A Running Journal

My Winter With the Hansons, My Spring at the Olympic Trials.

’ve been around the sport long enough to be familiar with the Hansons-Brooks

Distance Project, though returning to Michigan (where I grew up) to train with the team for the 2008 Olympic Marathon Trials was not something I had predicted even a year ago. Loyal Michiganders and supportive of anyone with Michigan ties, Keith and Kevin Hanson had without exception been friendly and encouraging whenever we encountered one another over the years. I had long been curious about what it might be like to train in such a program, focusing on running—but never was willing to put my life on hold to do so. Running has been an important outlet for me: a source of deep friendships, adventurous travel, and a steady point of reference and self-assessment. But for me it was always a pastime, not a passion. I prize balance, so focusing all my energies on a single goal (I’m a person who triple-majored in college while working five part-time jobs and juggling student government, music, writing for the college newspaper, and resident advising) seemed out of character. (Yeah, I know balance.)

I was perfectly content where I was in the world. I lived in a comfortable home at the edge of the Texas hill country outside Austin—not exactly the white picket fence and 2.5 children of an “average” American family, but I loved my husband, stepdaughter, and three cats. I took evening walks and relaxed over wine with neighbors. I traveled frequently, the airport just 10 minutes from our quiet country home. I ran in the early mornings with loyal friends and training partners who had helped prepare me for the 2004 St. Louis Trials. I played piano at church and had sung at Carnegie Hall with my choir. My legal career was thriving. Life was good.

When my marriage fell apart, I decided the time was right to take this particular plunge. I had explored the possibility with the Hansons, who despite my advancing age were open to adding me to their program, seeing my 2:38 and marathon experience as potential assets. So—hoping that “loving distance” might allow the marital wounds to heal—when things got ugly at home, I packed a duffel bag, boarded a plane, and headed north to join the Hansons-Brooks Distance Project for six months to train for the Trials. I moved into the Tienken house—

a fraternity-type crash pad. Braving bitter weather through what proved to be Michigan’s snowiest winter in recorded history, I sometimes wondered whether I was mentally ill to have made such a move.

Whe Fiual Countdown

Now, just two weeks before the Olympic Trials, I find myself

awash with mixed feelings. Despite the luxurious anonymity ] of not being among the field’s front-runners—for most of us,

expecting a berth to Beijing isn’t realistic—all 180 of us no

v doubt will chase PRs and other personal goals. Mine feel up

in the air (note to self: attitude adjustment needed, fast!). I

originally had hoped to shoot for something in the 2:33-to2:35 range. My 2:38 the last time around felt comfortable (one great running

weakness is that I can’t seem to push myself into the discomfort zone; when it

hurts, I back off), with plenty of gas left in the tank—so I knew there was room for improvement, the only question being how much.

Naturally headstrong, I’ve felt frustrated with myself, my training, and the suspicion that I’ve slowed since December. Some of that may have to do with the drama playing out in my personal life and the fact that my emotions and my energies have been understandably divided. And I’m well aware of the danger— barely acknowledged lest it become a self-fulfilling prophecy—that I’ve passed my prime, too old to run fast again. (I’ll turn 38 just 10 days after the Trials.)

No stranger to marathoning (I’ve run roughly 60 to 70), I was nonetheless a social runner, a lunchtime and weekend warrior running mainly to escape the office and converse with friends. I had “trained” for marathons only twice, never in regimented programs, so I was eager to learn from the best in the business. The Hansons are incredible at what they do: classy, conscientious, caring coaches who give their all to plan and oversee workouts and competitions, gamely guiding talented athletes to ever-higher levels.

[hasten to note that my athletic shortcomings are no fault of the Hansons. Not blessed by natural speed like my talented teammates, I historically have benefited most from high mileage (topping out around 145 per week), with frequent track, mile, and hill repeats. Nonetheless, I followed to a T this pace-based program focusing on longer intervals, wanting to /Jearn something, which I wouldn’t by insisting on doing things my way.

I finally found encouragement in last week’s workouts. First, the simulator: 26.2K at marathon pace on a course topographically similar to the Trials racecourse. Conditions were reminiscent of Boston last year, with gale-force winds. Kevin had painstakingly laid out a loop closely mimicking the racecourse: a 3K lead-in and a 5K loop repeated about four and a half times. I managed to maintain

pace on all but the stretches directly against the wind—feeling strong and smooth, buoyed by building confidence with each successful kilometer. Three days later, I nailed an 18K cutdown in which we ran a 3K loop six times, increasing speed each lap.

Apu 6 On our last full day here, I drank in every detail of our Michigan surroundings. The daytime highs have risen into the 40s, 50s, and even 60s briefly yesterday. My parents visited this weekend at my urging to visit the Tienken house and meet the choir at church where I play piano. The weather was so nice yesterday that we attended the Tigers’ game downtown—a fun afternoon at the ballpark despite Detroit losing to the Chicago White Sox.

Seeing my family twice in the six months that I was here was an unexpected luxury that most of my teammates didn’t have. I’m the only person on the team with Michigan ties; teammates’ families are far flung across the country, so they couldn’t just drive home to visit. For the most part, my teammates have become one another’s family in a them-against-the-world mentality borne of isolated, focused lives. They can’t have much of a life outside of the team. They run together every morning, with a second run most afternoons; they nap during free time; and they live a fairly Spartan life that, with such frequent workouts and existence at the whim of training and racing schedules, doesn’t allow for much outside social continuity. And there are strict rules against dating—or even socializing with—anyone on the team. Men’s and women’s workouts are separate; they’ re prohibited from interacting with one another unless working together (most work at least a few shifts a week at the Hansons’ running stores). So it’s a lonely life. Far from friends and family, they’re completely alone except for each other.

My teammates are a talented group of girls with impressive running credentials. Although not necessarily using their degrees now, all are college-educated women with capabilities beyond running. In pursuit of running glory, they’ve chosen to put friends, family, and careers on hold to train. Not surprisingly, such accomplished, competitive personalities form a headstrong group, and catty disputes are not uncommon, with inevitable moodiness and erupting tension. As an adult away from that kind of thing since junior high, that has probably been my toughest adjustment.

April 7 This morning’s eight-mile tempo run—our last workout at Stony Creek Metropark in Michigan, with distances marked every quarter mile ona paved six-mile running and biking trail—was to be four at marathon pace, then four faster. My workout was a disaster: I felt terrible from the start, struggling to hold 5:57s for two miles

and rapidly falling to 6:10s. [recovered to marathon pace, but Kevin stepped out in front of me at the six-mile mark, pronouncing, “You’re done.” Already frustrated and humiliated, I burst into tears, apologizing for letting him down. But he was positive and encouraging, pointing out that it’s nothing bad; we simply weren’t getting what we wanted from the workout, so there was no point in continuing to beat myself up mentally or physically. I nonetheless felt like a huge failure, so it was comforting afterward to hear from my teammates that they’ve all been pulled from workouts and it’s no big deal.

This afternoon we met at Kevin’s house to drive to Detroit Metro Airport, catching a 7:15 p.M. flight to Orlando and driving a rental van to Solana Village, a resort community 15 minutes from Kissimmee’s Disney sprawl—and a small world apart from the nondescript and battered early-’60s ranch-style Tienken house.

The athletes enjoy mainstream accommodations on team trips, and this is no exception. We’re staying in a two-story, six-bedroom house ideal for our needs: space allowing everyone some privacy, so we won’t be underfoot even being under one roof for 10 days. The kitchen will enable us to stay in to eat, and the backyard sports a pool and hot tub—a sharp contrast with our Tienken house back in Michigan.

Apr 8

Our first Florida run was at a nearby plantation, on red dirt roads among orange groves. The blossom fragrance perfuming the air offered another reminder that “We’re not in Kansas anymore”—if the lush, green grass, blue skies, and warm sunshine weren’t enough confirmation that we had left winter behind. Keith ran with us while Kevin drove alongside for most of our 10-mile outing, humorously stopping to mark each mile with a line across the dirt. We laughed at our sweat, joking that this moisture was unfamiliar.

Apr GF I was pleased to feel less heat drained today, although it may be my imagination. I doubt that a single day is enough time to be acclimating already. This morning’s 12-miler was along sporadically shaded paved and dirt roads from Champion’s Gate to Reunion; our afternoon run was another easy half hour from our house.

April 10 Thad dreaded this morning’s 18-miler, with miles 14 to 16 at goal pace. Struggling through similar workouts had left me wondering how, if I can barely manage marathon pace for three miles, I possibly can expect to hold it for 26.2. Even

allowing for adrenaline and taper (of which there would not be much: our schedule called for a 90-mile marathon week), that seems unrealistic. But this morning’s tun, through the picture-perfect, Stepfordesque streets of Disney’s Celebration, finally felt easier. Pulled along by my fleet-footed teammates, I held target tempo not only in the paced miles but in several others as well. Starting at 8:02, we steadily but effortlessly moved to the mid-6:00s, then dropped to the 5:45- to 6:00-minute range before the tempo miles: 5:55, 5:35, and 5:43 before a couple of 6:35 cool-down miles—all in heat, humidity, and blazing sunshine.

April 13 9:00 p.m. Sunday. I’ve spent most of the weekend buried by a rush work project. While in the program, I’ve been allowed to continue my career, telecommuting— albeit with vastly reduced hours (no more 80- to 100-hour weeks!). At 4:45 p.m. Friday, a client requested a brief (to be filed Monday morning) that required every unscheduled moment of my weekend. I’m proud of the work product, but I hope the lost sleep won’t ruin tomorrow’s workout.

Fortunately, the weekend running was light, with 10 and 4 on Friday, 12 on Saturday, and another 10 and 4 today. On Saturday, we women met up with the good folks from the Track Shack for their group members’ last pre-Boston long run. Hundreds showed up—and this apparently was a relatively small group!

Apr 14

Hooray! A successful workout! We were to run three times two miles at five seconds per mile under marathon pace. I struggled when we last ran a similar workout—but today was a breeze. My first mile was 5:40, so I obediently slowed to 5:52 for the second, but our recovery-jog consensus was that Kevin’s course must be short; we surmised that he had driven on the right side while we ran on the left, cutting off several seconds per lap. I adjusted accordingly on the remaining intervals, more concerned with staying relaxed than with my watch’s numbers (11:27 and 11:18)—although they were gratifying when I reflected that my high school two-mile PR (20 years ago!) was 11:42. I was later thrilled to learn that the course was dead-on accurate: Kevin insisted he had driven “right on the rim” inside while measuring it.

April 15 This morning’s run—our last on the pleasant red dirt road through the orange groves—felt colder than 51 degrees, probably an indication that we’ve already

acclimated to the heat. Back home, we would have stripped down and rejoiced at the balmy weather!

Apt 16 We returned this morning to Champion’s Gate for our last easy 12-miler. The air was relatively cool again—low 50s—and breezy; it would have been perfect race weather!

Back at the house, it was time to do laundry before departing for Boston. Kevin and Keith took each of us separately to talk about our upcoming race over Dairy Queen treats, a rare opportunity for individual feedback, discussing weaknesses, strengths, and strategy—a great idea before heading to Boston for the big dance.

I feel anything but confident. At this point in 2004 I felt calm and collected, having revised my goal from 2:40 to 2:37 just weeks premarathon based on how well my training was going. By contrast, I’m beset now with a sinking feeling that, given my struggles to hit (often missing) target times, perhaps even a 2:40 may be too much of a reach; 2:41 to 2:45 seems more realistic. These past few weeks’ workouts leave me cautiously more optimistic—maybe I’m finally getting it with this new training style.

Apri 17 With a 9:00-something flight and a run before that, this morning was an early one. We ran on country dirt roads near our condo community while the sun rose beyond the orange groves, then headed to the Orlando airport, bound for Boston.

Marathon weekend arrivals at Logan always have a surreal homecoming feeling. Runners are bound to encounter someone they know; this trip was no exception. Waiting at the baggage carousel, I spotted familiar fellow Michiganders: an attorney with whom I had worked 15 years ago, and good friend Greg Meyer, himself a running legend and 1983 Boston Marathon winner.

Cherry blossoms brightened downtown; sailboats’ white triangles dotted the Back Bay under blue skies and a brisk wind; the Charles sparkled in the sunshine. We ate at a nearby Cheesecake Factory. Keith passed around specially designed sunglasses from team sponsor Aruba Sport eyewear, reading aloud an eloquent, inspirational letter from vice-president John Boucher, wishing us well and reminding us of the sacrifices we made to be here: early mornings we wanted to sleep in but didn’t; cold, icy days we didn’t want to run outside but did; and so forth. How thoughtful!

April 18 This morning we took an easy eight-mile run around the course, punctuated by goal-pace pickups. A quick prelunch massage, then an unsuccessful nap attempt. In the afternoon, we took turns appearing at the Saturn and Brooks expo booths, and Flotrackr conducted short prerace interviews.

After the expo, we attended a welcome reception, purportedly for the athletes, but inevitably serving froufrou hors d’ oeuvres and open bar . .. as if getting loaded and nibbling finger food is a smart prerace training table. It was fun to catch up with running friends from across the country. This, my third Olympic Trials, sported many familiar faces. Camaraderie is one of my favorite things about marathoning. Though we are fierce competitors, most of us nonetheless sincerely want each other to do well—and we don’t necessarily have to beat someone else to have a great day, since our greatest rivals are our own past performances!

Aput 19

Our last prerace run was an easy six on the course’s core loop, again crossing the Charles and skirting Cambridge. These would have been near-perfect race conditions: clear, cool weather with nearly nonexistent wind. I had another short massage in the athlete hospitality area, then tried to nap, again to no avail. I did manage time off my feet, just sitting in bed, grazing on snacks in the hospitality area downstairs before our 2:30 technical meeting, which was peppered with the usual obtuse questions (ones you wouldn’t expect from anyone who has ever finished a 5K fun run, much less the sport’s leading ladies—such as whether we can consume anything handed to us by people not in the race!) that over the years have led me to conclude that many athletes’ speed is inversely proportional to intelligence.

After picking up my number and chip, I headed upstairs to connect with my parents. They had stayed at Stonehill College the past few days, attending morning Mass, sightseeing in Boston, and relaxing, getting to know the Holy Fathers who live and work with Father Paul, my priest friend, formerly from Austin. They decided to relax while I attended the team dinner nearby, skipping my usual prerace pizza.

After dinner, Keith came around to carry on his famous tradition of presenting each athlete with a handwritten premarathon encouragement note. I had been eager for my very own Keith Card and he didn’t disappoint, offering inspiration and wisdom despite my short tenure.

Iclose this last pre-Trials entry feeling mixed emotions of nervousness, dread, excitement, and suspense. My training has turned around in the past few weeks (which is when you want that to happen), so I find myself secretly hoping for a PR. By no means overconfident, I’m nonetheless fully on board with attempting 2:36. I’ve run enough marathons to respect the distance: I’m not kidding myself thinking that ll run 26.2 miles faster than I can run 5K. But I hope that my current crisis of confidence will translate into an asset, keeping me conservative early, unlike 2004, when my second mile was 5:29. I PR’d then—but I’Il never know how much that imprudent mile cost later.

AApnrit 20 The day of reckoning! I wakened well before my alarm and relaxed in bed awhile, gazing outside at the crisp-looking morning, trying to assess the wind, a little concerned at briskly fluttering flags nearby. By the time my alarm sounded at 6:55 A.M., L already had dressed, brushed my teeth, pooped, and pulled up my ponytail, ready to go. The athletes were to assemble downstairs at 7:00 A.M.

The ballroom foyer buzzed with milling athletes, coaches, and families. Yolanda and I (the only two on the team without significant others present) had given our athlete support credentials to Kevin and Keith, so, alone, I found a quiet corner to sit down and relax while calmly absorbing the hubbub. Husbands and boyfriends helped massage and stretch women’s hamstrings, calves, necks, and shoulders, murmuring intimate words of encouragement. Ruefully reflecting that I enjoyed such support once upon a time, I couldn’t help but shed a nostalgic tear, feeling unexpectedly wistful, alone, and—rare for me—actually lonely.

At that precise moment, Zika Rea materialized before me with a warm smile and happy hug. I’ve known Zika for years through mutual friends in Atlanta, where she ran at Emory not long after I assisted coaching there during law school. Seeing her sharply reminded me that we all have our own personal trials. My petty problems pale in light of her past personal tragedy: establishing the ZAP Fitness Foundation in the North Carolina mountains with her husband, Andy Palmer, they lived a dream come true . . . until he dropped dead one day while on a run. Seeing her prompted me to smile and pull myself together, joining the stream of athletes heading out to the starting area.

My ever-loyal parents and Aunt Marilyn yelled and waved to get my attention from where they had stationed themselves adjacent to the start; they would be my anchor during the next 40 minutes while I warmed up, waited in line for port-acans, chatted with fellow runners, and changed into racing flats. I introduced my parents to my friend Megan, who at 47 was the second oldest in the field (next to Joan Benoit Samuelson). Dad chuckled and observed, “I guess we have another 10 years of these!”

Eventually we were called to the starting line, posing for team pictures before joining the throng. American Idol star Ayla Brown crooned the national anthem, and we were off.

Other than Magdalena [Lewy Boulet], who sprang to the lead like a gazelle (whom most of us mutely dismissed as an imprudent runaway who would die hard later), nobody wanted to do the work of setting the pace and leading the pack. The entire field hung back, strolling around the Boston Common and Public Garden. Chatting among ourselves revealed that we had all missed the mile mark, so none of us got splits until mile two—a glacial 12:26. No wonder we felt so relaxed! We immediately dropped the pace 30 seconds per mile to 5:45—still comfortably easy

but faster than my target pace, so I backed off into the mid-5:50s, relaxing as the splits clicked off through a 36:57 10K and 1:19:02 half, right on target.

The crowds lining the course were fabulous—the best-educated marathon spectators ever—but that was predictable, with so many Boston marathoners among them. My own friends and family could not have choreographed their spacing better had they tried. After the first loop, I knew where to look for my personal cheerleaders each time around, interspersed with countless HansonsBrooks supporters sporting red-and-yellow T-shirts and bam-bam balloons, hollering their hearts out.

Feeling smooth and comfortable (although pictures later showed me carrying my shoulders high and tight, something I’ve never done before, perhaps from my too-tight new uniform’s unaccustomed compression), I nonetheless began to slow. Only a few seconds per mile, not enough initially to cause concern or consternation, but I never recovered. This was not one of those races where I threw a bad mile here and there, but a steady decline from my target mid-5:50s to a few miles in the low 6:00s, then the 6-teens, 6:20s, 6:30s, to a penultimate 6:48. Grimly observing my deteriorating splits as if from a distance, I felt helpless to fix it, like driving a car that has run out of gas. A PR well out of reach, my last 10K felt demoralizing.

An anticlimactic 2:43:56 placed me 47th: ironically, one position higher than at my first Olympic Trials in Columbia, South Carolina, when I closed with a strong final 10K during which I moved up through a field struggling in the heat, rather than straggling backward as I did today. Just as disappointing as my own finish was learning that my teammates had also fallen short of their goals. Desi Davila, Dot McMahon, and Melissa White had trained for 2:32, which Kevin (correctly) predicted would make the team. Desi had demolished so many workouts that I had believed she might run 2:30. But none of us hit our targets: Dot managed 2:35, while

The author on the final stretch of a
racecourse that was packed packed with
enthusiastic and educated spectators on
a nearly perfect Olympic Trials race day in
Boston.

Desi (apparently fourth through 20 miles) faded to 2:37, just ahead of Mel, trailed a few minutes later by Yolanda Flamino and me.

The finish tent was abuzz with the stereotypical joy of triumph and agony of defeat in a reunion of sorts, familiar faces conducting postmortems of our respective runs through a full range of emotions, some women exuberant over PRs or places, others despondent over PWs, DNFs, or injuries. My team all had missed our marks, most by (almost literally) a mile. I could barely meet Kevin’s and Keith’s eyes, ashamed at having sullied their good name with my slow finish. I knew they had to be even more disappointed over our times than we were, having poured so much of their own hearts and souls into our training—they would have carried us around the course if they could have. Unsung and largely unrealized by many of the athletes, they work tirelessly, not just at our workouts, but wearing a multitude of hats as marketers, promoters, sponsor liaisons, agents, managers, public relations professionals, recruiters, travel agents, managers, accountants, and logisticians—in addition to employing and insuring most of the team at their four running stores, creating and coordinating training schedules, and coaching high school athletes.

I was the only team member who didn’t PR—perhaps not surprising, since I was also the only one with more than two marathons under my belt; these fast girls’ careers are barely beginning. I mused that, while their lives would have changed forever had they reached their goals and become Olympians today, my shortfall merely caused different numbers to be entered in my training log—costing personal pride, but no life-changing disappointment. Perhaps precisely that lack of desperation for change leaves me without some important inner competitive fire.

Poet-Prials

Reuniting with my parents beyond the finish tent, we hurried back to the hotel so that I could shower before our circuit of social activities. First, an event for all the Brooks-sponsored athletes, then a gathering of family and close friends at the home of law school classmate Seth, who graciously opened his Brookline door to let us invade for the afternoon.

Apri 27 I reveled in some traditions I’ve always wanted to experience but couldn’t when in Boston on marathon Monday to run. Dad and I rose at 3:30 A.M. to retrieve the car, then at 4:30 left with Mom, Aunt Marilyn, and another friend for the annual dawn reenactment of the Battle of Lexington. Climbing a small hill to an ancient belfry, I enthusiastically rang the bell that sounded the alarm, “The British are coming!” Joining throngs of early risers around the battle green, I was enthralled watching a costumed Paul Revere ride in at a gallop shouting his warning, the patriots assembling to call roll, the redcoats striding up accompanied by merry

fife and drum, their barked “Lay down your arms!” warning, and then gunfire and smoke that left the green dotted with fallen patriots to whom women and children went running while the redcoats marched on through.

Good-byes all around before my parents and Marilyn started their two-day drive home. I breakfasted with a dear friend downtown before walking up Commonwealth Avenue to Fenway Park, meeting Alaskan friend Mike, who had managed to scalp coveted tickets for today’s Red Sox game. We devoured cotton candy, basking in sun-drenched bleachers beside the Green Monster for a few hours, then stepped outside in time to watch the marathon leaders run through Kenmore Square, gradually making our way toward our buddy Bart, who had staked out his usual spectator spot around 25.5. We joined him until the phone summoned me to work—Patriots’ Day isn’t a holiday everywhere. We reconnected for dinner before I returned to Brookline for a long talk with Seth that evening, his big cat Rudy purring in my lap.

Life Goes Ou

I remained out East another week, savoring golden, sun-kissed spring days while couch-surfing from Rhode Island to New Hampshire before returning to Michigan, with leisurely runs along sparkling Narragansett Bay and a 5K around picturesque Portsmouth.

Returning to Rochester Hills, I packed up my Tienken room and drove west to my parents’ place in time for the reception celebrating Dad’s retirement from Ferris State University. We celebrated my 38th birthday early: Mom had baked an angel food cake (my favorite), which we devoured along with mint chocolate chip ice cream and fresh strawberries, before relaxing in friend Barb’s hot tub over champagne.

I promptly came down with a cold, spending most of the next week sniffling, sneezing, and generally miserable—typical postmarathon crud. Frantically scrambling to catch up on work I had let slide, I was on call on my birthday, pleasantly disrupted by calls from across the country. I attended the local board meeting for Habitat for Humanity to provide an update on my “Run for a Reason.” I had decided to give my Trials run a greater purpose by encouraging others to donate to Habitat for Humanity in my home county—Mecosta—the second-poorest in Michigan, in hopes of raising enough money to build the shell of a house while I trained for the Trials.

Reflections Closing up shop this early-May Sunday evening, I realized that two weeks have now passed since Boston’s battle: another milestone come and gone, and already the world is moving on. At least I wasn’t troubled by postrace ruminations, berating myself over strategic blunders like going out too fast or too slow. I just wasn’t as fit as I had hoped, ran out of gas, or simply had an off day. It happens. i