First marathon

Earlier this year, I sabotaged my first marathon training plan by virtue of being unemployed. In the dead gray of Virginia winter, I sloshed my overslept mind with bright images of a May 26.2 mile trot on the sun-hardened trails of Catalina Island, signing up for the Catalina marathon, and started logging 10 and 12 mile days, far too soon. Now, after months of swimming, elliptical, and other low-impact cardio, I'm trying it again.

First speedwork (July 21)

I wake up and it's pitch dark outside. I don't know why I'm surprised -- I should've known when I set my alarm to 4:45 a.m. I tell myself that daylight's shyness gives me time to linger in the car and catch the last few strains of a Frank Black song while I wait for sunrise, and the thought gets me out of bed. I cruise down I-395 to T.C. Williams high school, park and leave the keys in the ignition for a minute, and then walk out onto the track. It's still dark, but I'm not the first one there. I make out the gray outline of a motivated mom, already circling.

I do a warmup lap, stretch and then hit the green button on my Blackberry stopwatch before jetting off, completely new at this. But the bouncy rubber feels good on my tight quads, and I take a comfortable stride, rounding turns and gazing at clumps of trees and bleachers. and I wake up.

My training regimen today calls for 6 x 800, which is just little half-miles. I start slow, nervous about my first attempt at speedwork. The laps go easily and when I reach the final interval, I pound it out, shaving 10 seconds off the previous interval.

I cool down a lap and then sit out on the track to stretch. I'm sweaty, and pieces of the track are sticking to me. They remind me of pencil erasers, looking like they've been salvaged from empty summer classrooms. I sip water and stretch, drinking in the drawn out morning.

First ice bath (July 26)

A hot, hot Sunday. I was running south along the river, thinking I might find my friends playing softball--I knew they had a game scheduled--but I couldn't even see clearly with the sweat squeezing my eyes shut. Nor did I really want them to see me soaked through in my orange shorts/white tank Creamsicle outfit. I pushed forward, driven on by shards of Kings of Leon, MGMT, Lily Allen, and Frank Black streaming through my headphones.

12 miles later, I lug myself up 11 flights of stairs, let myself into the icy cold apartment, grab my wallet, and turn right around to bike to Harris Teeter, where I buy a 10 lb. bag of ice. I toss it in my purse, edged cubes digging into my side, and get back to my apartment. I run the faucet on cold into the tub and dump in the whole bag. The cubes float like so many icebergs.

I lower myself into the bath, and love it immediately. The rush of cool is invigorating and fresh, like breeze hitting a wet cheek. I end up staying in way longer than I thought I would, like the polar bear challenge has numbed me. I know this whole thing should be torture, but it's total bliss. I'm rocked by images of my cells getting beautifully oxygenated, the low temp constricting the cells, pushing lactic acid out in torrents while baby blue balloons of oxygen take its place. Or something like that. Whatever it is, it feels great. 

First long run I don't want to end (August 16)

It took me awhile to realize my Nike+ wasn't working. It's usually my stand-in running partner, feeding pace and mile info to my earbuds, sometimes ending with Lance's congratulatory, "This is your longest workout yet!" Makes me love corporate sponsorship. But when I heard no celebratory voice clock in my first mile yesterday, I pulled my arm to see the screen; 55 miles, it said, and my heart sank a little. Maybe the heat was slowing me down, I thought. Then awhile later, I yanked my arm around and the display read 1.29, though I knew I'd gone 4 by then. Was my ridiculous sweating screwing it up? It wasn't until I was halfway to Mt. Vernon that I sat down to reset it. Gloriously, it started working. I drank down a Chocolate Outrage (marketed to the masculine set?) GU like pudding, and wove back under the 495 bridge, back towards Alexandria.

Maybe it was the false mileage report from the Nike+, or my totally addictive Michael Jackson playlist, but when my 16 miles were up, I wasn't done! I wanted to keep running, past home and into Washington, sweeping past tourists and monuments. But I forced myself to slow and cool off, taking the steps down Arlington Ridge, happy that I'd finished my longest workout yet, even if Lance wasn't there to tell me.

First foray into foraging (September)

"I'm suddenly eating all nuts and berries," I say to Alyssa. "Good!" she says excitedly - from Colorado with its raw foodists and co-op bins and Lara bars. Camping at Conundrum Hot Springs a few years back, I met a man who had been living at the springs for weeks. He was eating out of a bulk plastic bag fat with a sunflower seed mixture, which he was subsisting on, plus some wine and whatever he could claim from the overpacked.

My switch to a nuts and berries lifestyle was more gradual. I would toss a few walnuts in my oatmeal in the morning, or lather chunky peanut butter on a piece of wheat toast pre-workout. But soon I was buying clear plastic cases of pecans and almonds, or buying Kind bars in the coffee line, with their sticky cranberries and almost-whole almonds. Now I dump the entire contents of a Greek yogurt container into a white bowl and top it with chopped walnuts and dried blueberries for dessert. It turns into a hyped-up Muesli, with rolled oats and brown sugar and a long drizzle of honey. 

And I find myself at Whole Foods on a weeknight, in a new aisle, picking out a sealed standup ziploc of peppered pecans with orange zest. On a random Tuesday, I head to an almost-closing Dean & Deluca in Georgetown after a workout. I grab bags of sugared pecans and Michigan bing cherries off brightly lit racks. When I start considering wasabi peanuts, I know I'm in trouble.

I swear the switch to power-packed foods has fueled me. It feels like a throwback to a hunter/gatherer lifestyle, grazing and eating light so you can take off at any second. A mentality I love.

First victory lap (October 14)

For my speed workout this week, I had to run three 1600s. I set my goal at 7:20, but ended the first mile at 6:53. Happy, I decided to push myself a little harder. I started solid and then gradually built, edging out the turns and coming in at 6:44. Yes. I had tried to play a little reserved for those first two miles so I could really push it for the third. I took a swig of water and returned to the track. It was almost dead, because of the blustery cold and insistent, breezy rain. The JV football team had gone inside and a team of four or five guys was doing drills. I started the last mile, holding close to the track, pounding through 100s. My breathing came in large, even gulps. The last lap, I tried to focus on holding my form and I plunged toward the finish line. I looked at my watch. 6:29. Sweet! I had never gone that fast. I didn't even know how fast that was, but it felt great. I ran a lap to cool down, but I still wanted to run, so I did a victory lap, then I cut to the metal bleachers and graced up and down for fun, my feet making loud bangs. I bent to the ground and did sets of pushups on the concrete sidewalk slabs, letting the cold sharpness dig into my palms. Then I did more stairs, three, then four times. I finally left. I got in my car and saw my windows start steaming up. From my sweat? I decided to blame it on the rain.