Heartbreak Hill Half Recap: Three Races, Two Days, Six Lessons

Trying new things keeps life exciting. Running is no exception. I've been running close to two decades, but I'd never raced more than once in one weekend. So when Runner's World announced the Heartbreak Hill Half, offering the chance to do a 5K and 10K one day, and a half the next -- and to meet the magazine's staff -- I decided to give it a shot. (The 20-minute drive and the familiar course didn't hurt, either.)

To cut to the chase, I ran pretty well, with the exception of the last three miles of the half (not unexpectedly), and I enjoyed the experience, which was as much a festival as a series of races. I also learned a few things about racing more than once in a weekend.

Take it easy. The 5K came first, as it often does on a race festival weekend. I usually throw caution to the wind in a 5K -- at this point in my life, it's essentially a sprint for me -- but about a mile into this one, I knew I needed to hold back a bit if I wanted to make it to Sunday. I ran 20:06, which is quick for me without pushing it. (I ran my 5K PR when I was 17 and have accepted that I will never come close again.)

Study the course. Thanks to a friend, I knew the second half of the out-and-back 10K course had more hills. That, combined with the need to conserve energy, led me to take the first half of this race easy and push it a bit in the second half. It worked: Despite the hills, I ran negative splits. My 43:15 left me about 90 seconds short of a PR -- I ran my PR in an April race on a course that doesn't include Heartbreak Hill -- but this was still my best race of the weekend.

When in doubt, skip the fuel. I ate a granola bar about an hour or so before the 5K, which started 75 minutes before the 10K. Between races I ate nothing and drank a bottle of water. I saw folks who were running both races eating a bagel in between. My educated guess: They regretted it. Yes, 9.3 miles is a lot, but you shouldn't need to refuel if you run that distance -- and if you do, it shouldn't be a giant lump of carbohydrates, even if it's free. If you do need fuel, opt for a sports drink, gel or banana -- provided you’ve used that type of fuel before and know it doesn’t do funky things to your gastrointestinal system.

Look for shade. It was a good 10 degrees warmer on Sunday, and with more sun, than Saturday. Not a day for PRs. (Unless you're my aforementioned friend, who did it in the half AND the 10K -- and on the opening weekend of a community theater production of Hamlet. Clearly I'm an underachiever.) It was a day, though, to find the shade wherever I could out on the course and drink plenty of water (not to mention dump some on my head). My 1:33:12 half was several minutes off a PR, but, in a race that felt like a war of attrition, I was far from the only one to miss his or her best time.

Take it in stride. An event such as the Heartbreak Hill Half is less about racing and more about running -- pounding the pavement, meeting fellow runners and celebrating the sport we all know and love. You can't expect to excel at all the races of a festival weekend. Focus on one -- you can decide which one at the last minute, or even after you’ve started, as I did -- and use the others as faster-than-usual training runs with water stops and cheering crowds and tables of free food and drink at the end.

Pack extra clothes. You may not necessarily need to change after your first race of the day, but you most certainly will after the second. (I’m not sure, but I believe protocol allows you to wear the race shirt once you’ve collected your medal.) If you think you might change shirts, consider pinning your bib to your shorts (which you’re less likely to change, I imagine) so officials, volunteers and the like can verify that you did, in fact, run.

Complete more than one race in a weekend, and most of your friends and family will (continue to) think you are a little nuts. In the grand scheme of things, though, it’s not that difficult or painful -- certainly not in comparison to a marathon -- and the swag, the compliments and the sense of accomplishment make it all worth the effort. If you’re up for the challenge, you’re healthy and you’re willing, I say you give it a shot.

What I Learned From the Maine Coast Marathon

I signed up for the Maine Coast Marathon several months ago, knowing full well the race would be sandwiched between two weddings on opposite coasts. I figured I could pull it off pretty easily -- the trip to San Francisco was one week before the race, amid my taper, and the trip to Disney World three days after the race would offer a nice recovery opportunity. (For the uninitiated, a typical day at Disney requires several miles of walking.) 

For the most part, I did pull it off. I fell short of my lofty goal (a BQ of 3:05) and my more realistic goal (a PR under 3:13), but I ran the race I wanted, for the most part. I'd planned to run negative splits, starting with 7:20s and finishing with sub-6:50s en route to that BQ. This worked well -- that is, up until Mile 19 or so, when the sun, the heat and the pace starting to take their toll. (Any other year, 70-degree temperatures might have been bearable, but after training through the Polar Vortex, not so much.) 

My finishing time, 3:16:15, ranks as my third or fourth best. (I can't remember, really.) I'm still several minutes faster than I was at 21, which is great, and more than half an hour faster than my worst marathon, so I really can't complain. 

Of course, there's a lesson here. I concocted my negative split plan a whopping two weeks before race day. (Great idea, Beastwood.) This means I did none of my long runs as progression runs, which means I wasn't physically prepared to run faster deeper into the race. I thought I was, of course, having made easy work of my tempo runs, often exceeding my target paces by 15 seconds per mile. It takes more than two weeks -- and two weeks of taper at that -- to prepare yourself for a race strategy that you've never employed.

That said, I got the hard part of the marathon right: I started slowly, stayed that way and kept to my target paces for three-quarters of the race. Next time, I'll set less ambitious splits -- and, more importantly, I'll train for those negative splits from the beginning. Setting goals is important, after all, and now I have two clear-cut ones for training for marathon #11. Now, about that sunshine...

It's Not Where You Start, It's Where You Finish

Near the beginning of the Super Sunday 5, during the period when everyone is either heading to the start line or waiting for a vacant bathroom, the race announcer said something over the loudspeaker that, in my years of racing, I’ve never heard before. 

As everyone staked a claim to a small patch of asphalt that, for the next few minutes, would belong to nobody else, the announcer made the usual remark that slower runners should move farther back. Then, to assuage everyone’s fears, he added, “The race isn’t won in the first 100 meters.” 

For someone with a nasty habit of starting races like a bat out of hell, this stuck with me -- especially since, as the crowd gathered, the blue-and-orange START banner seemed to get farther and farther away. 

I lamented about getting boxed in at the start several months ago, in my James Joyce Ramble recap. Back then, I chalked it up to a lack of confidence; I’d bonked badly in a marathon a few months before and remained on the proverbial comeback trail. 

This weekend, though, I directed my ire toward the runners gathering around me. Perhaps I was jealous that they’d located their friends and exchanged pleasantries while I stared ahead in solitude. Perhaps I was a bit chilly. Perhaps their perfectly matching outfits turned me off. Whatever it was, I wanted them gone -- even though, like me, they’d paid to run a race with the express mission of raising money to kick cancer’s ass. 

My ire continued after the gun, when the murderous, thieving horde of peasants refused to part like the Red Sea so I could get to the front of the pack. And it continued when I passed the 1-mile mark about 20 seconds slower than my goal pace, even after adjusting for the gun vs. chip time split. (I also left my watch at home. That may have contributed to my mood.) 

Then a funny thing happened: I got stronger. I wasn’t gassed from an unnecessarily fast start. The gradual hills that lead into Harvard Square didn’t bother me. I didn’t start losing ground to folks who had started even farther back. I actually maintained a constant pace for the duration of the race and finished with the same 5-mile time I ran back in April on a flatter course. 

Sure, I didn’t PR, but I’ve accepted that I can’t PR all the time. (I ran a sub-30 minute 5-miler back in college. That’s never happening again.) I also learned that, sure enough, you don’t win a 5-mile race in the first 100 meters. Finally, I was reminded that it really doesn’t matter where you start but, rather, where you finish.

What to Do When You Don't PR in Every Race Any More

Everyone registers for road races for different reasons. Some aim for a PR. Others want to take in the sights and sounds of a unique course. Some run in memory of a loved one. Some live for the challenge of big hills or extreme temperatures. Others still just run for the hell of it.

This weekend’s Ashland Half & 5K fell into the “just for the hell of it” category. I’d run the Smuttynose Rockfest Marathon three weeks before, and “trained” all of three times since that race -- if you count a jog around the neighborhood, a 7.5-mile “long run” and a fartlek half marathon training. I knew this would be the case when I registered, mind you. I ran because a) the starting line is at the official, before-a-marathon-was-26.2-miles starting line for the Boston Marathon and b) it’s a small local race, and I like to support small local races.

My goal for this race was little more than maintaining a steady pace. I had no intention of running a half marathon PR -- the course was hilly (at least for eastern Massachusetts) and, well, I was still three weeks removed from a marathon. (I’m not badass enough to truly race like that. Yet.) But keeping a pace, I thought, I could handle. It would do me good, too, since I tend to hit the wall in long races.

For the most part, I did in fact maintain a 7-minute pace. There were a couple fast ones in there, yes, and a couple slow ones, but I was right around 70 minutes when I crossed the 10-mile mark.

Then I turned up Green Street. I’d examined the elevation map for the race, and I knew there was a notable hill in the second half of the race, but I didn’t remember where, exactly, or how steep. (OK, maybe I hadn’t “examined” so much as “casually glanced at in the car.”) That hill hurt. I slowed to a virtual crawl and gave up all hope of catching the guy in front of me. (I may have been running just for the hell of it, but that doesn’t mean my competitive streak took the day off.)

During miles 11 and 12, my pace dropped to 7:30 per mile. Admittedly, I was frustrated. Then again, I hadn’t seen such hills in several weeks (the Smuttynose course is remarkably flat). So I adjusted my goal; mile 13 needed to come in at 7 minutes, I declared.

I did. The last 1.1 miles came in under 8 minutes. I crossed the line a few seconds shy of 1:33. That’s several minutes off my half marathon PR, so I’m not exactly beaming with pride, but I am pleased with my ability to maintain a consistent pace for 10 miles and then pick it up after a couple tough miles.

Not every race you run needs to end in a PR. Your first race will be a PR, of course, as will the ones that follow; you’re just starting out, after all, and you’re getting acclimated to this whole running thing.

Soon, though, you won’t beat your best time. It usually means one of two things: You’ve had an off day (whether it’s due to adverse conditions, inadequate training, sudden injuries or overactive bowels) or you’ve hit a peak.

Either scenario is easy to overcome. If you had a bad day, examine what exactly went wrong and take a few lessons away. I did it with my worst marathon and, less than a year later, nearly ran my best marathon and beat the time I ran when I was 21. (If you can’t pinpoint a particular problem, talk to a friend.) If you’ve peaked -- if your times at the same distance are consistently within a minute or so -- then it’s time to take your training to the next level with speed work, cross training and a heightened sense of dedication.

In my case, the Ashland Half was an intentional off day. I didn’t train enough, especially since the course had more hills than I bargained for. No big deal. I know what to do next time. More importantly, I know my tired legs can handle 7-minute pace -- my goal for my next marathon -- for at least 10 miles and can get back to it even if the going gets a little tough. That lesson, frankly, is better than a PR to me.

What the Smuttynose Rockfest Marathon Taught Me

On Sunday I crossed the line at the Smuttynose Rockfest Marathon in 3:13:21. This was good enough for 41st place, out of a field of about 940, and only 19 seconds off my marathon PR. Overall I am pretty darn pleased. Even with a good race, though, there are lessons to be learned.

As usual, I went out too fast. I passed the first mile in roughly 6:55 and the second in roughly 13:55. “(Expletive),” I said both times. (The start was so quick in part because Smuttynose Rockfest, taking advantage of the fact that it’s 2013 and all races are timed electronically, started the race in waves of waves. Folks were first grouped by pace and then send off in smaller waves every minute or so. By the time I reached the mat at the official start, I was already jogging, the group around me was small, and no one was in the way. As far as race starts go, this was one of the most efficient and sensible that I’ve ever seen.)

Then I looked around. It was a cool, cloudy and dreary day, the kind of day only a runner could love. The course was flat. My training hadn’t been perfect, but I’d done three 20 milers, all of them slogs on hot, humid August and September Sundays in New England, and I’d hit my targets in just about all of my speed workouts and tempo runs. “If not now,” I thought, looking back at my watch, “When?”

I maintained that unnecessarily fast 7-minute pace for 12 more miles. I briefly entertained thoughts of breaking 3:05 and qualifying for Boston. By the 15-mile mark, though, I’d regressed to 7:15 pace, and before long it was 7:30 and then 7:45. My last few miles exceeded 8 minutes, in large part due to an uncooperative left quad.

Overall, I ran a 7:22 pace. For months, I’d trained with the intention of running at a 7:15 pace, only to decide less than 14 minutes into my marathon to throw caution (and logic) to the wind and go faster. I didn’t necessarily hit a wall -- I never needed to walk, and even in my last two miles I was moving at a decent clip -- but I still slowed down.

Theoretically, if I’d stuck to the plan, and run 7:15 pace, I’d have finished around the 3:10 mark and PR’d by about three minutes. But I don’t regret starting too fast. Not at all.

Why? I went through the half around 1:32 -- still on pace for an admittedly unrealistic but not impossible BQ. That boosted my confidence. After an occasionally sporadic few months of training, flying through the first 13.1 miles like I did, and feeling good to boot, encouraged me to keep pushing. At a 7:15 pace, I’d have hit the half in 1:35 -- still great, still fast, but, in a way, routine.

Put another way, I took a chance. Yes, you could say it didn’t work. Look at the official results. A few folks who finished ahead of me were behind me at the half. They got stronger as I weakened. To use a phrase, I tried to run with the big boys, and I couldn’t.

You know what? That’s OK. My goal going into the Smuttynose Rockfest Marathon was to beat my marathon time from 2001. I beat that time (3:22:45) handily. A PR was a “stretch” goal, something I only anticipated if the conditions were perfect. (They weren’t; it was cool, yes, but it was also windy and rainy, especially when we ran by the beach.)

Crucially, the experience taught me a few things.

• I need to pace myself better. I knew this already, sure, but this weekend’s race further emphasized the point.
• I’m stronger than I give myself credit for. Back in 2001 -- my first marathon -- I went through the half around 1:32, too, but I fell apart shortly thereafter. This time, I didn’t fall apart as badly. I credit smart, largely successful training.
• I might need new shoes. My hips have hurt on my previous long runs and started to hurt in the second half of this race. I haven’t worried about it, as the pain’s present only when I’m moving and goes away after a couple days, but after a Twitter conversation Sunday night, I’m thinking it might be time for a gait analysis.
• Last year’s bonk, the worst race of my life, is behind me.
• Most of all, I know I can do better. If I maintained 7-minute miles for more than half of a marathon and didn’t collapse in a heap along the course somewhere, surely I can push myself further. If I strengthen my hips, or get shoes that correct my pronation, or both, surely I can push myself further.

Could I have run better? Yes. Could I have run worse? Yes -- much worse. Right now, I’m celebrating the fact that I just ran the second-fastest marathon of my life, but I’m also using the experience to find a way to make my 10th marathon the fastest one yet.

The best thing about running, after all, is that there's always another challenge to face, another goal to set and another race to run.

It's Not the End of the World As We Know It

Four miles into the Amica Iron Horse Half Marathon, I knew a PR was out of the question. My pace was only off by a few seconds -- I hit the four-mile mark in 26:12, compared to a goal of 26:00 -- but I knew it wasn't going to happen. 

And that's perfectly fine. 

Many of us set race goals with pure intentions but unrealistic expectations. It's not that the goal itself is unrealistic but, rather, that the circumstances necessary to achieve that goal may require proverbial planetary alignment -- zero missed workouts, a cooperative tummy, temperatures in the 60s, a bit of cloud cover, a watch that doesn’t malfunction, a forgiving course and cooperative calves, hamstrings, ankles, quadriceps, knees and hips. 

There's no shame in failing to achieve a goal if you know why you missed the mark. In the case of the Iron Horse Half, the answer's easy: It was hot. Sunday was cooler than the previous three days had been, but it sunny with temperatures in the 70s when the race started and the 80s when I finished. On my way to get post-race refreshments, another runner looked at me and said, "Go get some ice."

Admittedly, part of the reason I’m OK with missing the mark is because of where I finished -- 11th overall and 3rd in my age group with a time of 1:29:40. This was totally unexpected. All the fast people must’ve either stayed home or struggled with the heat even more than I did. (And you all know how much I hate the heat.) This was the swag I brought home:

So, getting back to my point: Missing a goal isn’t that bad, especially if it's an ambitious goal. Mine was. I intended to break a four-year-old PR by more than a minute, which meant maintaining a pace that I hadn’t even achieved during a 10K six weeks ago, and doing so in an unfamiliar race an hour and 45 minutes from home. (OK, maybe "insane" is more appropriate than "ambitious.") 

Goals aren’t for everyone, but I think they play a valuable role in making you a better runner. Goals are admittedly easier to set, and achieve, when you’re just starting out. In your first few events, a goal of "finish the damn race" is perfectly fine -- your have few expectations or preconceived notions about what you’re doing, after all, and unless you’re a prodigy you know better than to plan to come home with a big glass beer stein. 

As you continue to run, though, the race goals you set should become increasingly challenging. Simply finishing should not suffice, even at a new, longer distance. You should be pushing yourself to run strong, faster and better than before. You shouldn’t fear failure, either; all runners experience failure, and the way we respond to it and overcome it is a big part of what separates us from the general non-running population. 

That’s why the goal I set for the Smuttynose Rockfest Marathon will be an ambitious one. I haven't done it yet, and I probably won't announce it when I do, but it will likely be a lofty goal that I'll achieve only if the planets align.

And if I don't do it? I'll learn from my failures, as I have before. I'll stretch, drown my sorrows in a giant coffee, drive home, take a long shower, stretch, nap, stretch, eat everything in sight, hobble around for a couple days and set my sights on my next race. Missing a goal sucks, but it's not the end of the world as you know it.

What I Learned From the James Joyce Ramble

When I started this blog, I said I wasn’t going to post excruciatingly detailed, self-congratulatory recaps of every race I run. I race often, for starters. I also do a lot of small local races, so those of you outside Greater Boston may not care. Finally, I loathe few things more than the “yay, look at me!” tone that so many race recaps take. (If I ever pose for one of those “smiling with my friends as we wear our bibs and get ready for the big race!!!” photos, you have my permission to find me and kick me in the shins.)

That said, the typical introspection that followed every race -- in this case, the most recent James Joyce Ramble -- compelled me to share a couple lessons that are worth (re)learning.

Runner, know thyself. I got boxed in at the start, crossing the mat a good 40 seconds after the gong went off. (Yes, gong. The James Joyce Ramble promotes a mission of peace, so there’s no starter’s gun.) I was stuck for a good half-mile, and it threw me off. I was behind the guy juggling while he ran, for cryin’ out loud.

At first, I was mad at all the people who, in my mind, treated the event as a Sunday morning stroll instead of a serious 10K they intended to PR. It wasn’t until I saw the race results -- I finished 80th out of 1,948 -- that I realized it was my own damn fault. Why the hell did I lollygag in the middle instead of pushing my way to the front where, frankly, I belonged?

Every race needs a plan. Whether you’re running for fun, to represent a charity or to push further than ever before, you need to be prepared. Even if you eat the right breakfast, snag the right parking spot, hit the Porta-Potty at the right time and get in the right mental mindset, it can all fall to hell if you’re standing in the wrong damn spot.

Dress the part. I wore a wicking shirt and shorts. My shirt is from the 2009 Reach the Beach (New Hampshire)  relay, and every time I wear it I encounter at least one person who has done RTB and thought it was awesome. (It was.)

That said, I was hot. I’d checked the temperature the night before but hadn’t heeded the conditions. I knew it’d be warm -- high 60s -- but hadn’t realized it would be so sunny. After about two miles, I envied everyone in a tank top and questioned the sanity of anyone in a long sleeve shirt and/or pants. (At least I remembered sunscreen.)

The general rule of thumb for any run, and especially a race, is to dress as though it’s 15 to 20 degrees warmer than it actually is. I don’t often abide by this rule on winter training runs, because my thermoregulatory system hates me and I get cold almost instantly, but I relearned this weekend that I need to be careful now that spring is here.

Cheer up. My goal was breaking 40 minutes (6:27 pace). I finished in 41:12 (6:38 pace). Even though it was my 10K PR, and even though my body never got accustomed to the heat, and even though I recovered nicely from the slow-ish first mile, I was still disappointed.

Then I saw a friend cross the line right in front of his wife and daughters. I saw the masters’ division runners file into the finish. I saw the juggler finish, form intact. I saw a guy in a pink skirt finish. I saw the iced coffee tent, and the beer tent, and the food tent, and the cloudless sky, and I realized I should stop being a brat. 

Above all, this weekend I discovered that you’re never too old, or too experienced, to learn a thing or two (or three, I suppose) from a road race. I also discovered that race recaps aren’t that invaluable after all. Next time I have lessons that seem worth sharing, I won’t be shy -- even if I will forever be shy in front of the camera, especially while wearing short running shorts.