Free. Fast.” —Maria
“Like I can do anything. Except run any farther.” —Stephanie
“Overflowing with happiness, exhaustion, pride, relief, you name it.” —Lesley
“Insanely proud.” —Nicole
“So glad it’s over! And within 30 minutes, ready to train for the next race.” —Katrina
“What all of you said.” —Dimity + Sarah