Boston Marathon, April 2014

Boston. Two years ago, if I’d told a random person in Wagga that I was going to run the Boston Marathon, chances are this would have meant very little to them. But since April 15^th 2013, the same news has provoked a very different reaction. Just about everyone has heard of the Boston Marathon now, and everyone who knew I was there in 2013 had the same reaction as I did: going back in 2014 was never in question. I had to do it. Of course, the invitation to once again participate in the Elite Women's Start did help -- but I was always coming back to Boston.


The Training

Strangely enough I seem to have changed a lot of my beliefs about my own running in the past few years. I once said I'd never run a marathon ("Run a HM twice over? No thank you!") and there was a time when training plans and coaching were not for me ("But what if I don't WANT to run 10 miles that day?") All that has changed now, and I have been very pleased to find that Benita's method of coaching agrees with me in every way.

So after my slightly disappointing finish in Melbourne, Boston assumed even more significance - once again it became a major goal race, my chance to better my PR from last year, and I was fortunate enough to have a practically perfect training cycle leading up to April.

From December through February we hummed along at a steady 80-90 miles per week with regular intervals and tempo runs, as well as a fair dose of racing, all at my suggestion. With the exception of one VERY poorly thought-out long run that ended in an epic bonk (my first real experience of hitting the Wall), my training went very smoothly. I was encouraged by my results in both Wangaratta and Yarrawonga, and by the end of March the stars appeared to be aligning themselves for a major happening on April 21.

My ride to Dallas.

Travel and lead-up

I get a solid 7 hours of sleep on the flight to Dallas Fort Worth and once there make my way so effortlessly through Immigration and Customs that I swear I am never going to fly anywhere via LAX again - the comparison between the two airports is laughable. I've often said LAX is a toilet but compared to DFW it's actually a hole in the ground with sandpaper the only option for wiping. The flight to Dallas is slightly longer but the time saved from not having to queue for hours on end at Los Angeles airport more than makes up for this inconvenience.

In Boston the atmosphere is one of an enormous, joyful street party. It's awesome to meet up once again with running friends from all parts of the country and the world; there are many old faces and many new as well. The expo is a epicentre of activity and energy, heaving with excited runners and supporters. This year's jackets are a startling dayglo orange, though, and although I'd like to I just can't quite bring myself to buy one. Never mind, there are exciting palindromic bibs to be picked up and plenty of other running goods to be had!

It's like I'm number 1, only 3 times as awesome!

As we walk the streets we are surprised to see large numbers of people wearing hand-knitted scarves in the Boston colours; at first it reminds me of the knitting projects we did in Year 5 at school (aka the 5th grade), but why are there so many of them around?? It turns out the scarves are from the Marathon Scarf Project, which is being run by the Old South Church in Boston. The church stands on Boylston St just 100 feet from the marathon finish line, and last year was one of the places where terrified runners and spectators took shelter in the aftermath of the bombings. This year the scarves are being distributed to runners as a way of fighting back against the horror of last year's tragedy, and from their website below the explanation:

"In this year of remembrance and hope, we will wrap you in love and prayer by presenting you with a handmade blue and gold scarf. The scarves are a labor of love by knitters across the country and beyond, specifically for this year’s athletes. May the scarf warm your spirit as you maneuver a new city, as you carry the weight of a somber anniversary year, and as you look down 26.2 miles with resolve."

The love and goodwill are palpable as I am wrapped in my scarf, and as I walk away someone randomly hands me a tulip with a tag attached: "You're crushing it! #bostonstrong". I stop to photograph it and my companion points out a small peace sign that someone has crafted from pipe cleaners and fixed to the barricades that line this side of Boylston St in preparation for tomorrow's race: by chance we have stopped at the exact spot where the first bomb was detonated. 

Boston Strong, indeed.

The traditional pre-race party is on again at Beerworks, and there are familiar faces that I've met there three years in a row. Time flies and before I know it, it's almost 11pm and really I should be thinking about getting some sleep - but not before engineering a photo opportunity that is irresistible:

Dan, Joel, me and Greg: 2013 on the left, 2014 on the right.
Spot any differences??

Race Day

It seems almost too luxurious to sleep until 6am on the morning of a major marathon, but the 9:32am start does have some advantages. Once up I force down a bagel and some iced coffee, then dress and head down to the Fairmont Copley Plaza, where the elite buses await. Last year I was already in my race outfit at this point but this year I've wised up and am planning to change at the church - I've got all my stuff in the clear plastic check bag that every runner has been issued.

Half asleep but happy!

The ride out to Hopkinton is again extremely smooth and somewhat surreal, with motorcycle cops stopping traffic at every on-ramp in order to keep our passage uninterrupted. At the church I again head straight upstairs where it's warmer; this year I actually know a few people so it's a lot of fun to chat with them and wander around a bit. The Africans head out to do an easy warm-up and the rest of us lesser mortals feel compelled to do the same; as I jog slowly and rather pointlessly up and down the small street behind the church, Desi Linden (one of the top American seeded women) and Rita Jeptoo (last year's winner) both run past me. Wow!

Then to top it all off, on the way back into the church I pass Meb Keflezighi in the corridor. I seize the opportunity to wish him good luck and a great race; he's sweet and gracious, patting me on the shoulder as he wishes me the same in return. Then it's time to change and get ready to race - the top seeded women are called out by name and lined up to walk up to the corral. I humbly wait my turn before bringing up the rear as we head into the bright sunshine and the almost deafening noise from the spectators and, more importantly, the first corral.

There is a row of blokes lined up along the fence and one yells my name - we high-five each other as I pass and belatedly realise, that must have been Tyler from our sub-3 Facebook group?? Then I see Steven Moore - another of the INKnBURN elites - he's yelling in my face too so I grab his hand and yell back "Steve!!!" before finally I'm out in the open and WOW. The atmosphere is electric. I jog around a bit, do some strides and then just stand around in what can only be described as an overwhelmed stupor, before belatedly realising that I haven't bothered to turn on my Garmin and the race is 2 minutes from starting! Holy crap! Thankfully it fires up quickly and the announcer begins the countdown - I think I can hear someone bellowing my name from behind me, but there's no time left to look - here we go....


Miles 1-3: 6:08, 6:28, 6:12 (pace in minutes per mile)

The gun sounds and everyone sets off like their shoes are on fire. For the first half mile, as it was last year I am again in the middle of the pack, but the pace is noticeably much faster. Shalane Flanagan is leading the Africans out at a blistering pace; later I hear the first mile was covered in 5:11 pace. She has stated her intention of winning and it looks like she's giving it everything she's got.

ZOOOOM - there she goes

For me, though, this is clearly WAY too fast. I glance at my Garmin and practically pass out when I see it reading 5:20. Ok, back off, back off now. I put the brakes on so hard that mile 2 ends up actually slower than target, but this early in the race I know better than to worry too much. Just settle in and let it happen. I slug down my first gel and grab a cup of water to wash the sickly taste away. 


Miles 4-6: 6:13, 6:17, 6:13. 5K split 19:31

This pace feels....honest. That's the best way to describe it: tough yet manageable, for now. I have no expectation that any part of this race is going to feel easy - the old saying about how the first 10, or 13, or even 20 miles should be a cakewalk no longer applies to me. At this level it's supposed to feel tough, at some point it's going to hurt, and almost certainly at some point I'm going to want to throw in the towel. If none of that happens then I'm not running fast enough.

I'm actually leading a small group of women (so at least I'm not dead last) and running beside me is a woman I met briefly at the start. Her bib is F115 and her name is Sarah; I know she is shooting for 2:50ish and this pace is not too advisable for her. I've warned her several times of this fact, but she's determined to stick with me. We zoom over the 5K mats -- she laughs and comments "Now everyone at home knows what we're up to!" I picture online friends shaking their heads - or perhaps their fists - at their screens when they see my first split, and the thought makes me laugh too. Onward! I will later find she didn't finish the race - oops, hopefully that wasn't my fault.

It's a perfect running day but also warmer than I expected; I'm still wearing my gloves and so around mile 4 I peel them off and toss them at a spectator. The crowds are wonderful, vocal and excited - there are flags that read "Boston Strong!"  waving at me and kids lining up for high-fives. I veer to the side and oblige - I'm not likely to be wanting to do this later in the race, so might as well do it now.


Miles 7-9: 6:13, 6:20, 6:18. 10K split 39:02 (19:31)

The 10K split is more fuel for the fire of those who may be spectating online; oh well, I know Boston well enough now to know that going slightly too fast in the early miles is not a disaster. These miles take me past some interesting scenery and I'm feeling good enough that I am still able to take in and store small observations along the way; this ability will be lost later in the race. As we pass a small lake on the right I notice that the fire hydrants are painted in Boston yellow and blue - how awesome! And a sign grabs my attention, although the woman holding it looks like she's still setting up for the day; later it appears on Facebook in a friend's feed so I'm able to share what made me smile:

Thanks, Kate, for sharing, and Amy too!

Wait, what did you just call me?


Miles 10-12: 6:18, 6:25, 6:17. 15K split 58:40 (19:38)

Something is different about this race. Last year although I ran with 2 others through halfway, I barely saw any of the other elite women; this year, however, things are much less lonely. Between the 5 and 10K mats I've already lost most of the group that were with me early on (F115, F110 and F114 among them), but as 15K comes up two others have appeared just ahead of me. Playing "assassin mode" is always a great way of passing time - steadily and relentlessly reeling in the people ahead of you one by one - so I take advantage of the opportunity to focus on that. It makes sense: Shalane took everyone out incredibly fast, and now those who maybe couldn't control the urge to go with her as well as the rest of us are paying for it. I almost got caught up in it myself - perhaps I've finally learned my lesson about going out too fast? As if to confirm this, I easily pass F43 just before the 20K mats.

Somewhere around mile 12, Kristin just behind me. I'm not frowning....yet.

The Wellesley scream tunnel comes and goes with little fanfare and intact eardrums - no doubt because there are no guys around just yet - and that's fine with me.


Miles 13-15: 6:26, 6:22, 6:23.  20K split: 1:18:35 (19:55) 
HM split: 1:22:54

I'm still with it enough to do the mental math and realise that I'm well under the agreed-upon target for 13.1 miles, so I try to ease up as much as I can at this point. It's not hard to do, given that both the labels "tough" and "manageable" still apply to how things are feeling (the former slightly more than the latter), and also because I know that the Newton Hills are fast approaching. I've passed Kristin (F106) now, and F48 is only 6 seconds ahead and firmly in my crosshairs. I will get her in the hills - my silly Roadrunner shuffle is even more efficient going uphill - and this knowledge is a boost as I head into the toughest part of the course.


Miles 16-18: 6:15, 6:29, 6:32  25K split: 1:38:27 (19:53)

Here's a screenshot of the elevation profile for the course from Hopkinton to Boylston St:

It's fairly obvious that the first half is considerably downhill, and then the torture starts around the 16 mile mark as the Newton Hills make their presence felt. The uphills have affected me differently every time I've run Boston; this year I cruise over the first one feeling pretty great, but miles 17 and 18 hit me hard. My pace drops below target for the first time since mile 2 -- I'm expecting this, but still it's very unpleasant. I'd rather like to stop running now, but that's not negotiable. Thankfully a bike spotter choses this moment to appear beside me, and my attention is diverted by the experience I know is coming soon: I'm going to see the lead men go past me.


Miles 19-21: 6:17, 6:28, 6:42 30K split: 1:58:38 (20:11)

Mile 19 starts and I'm still able to run the tangents, which is pleasing, but I know I'm going to have to stay right pretty soon. Sure enough, a procession of vehicles begin to pass me when I start hugging the right hand curb, and it's both thrilling and slightly nerve-wracking. I'm running as hard as I can whilst looking over my shoulder, watching for the pack of Africans that I'm expecting to sweep past me any moment, and as the final truck comes by I look left again.....and do a massive double-take. It's Meb!! And not only that - he is totally alone - where on earth is the lead pack??

Seeing him running alone and obviously so far ahead is like a massive adrenaline surge directly to my brain and without even thinking about it I go straight into dippy fan-girl mode: I'm clapping like a maniac and screaming "MEB!! GO MEB!! YEAH YEAH WOOOOO!!!!" with every molecule of oxygen in my lungs. If you don't believe me, see below (with many thanks to jcboston from RWOL for sending me the link).....oh and you have to watch all the way to the finish.....

After he passes and I'm done with my fan-girl hysteria, I'm waiting for the Africans to come chasing him. I wait...and wait...looking over my left shoulder more than once....but it's well over a minute until a tight group of 5 finally comes flying past. Oh my god, Meb is going to win! Well, I hope so - he has a big lead now, but who knows what will happen down the track? I'd like to consider this more, but then Heartbreak Hill swallows me whole and I have no spare brain cells to use.

This final hill is just...horrible. All of a sudden I really, really want to simply stop in my tracks. I consider it quite seriously - how hard would it be to just step to the side and say I'm done? - before telling myself firmly, NO. "This is Boston," I tell myself sternly, "and you do NOT GIVE UP." Right, right, I sigh back. Now we've got that straightened out, just get to the top of this ridiculous hill. I'm not even looking at my Garmin anymore, I just want to get over the top and start the 5 painful miles that remain. I pass F42 and see F45 still ahead - keep it going, Rachel. Do. Not. Give. Up.


Miles 22-24: 6:26, 6:18, 6:22 35K split 2:19:04 (20:26)

I'm more than happy to see my Garmin showing some paces that are closer to my goal again, as I pound my way through the downhills that take the course into Brookline and ever closer to Boylston St. I sail past another two elite females (F45, then F38 - who looks like she's toast, but to her credit she's waving her arms to amp up the crowd and seems to be having fun still) and look up to see not one but two distinctively female runners ahead.

Passing and frowning all at once. You'd think I'd be happier about this...but no.

This will consume me for the remainder of the race; the chant of "This is Boston. Do not give up." will take up half my brainpower, the goal of catching those women will take up the rest. In the moments that remain I will also think of the people who lost their lives and limbs in the finish line bombings last year - I have passed many amputees throughout the race and it's a stark reminder of that awful day. They are out here doing it so I have absolutely no right to even consider stopping, although I'd love to. I owe it to them to keep running and so that's what I do. Not negotiable.

Miles 25 & 26: 6:31, 6:33 40K split: 2:39:04 (20:00)

I catch up to F44, a Japanese woman, who clearly doesn't like this at all and she immediately pulls ahead again. I realise all of a sudden that the next woman ahead is F112: Lisa, the Canadian triathlete whom I beat for 5th Master last year. She must have gone out hard, and it's taken me at least 2, maybe 3 miles to catch her, because I've been seeing her back for quite a while now. By the 40K mats we are just 3 seconds apart, and a spectating friend takes this photo as we grind past - both looking suitably unimpressed with the current situation.

Mid-life crisis? No, this is how we planned to spend our mid-forties, really.

Again I've given up looking at my Garmin - with the finish so close, I really don't care how fast I'm going, I just want to get there. F44 pulls further ahead as we dip below the infamous underpass at mile 25.5, and I hear someone scream "Rachel!!" from the side of the road - did I just pass Cannoli Corner? I'm 0 for 3 when it comes to cannoli, but maybe one of these years I'll be inclined to stop.

Rounding the corner up Hereford towards the final turn onto Boylston St, Lisa has gone ahead and I don't have enough energy left to care. The crowds are 10-deep on either side of the road and the noise is deafening, but I can barely hear it. My legs are screaming at me to get this over, and I'm not even bothering to disguise the torture that I'm feeling: it's obvious and all over my face.

Ugh, are we there yet?

Boylston St: 5:49 pace to the finish

Burning down Boylston, I know better than to expect the finish line to be close. It's oh so far away, but as I grit my teeth and pump my arms it draws rapidly closer. Lisa is out of striking range and I wouldn't be able to get her even if she was: it's taking every ounce of determination and concentration for me to keep my legs moving now. I stare stupidly at the clock as I approach the finish - it's about to come up to 2:20 - how many minutes do I add, again?

For a second my addled brain gets it completely wrong and tells me "that's 2:52", and I can't quite figure how that could have happened, but thankfully then some other part of my brain yells WHO CARES?? Just get there! so I put my head down and sprint. As I cross the finish line I manage to hit the stop button and when I look at my Garmin: 2:47:57. YES!!!

Finish time: 2:47:57 (6:25 pace)

Placement: 42nd OA female, 5th in AG (F40-44) and 6th Masters female.

The Aftermath

Lisa has gotten me by 10 seconds - a fitting return serve after last year, I guess! We are both quickly joined by volunteers very solicitous of our well-being; we each get one who puts his arm around our shoulders and guides us gently but firmly  - and rather quickly - towards the VIP tent. The events of mile 19 flash back into my mind and I demand of my guide "Who won?" The reply stuns and delights me: it was Meb! First American winner since 1983! 

In the VIP tent I chat briefly with Lisa, who it turns out was gunning for 2:45 (no wonder she beat me!) and a few of the other women there, before putting my name down for a massage. I have felt a few weird, unprecedented cramps in my calf muscles in the final few miles - more evidence that I was truly red-lining it in the closing stages of the race - and it can't hurt to get them pummelled for free. One of my other friends from last year, Perry, shows up and together we drink Gatorade and chat. It's the perfect end to a fantastic race - there's only one thing that is still missing, but that's soon fixed after a trip back to the hotel for a quick shower and some fresh clothes.....

Beer! And a noisy Pom.

The Analysis 

Comparing my splits from 2013 and 2014 proves very interesting. 

Essentially, I was 30 seconds ahead by the 15K mark this year, and I stayed 20-30 seconds ahead all the way through 35K. Between 35 and 40K I gained at least another 20 seconds and the rest of it (making up 66 seconds in total for my new PR) came in the final 2.2km. Not only was I able to go slightly faster, I was MUCH better able to hold that pace in the second half of the race. It's a pleasant confirmation of what I already knew: my training has been vastly improved with Benita's direction.

Where to now? I declared shortly after crossing the finish line that I'm done chasing marathon PRs now, and that may yet be true. I'm not going to race another marathon until probably Melbourne this October, but in between I'm going to see how much fun I can have with the shorter distances. Starting with one every weekend in May.....did someone say "Raceaholic"? You heard it here first!

Yarrawonga Foreshore 10K, March 2014

The idea for this 10K came from a flyer I was handed at the finish of the Wangaratta half-marathon - all revved-up and enthusiastic after my performance there, another race seemed like a great idea. Yarrawonga is a small town on the border between New South Wales and Victoria, which of course is defined by the mighty Murray River. The weekend is called the "Splash 'n Dash", with not only the fun runs on Sunday but also a state-to-state swim across the Murray on Saturday.

It's only a couple of hours' drive from Wagga and at the time, I thought this would fall on a weekend when my kids would be with their father. Visions of a leisurely, quiet drive down, a relaxing night in a hotel and the chance to run the 10K with a long cool-down to make it part of my weekly long run....they floated temptingly before my minds' eye. And the chance to do well and potentially win prize money too - I was quick to sign up.

At that point, of course, I had no idea what was actually going to transpire.


The Training
As ever, part of a greater scheme - deep in training for Boston, I averaged well over 90 miles per week in the preceding 3 weeks leading up to this race. The only concessions I made were to move my weekly long run to Friday morning and accept (grudgingly) a reduction in overall weekly mileage.


The lead-up
Unexpected work commitments on the part of my ex-husband lead to a very different scenario to that which I initially imagined: I end up driving to Yarrawonga with not only the kids but also my mother in tow. We all squeeze into the room I have booked for myself (there are no other rooms left - the town no doubt booked solid due to the weekends' events) and the kids do their best to make me want to sell them (or even give them away) with the most concerted display of psychotic, mess-creating behaviour they have ever produced.

Despite escalating threats of various punishments, they jump like amphetamine-addicted monkeys around the room until I banish one to the bathroom and the other to the bed, switching their positions every time one complains or bounces back out, until I cannot bear it any longer. Despite the sudden rain we head outside - where the children immediately calm down and behave like angels - to get takeaway fish and chips, which we devour with relish. Then it's down the slippery slope to bedtime, and we are all tucked in by 9pm.


Race Day
The hotel room is toasty and warm, so I'm rather surprised to find that it's just 13C/55F outside when I start hauling stuff down to the car. It's windy, too - there's a nasty cold breeze blowing off the strange, dilated part of the Murray River that forms Lake Mulawa, and we'll be running right along the foreshores there - this could be uncomfortable, particularly on the way back when it seems like it will become a headwind.

Lake Mulawa, aka "that creepy tree graveyard"

It's way too cold to strip down yet so I run my 2 mile warm-up in my sweatshirt, and am only just starting to feel a tiny bit too hot by the time I'm back at the start and ready to line up. I make my way close to the very front and wait, mulling over my race strategy. Benita has told me to start out around 6:05-6:15 min/mile pace, and see how I feel from there. In my typical, slacker-Rachel pre-race style I'm wondering if I should just run to place, and as such it seems like a good time to size up the competition.

There's a girl I've noticed who somehow strikes me as fast - not something I can explain, although she reminds me a little of Clare Geraghty, with very blonde hair in a high ponytail - I'm going to be watching her if we ever actually get moving here. There's a boy just in front of me with a similar shock of blond hair - actually he reminds me of a fairly new running friend in some old photos he posted on Facebook recently. I wonder if he's going to be as fast as his older dopplegänger, Kevin.

Nobody else looks terribly serious, then finally (5 minutes late) the race announcer is counting down, and off we go!


Mile 1: 6:03 (pace in min/mile)
Sure enough, the usual melee of young kids rushing off way too fast and fading equally fast starts happening around me. I feel slightly odd, disconnected from my body, and I can't tell if this is okay or perhaps a really bad sign. Quasi-Clare strides confidently out in front of me; Mini Kevin is out there in front too, and another woman I hadn't noticed. I'm wiser now and know not to let myself get phased by these early leaders - there's every chance they're going out too fast and I will catch them in good time. A glance at my watch confirms that I'm right: 5:50 pace, which is not something I want to try to sustain for the whole race. I kick back and settle into a rhythm as we head out along the foreshore path and around a small headland.


Mile 2: 6:14
This mile passes fairly uneventfully until I notice 2nd chick up ahead slowing down already. I ease past her and glance up to see that QC is still about 50m ahead. I thought she was further in front, actually, but whatever. The disconnected feeling has gone and I feel good - relaxed and confident. Not long after this thought I realise that sure enough, QC is starting to fade. The mile split beeps as I come up behind her - it's slower than I thought, but then I realise this is probably because I'm wondering if I should just hang behind her and let her do the work. This is a strategy I contemplated in the aftermath of the slightly disappointing Central Coast HM late last year, and this would be the perfect opportunity to put it into practice. Should I do it?


Mile 3: 6:09
Nope! My brain once again makes the decision without any further input from me, and I breeze past QC without a second thought. Her breathing as I cruise by confirms to me that she's not going to be a threat: she's puffing and wheezing in a manner that should really only be acceptable in the final stretches of a race like this. By comparison I'm hardly drawing breath, and this gives me a considerable boost in confidence (with a dash of schadenfreude thrown in for fun) as I pull further ahead and the course turns a sharp right into a rather swanky gold resort sort of area.

These houses are undoubtedly lovely, and on a sunny day it might seem like a good place to spend a holiday, but the combination of grey skies and nearby tree graveyard is way too creepy for me at this point. The atmosphere is decidedly macabre, but thankfully I'm too focused on this race to care much. I sneak a glance at my Garmin as I pass a 5K marker - it will turn out to be undoubtedly short, in post-race analysis - but for now I am astonished to see 18:40. The last thing Kevin told me before this race was that I should be looking to run in the 37s - admittedly though, since I have been running a lot of mileage, he would allow me to stretch to 38:00. At the time I laughed and ignored him -- but could it be that he was right??


Mile 4: 6:03
This mile becomes something entirely new when the paved golf cart path ends abruptly in the middle of nowhere and I suddenly find myself running across a fairway, on the grass. What on earth is this going to do to my pace? The grass is absolutely lovely, don't get me wrong - soft, smooth, springy, probably bloody wonderful for playing golf on - but running on it is a monumental pain in the butt. And it's a good thing there is a line of blokes ahead of me whom I can follow, or otherwise I'd end up in a bunker or a water trap or something of that sort. But no, I keep going over the grass, and am pleasantly surprised to find I haven't slowed down at all. Phew. And who is this up ahead that I am slowly catching? Why it's Mini Kevin in his flashy yellow singlet. I saunter past him and he doesn't take this well at all - he immediately surges and passes me back. Oh really, young man? We'll see about that.


Mile 5: 5:57
The fun of catching Mini Kevin and the idea of proving Big Kevin right does something magical to this mile: despite another decent stretch of fairway grass and a few interesting undulations as we get back into the housing development, it turns out to be my fastest so far. We pop back out onto the roads and another astonishing sight greets my eyes - it's Quasi-Clare, sitting by the roadside with her head in her hands.

What on earth happened to her?? From her location it looks like she dropped around half a mile after I passed her. There's a marshal right nearby who seems utterly unperturbed, so I have to assume that she is basically okay, but is she sick? Injured? Or was it just the psychological blow of watching someone old enough to be her mother running past her like she was standing still?

Whatever it was, that's one less thing I have to worry about, namely how close she might be behind me. It occurs to me that I could slow down considerably at this point and probably still win the race. But no way - that's not how I win races, and today is ALL IN.


Mile 6: 6:09
This mile sees us turning back onto the lakeside path where I ran my warmup, and as I predicted then, the wind off the lake suddenly smacks me in the face. Mini Kevin doesn't take this well at all - he slows down enough that I sail past him again and he doesn't pass me back this time. I'm focusing on keeping my form together, staying relaxed, not worrying about how I feel. This is the part of the race that I dread, where it starts to hurt and my brain just wants me to stop now, PLEASE. I can see the park where the finish line is waiting - my lungs are burning, but now I pass one guy and then another. Gotta keep it going.....

I start to count in my head, in the way I do when running very fast intervals: my roadrunner cadence is handy here, I know that 4 footfalls is roughly one seconds so I chant mindlessly to myself "One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one  thousand..." and so on. When I get to 60 I start again. I pass yet another male 10K runner, who doesn't like being chicked and immediately passes me back. My Garmin beeps the mile split and it's time to give chase.

Finish 0.2: 5:42 pace
I'm tearing towards the finish chute in hot pursuit when I hear the kids and Mum screaming at me - there are little children holding out their arms for a high-five (I don't dare, at this pace I'd likely take off a limb by accident) and then - as I've just about caught that bloody bloke - I hear it: the announcer says "First female home in the 10K......well done young lady....." It's all I can do not to fall down laughing - the young ladies are sitting by the road 2.5 miles in! Or at least they are all behind me. But now I'm finally across the line and OMG what does that clock say??

Finished and VERY pleased with myself, as well as my funky WCA singlet.

Finish time: 37:41 (official), 6:05 pace

Placement: 1st female, 1st AG (40+) and 8th OA.

Post-race schemozzle

New 10K PR!! But I barely have time to catch my breath before Jack is upon me, beside himself with excitement at the prospect of his longest running race ever (the 3K), yelling in my face that it's time for his race and MUMMA CAN I HAVE YOUR GARMIN??

Of course he can, so I reset it and strap it to his wrist and BAM he's gone, lining up in the very first row. Any wonder where he got that competitive spirit from? And Amelia and I are also lining up for the shorter, little kids' race, with much less enthusiasm but a whole lot more pink.

Awesome little fun runners.

Both run with style and pizazz, Jack powering home in 14:56 (a touch over 8 min/mile pace) and Amelia, well, being Amelia. She may have whinged incessantly but at least she didn't stop!

After an unacceptably long wait in the cold, finally it's time for the official presentation and despite having been told by a rather clueless volunteer that there are "only spot-prizes", I am soon the happy recipient of not one but two cheques that will do nicely for spending money at Boston. Hip hip hooray for regional racing!

10K category winners - yes that's Mini Kevin front and center, and YES I am freezing now!

The Analysis
It's plain to see that the addition of a knowledgeable coach, some judicious speed work and a fair bit more racing experience has made a world of difference to my performances this year. I have said that 2013 was the pinnacle of my running career to date, but 2014 looks very likely to knock it off its pedestal in no time at all. Boston is just 5 weeks away - bring it on!

Wangaratta HM, February 2014

I'm not sure why it never occurred to me before that I'm closer to many regional towns in the nearby state of Victoria then I am to many parts of NSW, but perhaps the Melbourne marathon last October was the turning point. After the disaster of my recent trip to Bendigo, a re-do was in order, and the Wangaratta running festival presented the perfect opportunity.


The Training
This is the awesome thing about having a coach, you just tell them you'd like to do this race, and if they approve then they just tell you what to run. And so it was that in training for this race I just kept doing my usual 90 miles a week with a couple of quality workouts, since we established late last year that less mileage is not good for my confidence or my legs.

The week of the race I found myself being unusually compliant with a planned reduction in training, and even feeling slightly antsy in the way I do when tapering for a marathon. One particularly frustrating chain of events on Friday made me desperate to run a double that evening, just for the stress relief, but I resisted. This had the slightly bipolar effect of making me feel virtuous and even more pissed-off at the same time, but at least I survived. Maybe this is proof positive that I'm becoming more able to see the big picture, and worry less over a few days of light running that would have usually had me all worked-up and tense. Or maybe I just really wanted to watch the Olympic curling competition. Now THERE'S a strange and pointless sport.


The lead-up
Considerably less drama than the Bendigo lead-up; Mum, kids and I drive down to Wangaratta and first we hit the pre-race pasta party, where I chat briefly to the Race Director and ascertain that this is the second year they've run a half-marathon. He can't remember the winning female's time from last year and I can't find it on my phone, which is rather frustrating. I ask as innocently as I can "So, maybe under 1:30? Or over?" He seems to think that under 1:30 is very impressive, which is slightly startling, but also possibly a good sign. There are no fast-looking chicks around, which is reassuring, although many of the race entrants are obviously not here tonight.

After dinner we drive over to nearby Beechworth, a picturesque town where I have booked a night's accommodation for us all in a quaint self-contained cottage. There are horses in the paddock next door and they come over to investigate our arrival; the owner tells us that their names are Chloe and Trumper. Chloe in particular is very keen on Amelia and the crabapples she and I have found on a nearby tree - we feed them to her until she notifies us she's had enough (by shaking her head and spitting half-chewed apple all over us, lovely) - at which point we retreat to get ready for bed.

"I am both thrilled and terrified by this horse"
Hopefully this means she will NEVER beg me to buy her one.

Race Day
I'm regretting not booking something early enough to be staying in Wangaratta (where everything is currently booked out due to some stupid AFL game) as I hit snooze when my alarm goes off at 5am. I lie there stubbornly until 5:30am when I finally manage to drag myself out to the kitchen; I ferret around in the fridge to find some chocolate milk and a piece of raisin bread that is my standard pre-race breakfast now. While some, more meticulous runners count calories and set alarms for 3am to consume a carefully-devised amount of carbs per kg of body weight, I drink milk and indulge my preference for carbs in the form of toast. So far it seems to work, and I'm just superstitious enough to keep up the habit.

Waking the kids is not as difficult as I'd anticipated and we set off on the 30 minute drive just shortly after 6am. I'd like enough time to do something of a warm-up before the race starts at 7, as well as get my head into some sort of race-ready zone - right now I'm in what I would describe as a strange, ambivalent state of mind. Going into Central Coast I felt sure that I could run a fast race and possible a new PR; that didn't work out as planned and the pace I was aiming for (6:15 min/mile) felt way too tough right from the start. Bendigo was, for obvious reasons, a total bust. And this time I'm not certain what to expect. 

I could conceivably just run to place - last night's discussion with the RD suggests that I am virtually assured of placing in the top 3 if I run even marathon pace today - or I could push myself to the limit. Do I want to do that? Benita has told me to aim for 6:10-6:20 pace for the first 10 miles and then see how I feel. And of course there's the old goal that I set myself after Central Coast - don't slow down at mile 9. So maybe I'll just aim to do my best for the first 10 miles, and then allow myself to slack off if it's all too hard? Hmmm.

Moderately tricky course map that I completely fail to study before the race

I end up with just enough time to run a single mile as warm-up, with some strides at the end. As I jog around the show grounds and away from the crowds, I notice that my legs feel great. Springy, fresh - ready to go. In fact I don't remember them feeling like this since the opening miles of the Boston marathon, last April. This is probably a really good omen and suddenly the thought of a new PR pops unbidden into my head.

Lining up right at the front behind the starting line, I look around to size up the competition. Just next to me there's a tall girl who looks very familiar. She's wearing a grey top and very short grey shorts - the kind of shorts that telegraph the message "I'm fast" to all around - and obviously she means business. Behind her is a woman who looks more like she'd be in my age group (although of course I personally do NOT look that old), wearing a red singlet and short black shorts; she's probably going to be competition for me too. Nobody else looks very serious - this is good news. And as the command "GO!" is issued, I'm still not decided as to how I'm going to run this race. Let's see what happens.

Start line, furtively sizing up the competition...she looks scary fast.....but what is that guy doing here...??

Miles 1-3: 6:14, 6:14, 6:04 (pace in min/mile)

We set off across gravel, grass and finally onto a sealed bike path by a small river. I'm stupidly close to the front of the pack, in 4th place or so, and as we pound across the gravel - the lead bike so close that someone yells to him "Speed up mate! They're catching you!" - I think to myself "Not a PR course!". Then Grey Girl goes flying past me and soon she's out in front of the whole pack, close behind an African man who is clearly going to win by a country mile.

After about half a mile she has opened up a 50m lead; I check my Garmin to see that my average pace so far is 5:55 - far too fast to be sustainable. As I ease back on the throttle, Grey moves even further ahead and it's obvious: she's in another league altogether from little old RoadRunner me. Later I discover that the reason she looks so familiar - she was in the Elites at Melbourne marathon, where she ran 2:42. It's very clear that I'm racing myself and my Garmin today, not her. The second mile ticks past and the third, and now I find myself entirely alone. So much for pacing off the boys, as B is fond of telling me to do. Today I'll be doing all the hard work myself.


Miles 4-6: 6:12, 6:13, 6:08

I'm settling in to the sub-6:15 pace fairly nicely now, as I continue along the bike path by the river. It dips quite steeply and often as the course navigates tunnels under the roads of Wangaratta; some of the tunnels are long enough to be rather dark and my fear of tripping in the dark is briefly ignited. Marathoners are coming back the other way now and someone calls "Rachel!" to me as they pass - it's right as I am heading into the darkness and there's no way I can identify them or respond at all. Who knows I am here? Hmm, a mystery that I have little time to contemplate, because we're coming up to a turnaround and I want to see what the gap is between myself and Grey Girl.

Grey comes back in the other direction, streaking along right behind the African chap, in outright 2nd position. She has about 3 minutes on me already - my god, she's fast - enough to put any idea of catching her well out of my head. The next question: how far am I ahead of the next woman? Around 2:40, it turns out - enough of a buffer that 2nd place is most likely mine unless I blow up or pass out. I've never done either in a race yet, and I'm not about to start.

During mile 6 there are more marathoners around and I now pass a few of the slower runners; then coming back on the second out-and-back I realise that the person who greeted me is none other than Wylie, whom I know from the Wagga Road Runners! He's a marathon maniac type and always fun to chat to. This time when I see him coming I wave and grin and call out his name - and remember that I told him about this race when we last ran together, on my birthday. A fellow Wagga runner, hooray!

Unlike last year's Christmas Twilight run (in 40C/108F temps), today he was not dressed like this.

Miles 7-9: 6:13, 6:05, 6:05

As I start mile 7, I realise that finally I'm catching someone ahead of me. He's wearing a blue and black stripy singlet and looks to be in his mid 50s at least. It was actually rather depressing when he and his grey hair shot so far ahead of me during mile 2 or so; now he looks to be tiring. There's another turnaround coming and immediately after it I ease past him without really meaning to.

I'm quite aware that this is likely to make him speed up and sure enough, I immediately hear him pick up his pace and he's right on my tail now. This is going to be helpful, actually! I used to HATE having someone right behind me, pushing me along, chiefly because I was worried about being goaded into going too fast and running out of steam. Now I have more confidence in my own fitness, and after all the miles running alone I actually welcome it. My pace picks up and I'm still feeling great. The mile 8-9 slump is not happening this time, no way.

This is also good timing because during mile 8 we come to, and pass, the 10K turnaround point. Oh. My. God. Suddenly there are hobby joggers ALL OVER the road. I watch in horror as a plump lady rips out her headphones and darts across the road directly in front of me to stop and greet a spectator. Some of them are keeping to the left, others not so much. And it's about to get worse...


Miles 10 & 11: 6:03, 6:04

It's incredible that I'm keeping such a good pace here. I'm actually having to yell at people to move over, and quite regularly. At one point there are two heavily-set blokes jogging along and completely blocking the way as we turn back off the road and onto the bike path. I bellow out "MOVE LEFT!!!" only to have the heftier of the two dodge directly to the RIGHT and straight into my path. I'm barely able to avoid a collision as I snap at him, "Left is the other way, idiot" --  he opens his mouth, no doubt to splutter out a sarcastic retort, but I'm already gone.

Mile 11 is even worse than mile 10. We've gone past the starting area - I wave wildly to the kids, who go ballistic with excitement - and down a slight hill towards the river again. And oh my god, there's a suspension bridge coming up?

The course looks roughly like this - only narrower - in the final 2 miles of the race.

By this point there are 10K joggers 3 abreast on the narrow path, and to make things worse the leading 10K runners are coming back the other way already, at top speed. This leaves precious little room for even a pocket rocket such as myself to overtake. Trying to get up onto the bridge I feel like I'm jogging in place for a few seconds, and it's infuriating. Yelling at them seems to make no difference so I resort to doing the jogger slalom, wending my way in between the people on the path around me like some kind of whirling dervish. Hmm, what is this going to do to my pace?

Miles 12 & 13, then finish chute: 6:12, 6:24, 5:43 pace to finish

My overtaking efforts earn me first a painful clash of elbows with a muscular triathlon-type coming the other way, and then a chubby girl right in front of me chooses the moment I come up behind her to attempt to high-five a friend who is approaching from the opposite direction. I collide with her right arm like it's a boom gate in the carpark of a bank I've just robbed: it goes swinging wildly back towards her face and I plough on without a word. Oops.

It's astonishing when the mile 12 split beeps and my pace is still vaguely in the ballpark that I'm aiming for. But what on earth is coming next? I can see another bridge, and runners going in all directions. The word "clusterf&*k" springs to mind, and the definition is unfolding before my eyes. Time to get this thing FINISHED! I cross the second bridge and then back over the first freaking one, again. It's even more crowded and slow than before, somehow. I don't even bother to check my pace during the final mile, and pay for it when I hear the beep and look down to see 6:24. BUGGER!

But it's too late for regrets - the finish is in sight and I just need to get there pronto. As I sprint like a maniac for the line, a clock by the path (but not the finish line itself) reads "1:20:34". Oh god, how long is it going to take me to get across?? I must be SO close to my PR from Bathurst last year! I bobble once slightly as I step in a slight pothole amongst the grass, and then finally I've done it. No fanfare or anything - people are finishing in their droves and although I'm sure I was second female, there's no announcement and I have no idea where I've placed in the HM overall - so I get my medal and head up to find the kids and Mum.

Finish time: 1:21:35 (6:13 min/mile) - Garmin reading 13.25 miles @ 6:08 pace

Placement: 2nd female (1st masters athlete age 40+), 5th OA.

Photo courtesy of Amelia.

There's not much time to sit around and relax - the kids' 2K race is coming up and there is a literal horde of entrants. Both of mine are in there, Jack now old enough to rush off on his own to start with the older kids (wearing my Garmin, no less, and he has even told me he really needs one of his own soon, please) but Amelia still needing me to run with her. She makes no bones about telling me that I must STAY BEHIND her, though, and once running I actually find it difficult to catch her a few times! Both kids make me very proud by running the whole way without once stopping - Jack finishing 18th in the 7-9yrs AG and Amelia 10th in the under-7s. Considering they are at the bottom of their age groups, this is a bloody amazing result!

We did it!

The Analysis
All in all, this race is a very welcome confirmation that my training - and in particular the changes that Benita has made - is progressing just as I would want it to. I'm in at least as good shape as I was in the immediate aftermath of Boston last year, but with 8 more weeks to train for the marathon. The lack of late-race fade is particularly pleasing; there was no hint of the fatigue to which I succumbed (in part at least) on the Central Coast in December. And when I made it back to the finish area after the 2K race, I was just in time to hear my name announced as winner of the women's 40+ category for the half-marathon. Recognition as a Masters athlete?? Yes please! And the pair of free Hoka shoes will come in very handy, thank you.

Cheese!
(this is without doubt the coolest trophy in my collection)

Up next? Possibly a 10K in an other Victorian town - that small state to the south is rapidly growing on me. And Boston is just 8 weeks away now. Eeek!

Oceania Masters Athletics HM, Bendigo Jan 2014

I mentioned in my last post that I was intending to run this HM in Bendigo as a Masters athlete, and until 2 days beforehand I was focused on running it as fast as I possibly could. In Australia there is little fanfare about Masters athletes - whereas I so often see my American running friends taking home some serious swag for Masters victories - but as time continues its inexorable march forwards, I have become increasingly aware that any future glory to be found in my future running career undoubtedly lies in exploiting my age and competing as a Masters athlete. Well, I might as well take advantage of being old, right?

Accordingly, last year I joined up with NSW Masters Athletics and in fact was happy to become the official State record holder for W40-44 in the half marathon after my Central Coast adventure in November. I was only somewhat put off by the realisation that the Bendigo race would comprise 4 laps of a 5.3km course - that sort of race is inevitably twisty and slower than an out-and-back or a point-to-point course, witness the Port Macquarie HM as evidence of this fact - but I remained resolute. I was going for a new PR, apart from an AG placing of course. But fate has a way of intervening with the best-laid of plans, as I was about to find out.

The Travel
Bendigo is an old gold mining town in the western part of Victoria, the next state to the south of where I live in New South Wales, and about 4 hours' drive away. I travel down fairly uneventfully with the kids on Thursday afternoon, planning to spend a few days checking out the sights and generally relaxing. It's boiling hot so we hit the hotel pool immediately upon arrival and then head out for some dinner at a rather swanky (Wagu kids' beef burger, anyone?) yet somehow also kid-friendly joint. What a great find!

Friday brings more oppressive heat and so after a bit of a late start, we make our way to the outskirts of Bendigo to visit Water World, which is basically a tiny little water park in the middle of the bush with a couple of small pools, a bunch of tropical-style umbrellas with tables underneath and one huge, twisty, slippery and totally awesome waterside.

It looks innocent enough.......

Predictably, the slide turns out to be amazing fun, and surprisingly there is no supervision at the top. People (ok, kids) are diving on there headfirst, feet first, on their bellies, whatever. It's chaos of the most ridiculously fun kind and the kids cannot get enough. I'm keeping up with them, almost, and considering letting them just go nuts on their own when it happens: sliding down in a chain with the two of them ahead of me, Jack hits the pool first and rather than moving away just stands there oblivious. Amelia, in the middle, has me by the hands and as she hits the pool feet first I get catapulted over the top of her and into the water. I'm sliding on my belly so my head is right back and my larynx exposed as I slam - throat-first - into the back of Jack's head.

the oblivious culprits - picture me sailing over the top of her feet

HOLY SHIT, that hurts! It's like getting winded, only more painful. My first thought is "Oh god, my larynx is fractured" and I'm clutching my throat and no doubt looking aghast as Jack bobs up and says casually, "Mama, you bumped my head!" I can't answer - I'm not sure I can breathe - and I instinctively race to get out of the water. The slack-jawed teenage lifesaver who is on duty at the plunge pool looks vaguely at me as I stumble past him with my hand around my throat, but doesn't seem to have noticed that anything might be wrong. I sit shakily at our table, trying not to panic, but wondering if I am about to obstruct my airway and die. Perhaps I should get that teenager to call an ambulance?

The kids come over and I find that I can speak, although my voice is gravelly and it's bloody agony to even try to swallow. They want to keep sliding and I don't appear to be dying yet, so they run off and I sit, gingerly feeling the swelling develop around the cartilage of my Adam's apple. It occurs to me that an ice pack might be an excellent idea at this point, and the teenager at the front desk obligingly digs one out of the bottom of the ice-cream freezer for me when I go and croak out my request.

Very unflattering photo, with large swelling around and to the right of my thyroid cartilage.
Thought bubble: "Am I about to swell up and die? Because that would suck."

As mothers around the world will know, when you're in charge of two young children, unless you're actually dying the show absolutely must go on. And so I spend the rest of the afternoon - after the ice pack has melted in the 39C/104F heat - actually back on the water slide and having a reasonably good time, although I tend to hit the plunge pool in a defensively curled-up state from now on. My throat is BLOODY sore - I feel like I'm trying to swallow a large cotton wool ball with broken glass embedded in it, with a terminal case of tonsillitis to boot - but at least I can still breathe, and the kids are having a ball.

We head home via the chemist, where I stock up on soluble paracetamol, aspirin and every variety of throat lozenge that has the word "anaesthetic" on the front. The kids have grasped the fact that Mama has a VERY sore throat; Amelia takes it upon herself to dispense the medicines and Jack places himself in charge of making sure I get a lozenge every two hours. Thank you, darlings, it's making absolutely no difference, but I love you for trying.

The more pressing thought in my head is, what about that small race I am supposed to be doing on Sunday?? Friday night passes in a sleepless, painful blur. Every time I need to swallow, I wake up in agony. A lozenge at 2am makes enough difference for me to sleep a few hours, but there's no way in hell I am going to be able to race on Sunday - I can hear my breathing (the medical term for this is "stridor", which implies that my airway is narrowed) on both inspiration and expiration. This is extremely bad.

Saturday morning I feel so rough that I email Coach B to tell her what's happened and that I'm down for the count, probably not even going to run the race. The kids get up and we go on a tour of the Central Deborah Gold Mine, which is dark and slightly scary in a thrilling sort of way. We have to wear headlamps and helmets and go down in a cage to a depth of 50m below ground - the kids are agog with delight and a tiny, delicious frisson of terror.

Learning what Fool's gold looks like....with their oddly silent mother behind them

Strangely enough, late Saturday afternoon and into the evening my throat starts to feel marginally better. Perhaps this is just a reflection on how terribly horrible it felt at first, or perhaps the pain receptors in the "throat" part of my cerebral cortex are just burned out? Whatever - I feel a tiny bit better. The embryo of an insane idea begins to form in my brain: well, we're here and all, I'm signed up and all, maybe I could do the race just as a fun run? I'm almost certain I won't precipitate fatal throat swelling by doing so....but there's no way I can race it. I guess we'll see how I feel in the morning.


Race Day
Make that fun-run day, but Sunday dawns and I realise I actually slept a lot better than the night before. Fun run here I come! I make sure to sabotage any attempt at serious racing by failing to eat before (not too difficult, since the pain associated with swallowing anything solid is still pretty impressive), I leave my Australia singlet behind and neglect even to drink adequately before the start. I consider tearing off the timing chips from my front-and-back bibs, but decide to leave them on when I realise this will destroy the bibs entirely. Sigh.

We arrive at the race start area in good time - enough for me to jog 2 easy miles and drum into my head that I am in no fit state to race - the kids settle in at the finish line at the table with the babysitter and very shortly it's time to line up at the start. I purposely put myself at the back of the Masters Athletics group, muttering to myself "Not racing, not racing....." until the gun goes off and I determinedly set off to not race the guts out of this thing.

Not racing, nope, just out for a jog...

Lap 1, miles 1-3.4: 7:11, 6:55, 7:07 (pace in min/mile)
It's congested back here in the pack, and I'm NOT pushing the pace, so it's gratifying to see 7:11 on my Garmin when it beeps the first split. Not quite so gratifying is finding myself in amongst a bunch of 60-70 yr old male runners - the Masters bibs are cunningly numbered so one can identify one's competitors by the first two digits, the age group, and this is a bit depressing. I put on a burst of speed and then find myself struggling to back it off again. Thankfully, as we head around the small lake nearby the crowd thins out and I settle into a comfortable pace. My breathing sounds slightly reminiscent of Darth Vader - if he was asthmatic - and I'm not game to even try to swallow some water although there are plenty of drinks stations around, but so far, so good.

Lap 2, miles 4-7ish: 6:59, 6:58, 6:56
Apparently anything slower than 6:59 pace is unacceptable for my brain to process. Whatever, I'm still going a lot slower than I was planning to run, so it's fine, really. And I'm passing people left and right now as I come around for the second lap. There's a short hairpin that goes up a rather steep side street and then back down - this enables me to see that I'm actually in 3rd place overall, with only one Masters female in front of me - and she's in the faux-Masters AG 35-39. Grrrr! If I was in a position to race this thing, I'd be several minutes in front of her at this point. But whatever, at least I'm alive and not in hospital with a fractured larynx and a tracheostomy, right?

Look ahead, don't race. Look ahead, don't race. Repeat until brain goes numb.

Lap 3, miles 7 - 9.6ish: 6:50, 6:49, 6:40

Ooooops. Coach B has drilled into my brain that I MUST NOT slow down in the 3rd lap - a strategy designed to counteract the fade I experienced in this part of the Central Coast HM - and it seems my subconscious is determined to make her proud. I see on the hairpin hill that I'm catching the woman ahead of me (not a Masters competitor) and it's all I can do not to pull out all the stops to close the distance and overtake. Must. Resist. Luckily my breathing chooses this point to protest at the increase in pace, and I reluctantly fall back again.

Lap 4, miles 10 - 13.1: 6:55, 7:05, 6:06

The effort to slow down results in my first mile over 7:00 pace since the first lap, and as a reward I allow myself to put the pedal to the metal for the final mile - not enough to catch the 2nd female, but enough to satisfy me that I could have gone much faster, and also that I'm still not dead. I hit the finish line feeling like I've barely been for a jog; the kids are beyond excited to hear the announcer name me winner of my AG, and so ends the half-marathon that will forever be known as "The One with the Broken Throat".

Finish line, too relaxed by far

Finish time: 1:31:46

Placement: 1st AG (40-44), 3rd female overall

This champagne will soothe my throat nicely, thank you.

I get a medal and a bottle of bubbly for my AG win, and happily pose with the two other place-getters. Actually I feel like a bit of an imposter, having won so easily with a time that is a full 10 minutes off what I was aiming to run, but oh well. It's a novel injury and a good one for the story books, even if almost every single person I tell is going to react with the rhetorical questions "you did what to your throat?...and you STILL RAN??"

The Analysis
As regards the race, nothing to see here, move on.  Regarding the throat - on the Monday after the race I get myself in to see a local ENT surgeon, who sticks a fibreoptic laryngoscope down my nose (ugh, disgusting) and confirms that I have a massive bruise in the right side of my larynx, both cords are swollen and my right vocal cord is actually paralysed. He organises an urgent CT scan which thankfully shows that the cartilage itself is not fractured, and the important recurrent laryngeal nerve - the one that supplies the cords and causes them to move - appears to be intact and not severed.

Home I go on massive doses of oral steroids (to bring down the swelling) and some antibiotics for good measure. A week later my voice is improving and the pain all but gone, but the cord is still not working; he wants me to go to Sydney for a second opinion. Truly, all I care about is whether or not I'll be affected with my breathing when I need to run fast. When he tells me I won't have lasting stridor, I'm happy enough to leave it for now. I can't sing (not that this is much of a loss) but I'm recovered enough to run and also to bellow at the kids when the need arises, so for now that will definitely suffice.

Next up? Another HM in Victoria, hopefully with a great deal less drama and a lot more success.

Central Coast HM, November 2013

One of the first few half marathons I ever entered was this Central Coast race, which I ran in November 2001 and finished 2nd in 1:25:40. I recall feeling that was a pretty good time, but also knowing I could do better - I certainly had no idea it would stand as my half-marathon PR for over a decade. I was training for my next HM when fate intervened that afternoon in Nowra and left me smashed-up on the road - it would be a full 6 years until I could race that distance again. So it was kind of fitting that 2013, my best year of running - ever - should end at the same race where I set that long-standing PR.


The Training
As mentioned in my last post, I recently started getting some online coaching with someone I met through a mutual friend from Runners' World. We started with 2 speed workouts a week and pretty conservative mileage (in terms of my usual mileage over the past year, anyway) and I was very happy to find that I was able to manage the workload without too many problems. It seemed logical that the combination of lower mileage and faster workouts, with someone to make sure I did a proper mini-taper, would set me up for a good run at The Entrance.


The Travel
It's a long drive to the Central Coast, but thanks to a new motorway bypassing the worst of Sydney's traffic, and the inventions of Steve Jobs (nothing like an iPad mini to keep children from killing each other in the back seat), we arrive in good time and relatively unscathed on Friday afternoon. I step out of the car and the first thing I notice is wow, it's windy. In fact, when we head down the road to check out the beach, it's actually blowing a gale - this better not last another 36 hours or I'm in serious trouble!

Early Saturday I run an easy out-and-back 4 miles, taking in the first part of the race course. I remember it well from not only 2001, but also a family holiday to a nearby resort in late 2011 - t's a flat out-and-back course on a bike path quite near the lake - an ideal location for a PR attempt, in fact. I certainly won't have any hills to blame if I run a pathetic time!

Saturday's weather is less windy, but no less worrying: dark clouds intermittently spit rain at us all morning, with prolonged rumbles of thunder keeping us nervously watching for lightning from the relatively dangerous vantage point of the hotel pool. Finally we give up and head off to the movies - and 90 minutes later emerge to clear blue skies and warm sunshine. Yay!

Race Day
It's relatively easy to get up at 5am, and I make myself a piece of toast to go with the chocolate milk that has become my traditional pre-race breakfast. I've realised that I forgot to pack any gels - not that they are essential for races shorter than the marathon - and so I figure I need to have something in my stomach before I head out to run.

I spend the next hour aimlessly surfing the internet and finally head out around 6am. I walk down to the park where the race will finish, pick up and pin my bib, then head off to run a 2 mile warmup on the first part of the course. It's PERFECT running weather - probably around 17C/70F, too warm for many but great for me - with no wind and clear skies, just a few clouds around the horizon really.

Eventually it's time to gather near the starting line, and interestingly enough there is one of Australia's best runners lined up near me: Martin Dent, a 2:16 marathoner who represented Australia at the London Olympics. I recognise him from the elite room at Melbourne marathon - and there are another couple of guys around who are likely to run sub-70 minutes. More pressing is the question, are there any fast women here too??

I look surreptitiously around, trying to size up any possible competition, but nobody really takes my eye. Apart from one skinny bloke, that is - he's standing behind me nervously jumping up and down, wearing a fairly ridiculous combination of skin-tight 2XU compression gear (including a triathlon-type vest and calf sleeves), a visor and heavy black-rimmed glasses. Immediately the thought pops into my mind: European. In fact he reminds me strongly of the infamous Nils, a borderline crazy German (okay, that's not true,  there is nothing borderline about him except perhaps his personality disorder) from Runners World...but anyway, enough about him because it's time to run and I probably won't see him ever again. Or will I?


Miles 1-2: 6:12, 6:18 (pace in min/mile)
The gun goes off and we charge off down the street. The usual line of blokes opens up ahead of me, but then a girl in purple blows past me like I'm standing still. Wait, what?? She looks powerful and I can't quite believe she's running 6:00 min/mile (or perhaps a bit faster), but she is. Oh well, it's early days yet, so I concentrate on trying to lock down my goal pace (6:15) as we hit the lakeside path and things get considerably narrower. So far, so good. Then another girl - this one in blue shorts with a dark ponytail - pulls up beside and then ahead of me. Ugh! This is not okay!!


Miles 3-4: 6:07, 6:19
I'm getting a bit erratic here, speeding up too much and then slowing down too far. At the 5K mark I make the stupid mistake of looking at my watch to check the split - and almost run smack bang straight into a large bollard. Ooops! I dodge it at the last second and the guy behind me gasps out "Are you alright??" Yep, I'm fine, and the split was 19:38 or thereabouts, which is also fine. Onward, and pay better attention from now on please Rachel!

Yep, that's her right behind me...

Just after the 5K I pass Blue Shorts, and realise that Purple Chick is not far ahead now. By the time mile 4 is half over, I've passed her too and moved into the lead. Excellent! And what's more, I've somehow ended up right behind EuroGuy. His tight lycra shorts aren't the loveliest of views to be following so closely, but he's running the right pace and Coach B did tell me to find some boys to run with. So I tuck in and do my best to keep up.


Miles 5-6: 6:31, 6:12
In the lead now, I somehow suddenly lose concentration - for reasons known only to some of my Facebook sub-3 marathoners friends, I get distracted thinking about Marmite sandwiches (I know, I know) and also by the process of crossing a small but steepish wooden bridge. Coming off the bridge I look up and realise EuroGuy has opened a small gap. Then my watch beeps the mile split and I realise what has happened - bugger! I focus, put on a burst of speed, and catch him again. Concentrate, concentrate, keep it going.

During mile 6 we see Martin Dent approaching from the turnaround, and he's waaaay out in front, just as I would have expected. There's water on his side of the path and I'm mystified to see him just run straight through it when he could have easily dodged around it. The reason becomes clear a short distance later - here there is ankle-deep water all over the path and this time no way around it. Splash, splash, there go my pristine new Mizunos. I hate squelchy feet - grrr.


Miles 7-8: 6:14, 6:22
During mile 7 comes the turn-around, and I'm all set to check my watch and see how much room there is between me and that Purple Chick, who must be the next girl behind me, right? But whoa, no -- Blue Shorts is RIGHT on my tail!! No more than 20-30 seconds separates us, and Purple is another 30 seconds or so behind Blue. Crap!! I've got some work to do if I'm going to stay ahead.....

Heading back there's a steady stream of half-marathoners on the other side of the path, which is sufficiently narrow that I only just avoid a collision with a solid footballer type, who is barreling along overtaking people. A LOT of people are clapping and cheering and calling out "First lady! Wooot!" and such to me -- it's sweet but also making me rather stressed -- particularly when they yell stuff like "GO GIRLS!" or "YAY LADIES!" I can understand why they're not saying "girl" or "lady", but it also sort of implies that Blue Shorts is right on my tail. And I'm too scared to look around to see if she is!


Miles 9-10: 6:26, 6:20
Now I'm in deep trouble, because I'm realising gradually that EuroGuy is starting to tire. During mile 9 it becomes clear - he's not going to drag me all the way. I'm going to have to do the work now, and it's not going to be easy. After seeing the mile split, I grit my teeth and pull ahead of him. Quickly I realise how valuable it is to have someone pacing you - all you have to do is keep up, really, and you've always got that moving target ahead of you on which to focus.

So why not focus on this?

I look ahead for someone to catch. There's another half-marathoner who has been ahead of me the whole race, but he's clearly done and dusted, and I pass him quickly. He calls out something encouraging, which is nice, but it's not going to get me through the next 4.1 miles. Mental grit is what I need, and there's a war in my brain already: do I push harder and risk blowing up, or do I coast it in and count on whatever lead I still have over Blue Shorts? That may not be enough.


Miles 11-12: 6:27, 6:31
I'm wasting energy on arguing with myself at this point - without the magnetic pull of EuroGuy and his 6:15 pace, I'm starting to fade, and I know it. I'm trying to yell at myself to run harder, dammit, but I kinda like myself too and I don't want to land myself in the medical tent. Again.

By now we are past the 10K turnaround and there are even more people around, which should be sort of comforting but in fact is just distracting. Somehow I've decided to take it easy until the final mile, which is not a clever strategy at this point, but there we go. Mile 12 is my slowest since that bridge early on, and there's someone right behind my right shoulder. I think it's EuroGuy, but am I sure?


Mile 13, 0.1: 6:13, 5:38 pace to finish
Finally my subconscious takes off the brakes and I'm back on pace for mile 13. As we approach the bridge where the start line was located I know there's about 500m to go, and I hear screams of "Mummy! Mummy!" from the left hand side - I look over briefly and try to wave, but what's happening to my right? A runner pulls up alongside me, and OH MY GOD it's Blue Shorts!

My brain is shrieking "NO!", and now finally I'm putting everything I've got left into trying to surge back - but it's not to be. She zips past; a repeat of 2001 is about to ensue (when I led the whole race but was closely shadowed by a much younger girl, who surged and overtook me in the final mile) and there's nothing I can do about it. Bugger!

The course turns a bit technical - there's curbs and stuff to watch for - how far away is that bloody finish line?? Around the side of the carousel, past the water park.....and finally I'm dashing over the grass to finish. I hear my name being announced as the female winner (oops, nope) and I'm shaking my head vigorously as I hit the mats and throw myself under the arch.

Finished, not impressed.

Finish time: 1:22:40 (6:19 pace)

Placement: 2nd female, 18th OA, 1st in AG (F40-49).

Wow, that sucked. I stop, bend down and try to catch my breath. There's Blue Shorts doing the exact same thing - so I smile and congratulate her on out-kicking me for the win. Her name is Belinda, she's 27 years old, and I soon find out she has beaten me by 6 seconds! Using my old lady handicap system, I've actually won by 8 minutes, though, so that's okay. I wander over to get some water and EuroGuy waves at me - he opens his mouth to speak and it's all I can do not to die of laughter: he has a German accent! Later I find out his name is Fritz. Oh my god, that's perfect.

The kids and Mum arrive - we dash to the hotel to shower and pack up - then back down to the park for the presentation.

A little old lady and two fast young things

The Analysis

I'm a little baffled as to why the lower overall mileage and better taper hasn't gotten me a faster time. My fastest HM remains Bathurst from May 2013, just a few weeks after Boston - clearly I was coasting on the fitness from all those weeks of 100 miles/160km and more. There's also a possible mental thing going on, too; I should have pushed myself harder during miles 9-12. Maybe I need to practice staying BEHIND the competition, shadowing them and then zooming past right near the end -- but my personal style is far more one of taking the lead when I can and then trying to hang on, running the best I possibly can rather than letting another set the pace. 

Another thought is the nature of the course; although hilly courses are undoubtedly harder, I seem to lose less time on the uphills than most people, and my marathon endurance comes in handy when things get tough near the end. Maybe flat races aren't all they're cracked up to be?

I have a few months to consider all this as I approach my next goal: the Oceania Masters Athletics in January, where I'm already entered to run the HM. Watch this space!