Two Races, Two Ass Kickings

It's true what they say (and by "they" I mean I'm saying it now): there's nothing quite like a few solid wallopings to really motivate you to get in shape. As a bonus, I had the pleasure of getting thoroughly spanked two weekends in a row, and suffice it to say I'm experiencing a new resolve to work hard and ensure that the same thing doesn't happen (or at least, not quite so handily) the next time around.

To be fair, these dismal outcomes were hardly unexpected, considering pretty much my entire winter of "training" has unfolded like this:

Jordan: What day can you workout this week? Wednesday?
Meagan: (checks weather app) Looks like another storm is moving in Tuesday night. And I'm traveling Thursday. Better make it Tuesday.
J: Okay, Tuesday morning?
M: (expands hourly detail in weather app) The wind chill is going to be single digits. I doubt I can run fast then. Want to go at lunch?
J: Sure, but I have a meeting at 12. Can we go at 1?
M: No, I have a meeting at 2. How about we cut out a little early and go at 4?
J: Perfect.
M: (3pm, looks outside incredulously, then glares at blatantly deceptive weather app, then looks outside again) Son of a! It already started snowing!
J: (doubtfully, furrows brow) Maybe it will stop.
M: (3:45pm, looks outside again) Well, you're right, it stopped snowing...and now it's sleeting. The roads are going to be a mess already.
J: Want to go jog five miles on the treadmill?
M: Duh.

Last weekend, I participated in the Mercedes-Benz Marathon Weekend in Birmingham, AL for the fourth consecutive year. This race holds a special place in my heart, as it's where I snuck under the radar and nabbed my Trials qualifier in 2011. (It's also the only race expo I've ever worked where the partner retailer calls me in advance to ask what kind of wine I'd like to drink while working their expo because they know I don't drink beer. Trak Shak, you complete me.) I then came back to win the half in 2012 and placed second in the half last year, so despite my lack of fitness I illogically had high hopes for another podium finish this time around. But alas, it was not to be. Local standout Erica Speegle ran a 2+ minute PR to finish in 1:15-mid, with my friend Jeannette Faber a close second in 1:15:53 (or 1:16:05 depending on which results you look at; obviously, runner code dictates we agree upon the faster time). I shuffled along in fourth place, also known as "first sucker who just misses out on a giant check," managing 6-minute pace on the rolling course. It was neither my fastest nor slowest run there but my first time out of the money, which never feels great.

Yet the weekend was not all for naught. I road tripped back to Nashville with Jeannette and got in a few quality double-digit runs in the delightfully sunny, snow-free environs of a more temperate climate. "This is it!" I told myself triumphantly as I boarded my on-time flight back to Boston (via Philadelphia) on Tuesday morning. "This is the turning point when I stop grabassing around and start getting serious about my spring training!" Fast forward to three hours, a canceled flight and a few delays later, and I found myself cursing Mother Nature yet again and drowning my sorrows in a surprisingly delightful combination of Chick-Fil-A waffle fries and $6 pinot grigio in Concourse C of PHL. Literally and figuratively, thanks to the hellacious winter I just cannot win right now.

And yet, inexplicably, this weekend I found myself begging for more. My sometimes training partner and oftentimes Gchat companion Sarah Bard tipped me off that she was planning to make the 2+ hour trek to Amherst on Sunday for the first race in the USATF-NE Grand Prix series, the Jones 10 Miler. Seeing this as an opportunity for a forced extended tempo with possible prize money (and an excuse for post-race brunch), I agreed to join. "After all," Sarah confidently and rhetorically assured me, "how many fast people are going to want to drive all the way to Amherst for a ridiculously hilly 10-miler in the middle of February?" Well, as it turned out, quite a few. In the time it took me to park, make my way to registration and fork over the $45 entry fee (which included nothing, least of all a t-shirt (not that I wanted one, but it's the principle), except my race number and a few questionably rusty safety pins), I'd already spotted at least a half dozen women who had beaten me or come pretty darn close to doing so at various races over the past year. My previously optimistic plan to "stick my nose in there and contend for the win" was summarily downgraded to "shoot for top 10," blowing straight past "place in the top three" and coming dangerously close to the graveyard of "win my age group." On the now-somber warmup, Sarah and I bumped into a trio of formidable Maine runners, Sheri Piers, Kristin Barry and Erica Jesseman, all of whom have faster PRs than me at approximately every distance. As we jogged, Sheri joked (but seriously) that last year's winner, Irish Olympian Steph Reilly, stated afterward that it was the "f#$&ing hardest race ever." Seeing as, in case you glossed over that part, she's an Olympian, this information didn't exactly do anything to alleviate my apprehension.

At the outset, however, things progressed swimmingly. The first two miles, and in particular the second mile, were largely downhill (feel free to see this as foreshadowing for the latter part of the course), and other than a few tiptoe-inducing icy turns it was smooth sailing. A brief glance at my watch indicated I'd comfortably split two miles in 11:37 and was among the top three or four females. Unfortunately, the fun and games all came to an abrupt halt during the third and fourth miles, which I had been warned in advance were drastic uphills. (Mercifully, I forgot to wear my new Garmin and also neglected to peek at the third mile split (possibly because I was 100% focused on trying not to walk), but I learned later that Erica--who, keep in mind, was already a good distance ahead of me at this point--split a whopping 7:00.) Just when the road leveled out and the torture was seemingly over (for the time being), we turned onto a dirt road. This would not be noteworthy except for the fact that the past few days' slightly milder, rainy weather had resulted in much of the snow melting (and our condo building's basement flooding, but that's neither here nor there) but also, paradoxically, icing over many sections of road. So what in better times might simply be an innocuous dusty detour was now a half icy, half muddy mess. Within seconds, everyone in sight was slipping around and splattered shoulder to ankle with mud. The next few miles were dangerous at worst, frustrating at best, and I passed the halfway point in 30:30--almost 90 seconds slower than I'd eclipsed the same marker at Mercedes a week prior. I'd managed to hemorrhage almost a full minute in the past few miles and was feeling worse with each passing second. Punishing hills, ice, mud, potholes; this wasn't a road race, it was a 10-mile cross-country course!

Fortunately, miles 6-8 led us back onto pavement and were gradually downhill, and I somehow clawed my way back to a slightly sub-6 average with two to go. But lest there be any danger of me finishing in a respectable time, we then merged back onto the original road from whence we came and faced a punishing uphill for the next mile and a half. By the time I crossed the line fourth (and winning my age group, holla!) in 60:30 I was equal parts convinced that I was going to really start training now or never run another step for the rest of my life. (It is worth noting at this point that I am subsequently leaning toward the latter option given that winner Megan Hogan ran 55:30 and obliterated the almost 30-year-old course record previously set by Nancy Conz, who for the record was no slouch herself. I can confidently say that there will be no point in my running career at which I am capable of such flagrant badassery.)

But seriously, you guys. It's time for me to get in shape.

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Seacoast Half Marathon: A Lucrative Disaster

3 mile w/u
Target: win, run marathon pace-ish (1:18:30-1:19:30)
Actual: 1st place female; 1:23:11, $300
Results
1 mile c/d
Total: 17 miles

To be honest, I don't want to dwell on this race because I know it's not indicative of my fitness and I refuse to let it get me down. The Seacoast Half Marathon was a great local event, very well-run and with excellent crowd support given the small coastal community, and despite the race being long closed the event director was gracious enough to allow me a spot. Regretfully, I wasn't able to capitalize on any of this with a solid performance. My legs felt tired and lifeless, and with few runners in sight in either direction I had little motivation to push myself beyond mild discomfort. I stopped a handful of times, mainly to stretch an exceptionally tight hamstring (residual from my hip issue?) and once for a bathroom break (because hey, at that point, why the hell not) and as a result managed to run my slowest time in years. I'm going to chalk it up as getting paid 300 bucks for a bad workout and move on.

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ING Hartford Half-Marathon Recap

~2 mile w/u
Target: 13.1 miles @1:17:30 or faster; first place New England's Finest division
Actual: 1:17:37 (chip), 1:17;40 (gun), first place NEF, fifth place overall
Official results; Race day results 
Total: 15 miles

On paper, this race looks like a success for me, and I suppose it was. My time and place were both respectable, and I can tuck away the fitness gains as a step in the right direction toward a successful marathon in two months' time. But reality, as per usual, was much less rosy. Simply put, this was hard. Not just in the final minutes or during the last 5k, but almost the entire time. In fact, I can distinctly remember first wanting to drop out around mile four--and then repeating that same thought/wish/plea about 10 more times before the finish. Thanks to Jordan's encouragement I stuck it out, but it wasn't pretty.

Before all that, however, I had a lovely few days in Hartford--thanks in no small part to the New England's Finest program, which provided the hotel room, travel reimbursement, a hospitality suite and a pre-race dinner. Jordan was working the expo with Marathon Sports, so we actually headed out of town on Wednesday afternoon so he could be in place for the following morning. I was fortunate to be able to work remotely from our hotel on Thursday and Friday, which meant I was able to avoid any last-minute stressful travel or hassle. By Friday afternoon, several of our other friends had arrived from the city, and while Jordan finished up at the expo I was able to enjoy the surprisingly tasty pre-race pasta dinner with BAA friends Stef, Brian, Hilary (defending Hartford Marathon champ) and her boyfriend. For some reason Stef and I were the only ones drinking wine, but I felt good about it. After dinner we met up with Sarah and attended the pre-race technical meeting where we were able to scope out who else would be toeing the line and listen to the standard race morning instructions.

Oh, just a LIFE SIZE poster of me on display at the expo. Can't wait to frame this bad boy and hang it in our living room!

After an early lights out and an uneventful pre-race routine, it was game time--or so we thought. I scrunched my way to the front of the starting line behind Jordan (racing for free courtesy of the "companion's entry" provided by NEF), Sarah and Hilary, preparing for the gun to fire, but instead our ears were treated to what had to be the longest, slowest, most elaborate version of the National Athem ever to precede a race start. Not to be outdone, the race chaplain (that's a thing?!) then graced us with a prayer that rambled through a litany of bodily considerations and woes. He left no stone unturned when asking the Holy Father to protect and guide us as we made our way through the city streets, bringing back to light the worst-case-scenario horrors that most nervous racers had only just managed to successfully suppress from their consciousness. "May their muscles and sinews not fail, may their feet not be ravaged with blisters, may their vital organs not systematically shut down one by one, may their pre-race oatmeal not plunder their bowels like vengeful intestinal pirates..." Okay, so I may have exaggerated on that last bit, but only slightly. Sarah, Hilary and I were trying our hardest to avoid eye contact and suppress giggles, lest we be smote with the very afflictions he was so graphically trying to ward off. Finally, three minutes later, his supplication ceased. (Don't think three minutes is a long time? Start your watch now. Sweet baby Jesus himself would've grown weary.) Surely now it was finally time to--"AND NOW, PLEASE DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THE DANCERS!"

Sometime approximately 38 minutes after I'd squeezed into a spot at the starting line, now most assuredly already needing a quick bathroom break, we were finally off. I tried not to get swept away with the eager frontrunners and instead allowed Jordan to settle us into an easy rhythm. The first 5k threaded its way through downtown Hartford, then began a two-mile climb that was probably gentle but unfortunately found me already laboring. I regained some momentum after passing another woman somewhere in the sixth mile, but by halfway I was seriously hurting. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm no stranger to pain. Heck, in the last few miles I welcome it. But to already feel this bad, this early in the race, running what was not at all a pace I shouldn't be able to maintain? I was on the precipice of disaster. It was so bad that somewhere around mile eight I actually gasped out loud to Jordan, "Something is wrong with me!" I simply shouldn't have been feeling this way.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, this was when Jordan decided to snap me back into the race the only way he knew how--by dropping the hammer. Our next mile split--albeit downhill--was close to 5:40, and somehow I managed to hang on. In the subsequent minutes my energy level and morale ebbed and flowed--if nothing else, I'd finally banished all thoughts of dropping out--and despite there being no women anywhere near me in either direction I began to feel a resurgence of my competitive juices. With a few miles to go, I had visions of really picking up the pace and finally settling into the groove I'd been struggling to find the entire time. This adorable notion came to a screeching (or, more realistically, shuffling) halt right at the 12-mile marker, when I came face to face with a long, gradual, unrelenting uphill for almost the entire final mile. These are the times when I'm glad I don't personally wear a Garmin, because I'm embarrassed to see what that split must've been. Kudos to the full marathoners who finish in the same fashion, because it was soul-crushing enough at the end of the half. I haven't been this relieved or disappointed in myself when crossing a finish line in quite some time, equal parts thrilled to be done and perplexed by why my best effort today was so, well, underwhelming. I've got a long, long way to go before I'm ready to race 26.2; that much is clear.

But who has time to pout when there's so much action going on? I spent the next few hours enjoying the refreshments in the elite tent and waiting for my marathoning friends to finish. Local standout Erica Jesseman crushed her personal best and the NEF record with a blistering 2:38:13, followed closely by Hilary just a few seconds off her Boston PR in 2:39:40. My newest training buddy Sarah Bard destroyed her previous best by a whopping two-and-a-half minutes to finish third overall in 2:43:16, just a quarter of a minute shy of the 2016 Olympic Trials standard. On a faster course I have no doubt she'll hit it, and I'm already sending her some not-so-subliminal messages about joining me at CIM in December. It was also cool to see Karhu devotee Alicia Eno, whom I met the previous day, break the 3:20 mark in her 88th lifetime marathon. I'll be happy to finish my fourth later this year!

Stef, me and Sarah in the elite tent post-race. Why does the one of us who just ran a full marathon look the freshest?!

Speaking of finishing, for the rest of the day my final placing seemed to be a little bit up in the air. The "unofficial" race day results (which were, incidentally, emailed out to each participant in what seemed like a relatively definitive fashion) listed me as fourth (and still do, for some reason), yet I was almost positive there were four women who'd crossed the line in front of me. Did one person somehow drop out without me realizing? Was she disqualified? Registered for the wrong race? Or were the race day results simply incorrect? I wasn't invested in the outcome for reasons of personal pride or satisfaction, but simply because there would be a somewhat significant difference in prize money if I were to be ultimately listed as fourth instead of fifth. After a few emails back and forth with the timing company, it was confirmed the following day that I had indeed finished fifth as I'd originally thought. I guess these winnings will only buy me one Anthropologie dress instead of two!

In all seriousness, I had an amazing experience at the race this weekend and I'm incredibly grateful to the Hartford Marathon Foundation and the New England's Finest program for supporting local and regional elite/sub-elite athletes. This is truer than ever now, on the heels of several large organizations (cough Competitor Group cough) cutting funding and support for runners like us. Thank you, Hartford, for realizing that it matters, and that we matter. For as long as you plan to continue the NEF program, I hope to participate!

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Wicked Half-Marathon Race Recap

3 mile w/u
Target: win some $$, run a comfortably hard effort
Actual: 1:20:18; first place female; $300
Results
1 mile c/d
Total: 17 miles

Last year I ran the Wicked Half and used it as an opportunity to snag some cash and get in a good marathon training effort close to home. This year I was hoping for more of the same, and I invited my new long run buddy (and fledgling blogger!) Sarah to come up and join me. A 7am start meant she was in my parking lot before sunrise so we could get in a nice lengthy warm-up. As we toed the line and scanned the crowd, it looked like we might have a pretty clear go of it. I saw a few girls who looked fit but none I recognized from last year or from other local races, which seemed to be a good sign for our cause.

From the gun we started a touch fast, as most are wont to do regardless of the race setting, but I think Sarah and I both were surprised to quickly discover that we weren't alone. In addition to a handful of nearby guys, another woman fell into step with us quite easily. A few minutes later she asked us if we were using the race as a workout, then added, "I'm just going to hang on as long as I can." I was happy to have the company, and equally happy that her statement implied she wouldn't pose too much of a challenge.

I couldn't have been more wrong. As the miles clicked by, not only was she "hanging on"; she was pushing the pace! Approaching the toughest, hilliest section of the course we were hovering around 6-flat, at which point Sarah had wisely backed off. I'd previously hoped the ~3-mile loop around the Marblehead Neck would serve as an opportunity to relax and back off the pace, but instead I found myself scrambling to stay relaxed and cover her alarmingly quick tempo. This is not what I envisioned, I found myself thinking, and for not the last time. My spirits plummeted further when we came off the Neck causeway headed back toward Salem and I turned to see that Sarah was right on our heels. I was happy to learn she was having a good day and not at all disappointed that she had caught us; but it's hard not to be discouraged when it becomes abundantly clear that are were two competitors who feel considerably better than you!

The lowest moment, if one were to really pinpoint it, came just before the 10-mile marker. We were coasting down a long hill and girding our proverbial loins for a long uphill grind to follow. Speaking of, ah, nether regions, mine had recently been thrown into a bit of a tumult. (Side note: I really need to figure this out. I don't know if the problem is getting worse as of late or just happening at increasingly inopportune times. Either way, not ideal.) At the same time, Sarah whooshed by us on the downhill with nary a backward glance. A few steps later I was making a mad dash into a wooded area on the side of the road to take care of some pressing business.

When I emerged shortly thereafter and rejoined the race course, I could see Sarah and the "other girl who is currently crushing me" (whose name we would later learn was Nicole) rapidly distancing themselves up the hill by Salem State. Sarah's strong move had already opened up a bit of a gap, and she was already nearly 100 meters ahead of me. I'm not proud of this, but my first thought was simply: Give up. Write this one off. Jog the two miles back home and call it a day. Fortunately the second--and ultimately louder--voice in my head clearly stated: TIME TO HAUL ASS.

The ensuing three miles were not remotely comfortable (and for good reason; my calculations indicate that at low 5:50-pace they were the fastest of the morning). To the casual observer, they were probably quite ugly. By the time I made it halfway up the hill I was heaving like a chain-smoker and struggling to turn over my fatigued legs. I passed Nicole a few minutes later, but Sarah was still well in front and holding strong. It wasn't until just before the 12-mile marker when it looked like I might actually have a chance to catch her--although even when I did, I was sure she would kick it into another gear and summarily drop me. I wouldn't have been able to muster a response. Somehow I managed to hold this tenuous lead all the way through the finish, with Sarah close behind and Nicole notching a huge PR shortly after her. Sarah had executed her workout plan perfectly and Nicole had definitely proven she's in shape for her upcoming NYC debut. I'll admit this was much harder than I planned to run today, but in hindsight I'm thankful and appreciative that the three of us were there to push each other and improve the quality of the workout. And hey, Sarah and I got to pose with a giant check! If there's more excitement to be had before noon on a Saturday I've yet to discover it. 

  

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Where I've Been and Where I'm Going, v2.0

This time last year--almost one year to the date, in fact--I wrote a blog post titled "Where I've Been and Where I'm Going." In it, I detailed a lackluster spring, a nagging injury and an abysmal showing at the US Half-Marathon Championships in Duluth (sound familiar?!), but--and here's where I finally get to the good part--it also served as a preview of sorts for what was to become a simple, beautiful, uncomplicated, flawless summer of training. Though I didn't know it at the time, the following Monday I would embark on a virtually uninterrupted streak of 14+ 100-mile weeks, culminating with a two-minute PR at Philly Marathon in November. 

I was standing on the precipice, full of some paradoxical mixture of uncertainty and resolve, determined not to look back at the failures behind me but, rather, to the scarily intangible potential ahead. I was prepared to put my full energy into the pursuit of an uncertain outcome, trusting that the only possible direction to go was forward, and with abandon.

Flash forward to a year later, to now. This spring has been an unequivocal bust, comprising one great race and a handful of objectively underwhelming ones. My trip to Italy was amazing, but instead of returning fit and healthy and poised to execute a quality segment of training in preparation for this year's Half Champs, I limped my way through a few miserable, discouraging months. My work travel, often a hurdle that proves challenging when I'm in the thick of a training cycle, this time served as a blessing in disguise. In the past 28 days, I've visited--and by that I mean conducted legitimate business or spent significant time in, not just passed through the airport of--Chicago, Madison, Edmonton, Calgary, Denver, Minneapolis, Duluth, San Luis Obispo and Huntington Beach. There were plenty of days when I couldn't have run even if I'd wanted to--and with a throbbing shin and a woeful lack of fitness, I wasn't exactly dying to hit the pavement. I still went to Duluth, the travel locked in and the girls' weekend planned long ago, and I don't regret it for a second even though it meant dropping out of my second consecutive national championship race. Unlike last year, I didn't leave feeling as though I wasn't good enough to compete among those women. Instead, I felt a renewed sense of determination to replicate last summer's archetypical training and translate it into another successful fall marathon, to prove myself yet again, even if I'm the only one taking notice.  

hold your own/know your name/and go your own way

So, here I am once more, on the precipice. I'm far from fit, but finally healthy. My sole goal for the remainder of 2013 is to come away with the "A" standard for the 2016 Olympic Marathon Trials, which is 2:37:00. Even if this doesn't happen right away, I'll still have two years to chase it, but that's not my desire. With each marathon I've run, I've cut large chunks of time off the previous one, and I have to trust that the same kind of training will produce commensurate results this time around. As I said after Philly, and mean even more today: I've done the work before, and I'll do it again, and everything from here on out is a step toward the marathon trials of 2016. 

Oh, and if nothing else, I totally hung out in the hot tub with Meb.

This happened.

Reunited with Laurie, Sarah and Caitlin at the US Half Champs

One year later and I'm still getting tipsy on a stationary train in Duluth. Good times.

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Chia Laguna Half-Marathon Race Recap

w/u #1: 10 mins. easy
w/u #2: 15 mins. easy + strides
Target: 21.097k @1:20:xx; top three finish
Actual: 1:21:02, third place female
Results/article
Total: 16-16.5 miles

“That’s the hardest race I’ve ever run of any distance,” said American Meagan Nedlo who finished third in the women’s race in 1:21:02 after walking four times.

Yup. This quote, taken from the article linked above, pretty much sums up my experience at the Chia Laguna Half-Marathon. Intellectually, I knew the race would be difficult. I'd ridden a course tour and spoken with quite a few people who warned me of the challenge ahead. But I would be lying if I didn't admit that a small, stubborn part of me thought: "I'll show them." That 'merican bravado went out the window (or, more accurately, was blown forcefully into the ocean) before the 5k mark. In fact, I remember thinking around 8k that my legs felt more trashed than they'd ever felt at the 8k point of any other race--including an 8k. I honestly questioned my ability to even make it to 10k. Suffice it to say my first international race finish was in jeopardy well before the halfway point.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Race morning, despite not having to toe the starting line (which was located approximately 400 meters from my bed) until 9:30am ("So early!" bemoaned Marcello and the other Italians), I forced myself to put both feet on the floor by 7:00. Thus far, I'd struggled to align my internal clock with the forced time change, so today I wanted to make sure my body was fully awake and ready to go. Within five minutes I was out the door for an easy shakeout jog, solely intended to crack the cobwebs. Already I could tell the conditions were what I'd expected: windy, relatively cool and quite humid. And did I mention windy? After the jog I went to breakfast to grab some water and then headed back to my room just before 8:00. In the courtyard I bumped into Wilson, the Ugandan elite runner. Our exchange went something like this:

Wilson: "Excuse me, do you know what time the race starts?"
Me: "9:30." Then, jokingly, "So you can probably go back to sleep."
Wilson, with no irony: "Actually, yes." 

View from my morning shakeout.

The flags are flying at the finish line! Hoping to find a big, burly Italian man to block the wind for me.

Upon returning to my room I took a hot shower--again, not my standard race morning protocol, but I knew I needed to force my muscles into pliancy--and then busied myself with my normal preparations. Before long it was time to make my way to the starting line on the main road in front of the resort. I was pleasantly surprised to spot Tyler, who had been battling a fever and confined to his bed for the past few days. Originally slated to race the half, I figured he'd either scratch or opt for the 10k. Instead he said he was game to run with me for as long as he could and offered to block the wind on some of the hairiest sections. It was a suggestion I gladly accepted.

Start of the race. Photo credit: Giancarlo Colombo, Chia Laguna Half-Marathon

9:30 came and went, to no surprise. I've come to learn that "Italian time" runs on its own matrix. Then, finally, with a flurry of announcements (of which I understood not a word) and the playing of their national anthem, we were off! For the first, mostly flat kilometer, with the wind at our backs and the sun tucked firmly behind a screen of clouds, I felt okay. Tyler matched me stride for stride, but I could tell his breathing was labored. Having barely eaten (or, for that matter, moved) in the past 36 hours, his body was clearly struggling to understand what the hell was going on. By 3k, I could feel him gradually slipping off the pace. Fortunately, however, I'd picked up a new companion, Deborah Toniolo. I'd met Deborah and her husband, fellow half-marathoner Giovanni Ruggiero, earlier in the week and had actually sat next to them at dinner the night before. Giovanni is a former sub-2:10 marathoner and Deborah posted a 2:28 in 2006. Since then, life intervened, and they'd arrived at Chia Laguna with a baby in tow. As Deborah's first race back, she would just be running the 10k. I knew she would likely pull away as her finish line neared, but I vowed to stay in contact for as long as possible. For the next few kilometers we traded positions, as I powered ahead up the hills and then she charged back into contention on the corresponding downhills. At 5k there was a hairpin turn as the route reversed course, and immediately we were smacked in the face with gale force winds. The next 5k would be some of the most challenging running of my entire life, as I struggled to comprehend the fact that I hadn't yet completed even 1/4 of the race distance. By 8k Deborah pulled away decisively, and I found myself completely alone and being buffeted around like a dollar store kite.

Cast of characters, the invited runners at yesterday's press conference: Deborah (#9), Giovanni (#4), Silvia (#14), Wilson (#7), Valeria (#8),  Daniele (#1). Not sure who let #12 in.

"I'm going to run 1:25," I remember thinking incredulously to myself. "No, 1:30."

And then, it happened. Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot tell a lie: I walked. In the spirit of full disclosure, I walked twice during this uphill stretch. Okay, three times. I am not proud of it, but I feel like I need to put it out there just in case any incriminating photos surface. There were several sections where the grade was so steep, the wind so strong, that I found myself struggling not to hyperventilate. I needed a few seconds to stop, catch my breath, regain my composure and redouble my resolve. I knew if I could just reach the 10k mark at the resort (which was agonizingly close to my own room), everything would be okay. In hindsight, my reasoning process was actually quite humorous. I never once considered dropping out, which is my usual MO when things are going this horribly wrong, but at the same time I didn't feel particularly guilty about walking, which is a course of action that has never before crossed my mind in the early stages of a race.

Regardless, I pressed on. Passing 10k gave me a much-needed boost, as the crowds were thick and raucous and I heard the announcer saying my name. Also, somehow, improbably, I split roughly 38:10 at the 10k mark. This was the first time I'd looked at my watch since the race started, and I was fearing the worst. Given the fact that I was practically walking (and in several instances, literally walking) up the steepest, windiest sections, I was sure my 10k split would be well over 40 minutes. I had resigned myself to that reality. And yet, somehow, things weren't quite as horrific as I'd expected. I also spotted Jane Monti near 11k just as I was about to ascend the last brutal hill, who cheered me on and snapped a photo that I will likely burn if I ever see it. Mentally and aerobically I felt better at this point (possibly because I stopped and walked yet again, this time through a water stop), but my legs were trashed, my quads literally quivering as I pounded down the hill just past 11k. Nonetheless, I allowed myself to tentatively consider the possibility of negative splitting the race and finishing under my goal of 1:20. Given that mere minutes earlier I was hoping to simply just finish, this was a marked improvement in the state of affairs.

Okay, I didn't burn the photo. It's actually not that bad. Credit: Jane Monti

That being said, I wish I could share some inspiring account of the second half of the race, how I turned on my Maserati turbo engines and rallied to a triumphant finish, but you've already seen the result and should know better. To this point I haven't mentioned the other female half-marathon competitors because, quite simply, we were never in the same race. Valeria, the 2:23 marathoner and Italian national record holder, was clipping along at a pace that put most of the men to shame. Silvia, the Kenyan, was almost five minutes behind her but still several in front of me. And despite my Gallowalking tendencies I didn't seem to be in danger of being overtaken by whomever was in fourth place. Instead, I fought to maintain contact with the men in my vicinity, particularly from 13k-17k as we ran (yet again) into the wind and (yet again) uphill. We were rewarded with a gradually downhill, wind-aided final 4k, but by that point I simply wasn't able to capitalize on it. The only thing bolstering my spirits and helping me maintain some semblance of positivity was the support from the other participants. With the course turning back on itself around 16k, this meant that I was passing against a stream of runners coming from the opposite direction. Cheers of "Allez! Allez!" and "Bella!" and "Americana!" and even, from my new buddy Maurizio, "Goooooo, Meagan!" with a vigorous high-five. For a race where I knew virtually no one and didn't speak a lick of the native language, the support and encouragement I felt was overwhelming. With 2k to go, then 1k, I was practically giddy at the prospect of being done. As I rounded the final bend into the resort and to the slight uphill finish (come on, seriously?) I tried to straighten up and muster a smile as the announcer shouted my name and the crowd cheered. I really didn't want all the spectators to go home and say, "Boy, did you see that pitiful American girl stumbling toward the finish? She was really dragging ass, huh?"

"Sweet lord, where is the finish line?!" Photo credit: Giancarlo Colombo, Chia Laguna Half-Marathon

I crossed the finish line just as the clock ticked past 1:21, missing my goal time (due in no small part to my ubiquitous walk breaks) but exceedingly, unironically proud of my finish. In fact, though I haven't raced a half-marathon this slowly in years, I'm actually more pleased with this result than with most of the races I've done all spring. Going into the race, everyone warned me that I should expect to add five minutes to whatever I thought my current fitness level to be. Based on the other competitors' results, I'd say this assessment is pretty accurate. And if that's the case, then I'm actually in decent shape! Regardless, I'm incredibly grateful for the opportunity to compete today, and of ultimately not embarrassing my country with a 1:30 finish time. Despite its difficulty, the Chia Laguna Half-Marathon is one of the most beautiful races I've ever run and is an experience I'm incredibly fortunate to have been part of. I'm already planning to come back and run--no walking!--again next year, ideally with a marginally better grasp of the Italian language. This trip has truly been a once in a lifetime experience, but I wouldn't mind turning it into a tradition! 

Top 10 women at the awards ceremony. Photo credit: Marco Pilia

Fortunately I remembered to pack the most important post-race recovery items not easily found in Italy: Nuun, peanut butter and Bonk Breaker! Cappuccino optional.

Celebrating at dinner with my new friend and biggest Italian fan,  Maurizio!

My post-race treat: a yummy dessert (note the white chocolate spoon) and a glass of wine or six

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Ciao!

Last Tuesday night, I received a somewhat cryptic Facebook message from David Monti asking me to send him an email so he could share an "unusual race opportunity" with me. I met David, who among other specialties is the elite athlete director for NYC Marathon, at Kim Smith and Pat Tarpy's wedding this past Labor Day, but beyond that and a perfunctory Facebook friendship we've never really had much interaction. So, needless to say, I was more than a little intrigued. I sent him a quick note, and within minutes received one of the most amazing emails of my entire life.

My mom often jokes that things always just seem to work out for me, and that I'm often presented with amazing opportunities seemingly out of left field. Of course, we both know that these "lucky" circumstances are usually the result of a good deal of hard work on my part preceding them--but even at that, every once in a while situations like this one completely surprise me.

"Hi Meagan," the email began, "My friend Marcello is an agent and also owns an event management company in Italy." Ummm, go on. "He has a client who is staging a half-marathon at a spectacular resort in Chia on the island of Sardinia on April 28th. He is looking for a US woman..." Aaaaand basically the rest is a blur. A warm, sunny, sand-streaked blur. Keep in mind, by the way, that I'm literally reading this while watching yet another onslaught of snowflakes swirling outside my bedroom window. I would've probably accepted a one-way ticket to the Sahara at this point.

But, instead, improbably, David was offering me a weeklong, all expenses paid, beautiful beach resort vacation--and all I have to do is race a hilly half-marathon at the end. It's such an incredible, incomprehensible offer, and one for which I am completely indebted to David and Marcello. There are still some details and logistics to be worked out, but it's official: I'm going to Italy next month! I'm joining David, his wife Jane, and another American athlete named Tyler McCandless for a full week of run and fun. I'll be lounging on the beach at this resort and clicking off some miles during this half-marathon, and no doubt loving every minute of it. I couldn't be more grateful and excited for this opportunity, or more in need of a base tan to prevent my entire body from burning within the first 45 minutes. 

There's plenty to do between now and then, but come April 23rd: Ciao!

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Mercedes Half-Marathon Results

2.5 mile w/u
Target: win; run faster than last year (1:17:54)
Actual: 2nd place, $750, 1:19:28
Results
2.5 mile c/d
Total: ~18 miles

I should give this race a proper recap, but I'm not going to. I'm too far behind on my blog and, to be honest, I'm too embarrassed to dignify a slower-than-marathon-pace race with a serious play-by-play. All you need to know is my legs felt heavy and tired, my stomach was not cooperating (had to detour to a port-o around mile 9) and I was never even remotely in contention for the win. At least I had a fun slumber party with Meggan Franks! At any rate, I hope I can consider the rust sufficiently busted for the next time around.
 

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