A few weeks ago, I apparently ran 104.8 miles in 23 hours and 41 minutes. I say “apparently”, because I still can’t believe I did it. I mean, I know I started running in the dark, ran through the daylight, and then finished in the dark, but something in my brain refuses to accept that I put one foot in front of the other for nearly 24 goddamn hours. If you told me I had could do anything I wanted for 24 hours, as long as I stayed awake, I’d tell you I couldn’t do it. In college and even in the million years I spent in graduate school, I never pulled a true all-nighter – I always had to take a nap. So, just the thought of staying AWAKE, let alone being upright and mobile, for 24 hours is mind boggling.

Anyway, I digress. This race was a redemption of sorts. Last year, I made it 73 miles before calling it quits, my fear of the dark getting the best of me. This year, I knew I couldn’t drop or else I’d look like a fool. Also, I work in an MRI research lab and I really wanted to tell my boss I finished the Tesla Hertz run. So, I came back with a new and improved crew including Sam, experienced 100 miler Chris, and super crewer Surjeet.

Holy crap, am I glad they were there because I needed every bit of help I could get. While my body was mostly cooperating (save for rolling my ankle a few times), my mind was on another planet. I just couldn’t focus. Normally, I can zone out no problem during a long run – I’ll run right past people I know, miss turns, run EXTRA, and not even realize it because I’m spaced out. But not today. A big part of the problem was that I was running mostly solo starting around mile 5. Even though there were a few other races going on throughout the day (100k, 50M, 50k, 10M), the course seemed pretty empty. Nothing but me, the woods, the creepy hunting tent just off the trail, and another 100 frikking miles to go. Mentally, it was brutal. Things got really bad around miles 30-40, and I seriously considered dropping because, WHAT THE HELL, KELLY? What is wrong with you that you think that THIS is a fun way to spend your 3-day weekend?

All I wanted to do was go home and lay on the couch, go to Target, or do whatever it was normal people were doing on a Saturday. But, no. I just HAD to be doing this ridiculous thing, because, why? What kept me going was that I didn’t have a good answer to stop. “I’m just not feeling it” isn’t a good excuse to give up. Also, I knew that Chris and Jeet were in a car on their way from Boston, and I didn’t want them to have to turn around an hour into their trip because, how annoying would that be? So, I kept going. I focused on doing as many miles as possible before it got dark, because, as another runner noted, “this course fucking sucks in the dark.” Excellent. At least I had something to look forward to.

I kept going, and it got dark. FAST. I finished my 6^th loop with my headlamp on, trying to take deep breaths to calm down (see above re: scared of the dark). Chris and Jeet had arrived, and were, like, really cheery (or maybe I was just really grumpy?). Chris was there to do the last 3 loops (~31 miles) with me, which meant I had more one solo loop. Except, it was dark. And I’m afraid of the dark. Thankfully, Chris had all sorts of flashlights and lent me the most powerful flashlight I’d ever seen in my life. As I left the start/finish line, someone yelled, “Woah! I wanna run behind her!” Hmm, maybe I’ll be okay and won’t lose the trail and get eaten by lions and bears?

2016

2018.

The last three loops with Chris went by without incident. Oh, wait. No. I learned some things: running that many miles causes loss of bladder control and running while holding a flashlight gives me serious motion sickness. Also, I’m really fun to be with after running for 20+ hours. I gave Surjeet dagger eyes around mile 85 when she told me I shouldn’t sit down anymore because I wouldn’t want to get up. I almost assassinated Sam when he made a “joke” (note: it’s still not funny). I remember warning Surjeet, “I’m, like, really close to a meltdown”. Like I said, I’m really fun. (Thankfully for everyone, I mostly kept my shit together.) After making sure I had enough liquids and salt and sugar, Sam and Surjeet pushed me out of the last few aid stations. Chris kept me running/power walking, and made sure I met my goal of finishing in under 24 hours.

Umm, guys. We did it. I got my first belt buckle. In a race where 31 people started and only 9 finished, I came in 3^rd overall and was the only female finisher. No poop accidents, no vomiting, no toenails lost, no injuries, no (major) chafing, and only 1 blister. (Full disclosure: the blister was the size of a quarter and it popped sometime after mile 40 making my toe look like a golden raisin.) I couldn’t have done it without words (ok, speeches) of encouragement and sandwiches from Sam, status and sanity checks from Surjeet, and invaluable pacing from Chris. Of course, huge thank yous to Vinny and Nichole and the volunteers for putting on such a beautiful race.

Somewhere around mile 95 I told Chris there was “no fucking way” I was doing this again. He wisely told me to “wait a week”. Spoiler: he was right.

Ghost train, 2019?

“Ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country”

Much like my current relationship with my country (“it’s complicated”), my relationship with the JFK 50 miler was just as muddled. I had targeted this race as a sort of “bucket list” event – a famous 50 miler with a large field and notoriously unpredictable weather, coupled with my first time on the storied Appalachian Trail. Living in NYC, I don’t do much trail running (the Central Park Bridle Path isn’t a trail?) so any mention of a trail being “technical” makes me very nervous. The first 15 miles of the race were on the AT, followed by 26ish on a flat canal path, and then the rest on roads, so I reasoned (rationalized?) that I could handle the canal path and roads, and as for the AT, it was highly trafficked, so how bad could it be? Ha. Note: when a course is described as “treacherous”, there’s probably a reason. I spent the first 3 hours of the race in a single file line 900 runners long, staring at my feet as we hopped and skipped over rocks while we went 1000 feet up… and then 1000 feet down. I was certain I was going to smash my face and lose my teeth. Thankfully, I managed to avoid any falls or dental mishaps (some of my fellow racers weren’t as lucky), and we finally got off the rockiest, most ankle-turning, quad-busting trail I’ve ever raced.

I was so excited to see dirt at the mile 16 aid station that I downed too many cups of soda (my sugary caffeinated ultramarathon drink of choice). The caffeine kicked in and I flew through the next 8 miles, until suddenly, my belly rebelled. The soda’s carbonation/acidity did a number on my mostly empty stomach and voila, I looked like I was 5 months pregnant. I hobbled into the aid station at mile 27, half doubled over (quartered over?), unsure of what to do: my stomach was a disaster and my 3 hour, 15 mile start to the race was seriously messing with my confidence. I hung out (i.e., leaned against a tree) for a little while as Sam and the aid station volunteers desperately tried to get me to eat. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Pretzels? Potatoes? Oranges? NO FOOD PLZ, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WITH CHILD? I considered dropping out, but after, “watering” a tree with partially digested soda, I kept down some chicken broth and yogged to the next aid station.

With my stomach slowly deflating back to its original “Kelly Belly” size, I kept going, holding steady around 9:00-9:30min/mi. The allure of the flat tow path wore off after about 15 miles, but it was hard to get too discouraged because the course was so pretty – we were running along the Potomac with West Virginia just across the river. Added bonus: shot gun blasts from your local Saturday morning hunters that made this Yankee wish I wore orange.

Heading out of the mile 37 aid station, the once temperate and sunny Saturday morning (or was it afternoon? Or was it Sunday? HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN MOVING?) turned dark and windy. We knew it was going to rain, but it wasn’t supposed to start yet. Mother Nature had other plans. I used the impending storm as motivation to keep going – running in the rain is fun and silly for the first 5 minutes and then it gets old REALLY FAST… especially if you’ve already been running for 40 miles. As I left the cushiony tow path for the unforgiving concrete roads, it felt like I was either in the Wizard of Oz or about to experience the apocalypse: wind, rain, hail, old corn stalks taking flight in the fields, barn doors slamming shut, and debris blowing every which way.

Sam and a couple he befriended earlier in the race (because it’s Sam and that’s what he does) surprised me at mile 47 with a much-needed windbreaker. The temp was dropping and I was soaked with sweat and rain, a not-good combination. I spastically put it on and was back on my way. Mile 48 in 8:08, past a group of three men who were none too happy to get beat by a girl (but that’s for another blog post), mile 49 in 8:15, I had to beat those men. More rain. More hail. This thing is almost over. I want ice cream.

I crossed the finish line at mile 50.2 (yes, 50.2), soaked, sore, and utterly spent. While my time certainly wasn’t a PR, I was in 265th place at mile 2.5 and finished 135th overall, 21st female. I felt okay about the race, especially given my technical trail inexperience and nutrition idiocy. I managed to drive us back to our hotel (we won’t talk about my stick shift skills) where I insisted on celebrating at Outback Steakhouse, primarily because it was across the hotel parking lot and it had a Bloomin’ Onion, of which I was going to eat every last fried bit all by myself. Of course I ordered grilled chicken and broccoli, and was subsequently teased by the other 50 milers who were sitting at the bar with us, but whatever. It was MY celebratory meal. And it was delicious. Also, my appetizer was a loaf of bread.

Thanks JFK, you were as challenging and memorable and complicated as advertised.

… go out and watch a marathon.”

Last Sunday, I divided my time between 1st ave and 95th St and 5th ave and 95th street, miles 18 and 23 respectively, of the New York City Marathon. (I also *happened* to end up at a Wafels and Dinges truck, but that’s another story.)

After getting off the subway at 63rd Street, I walked up First Ave and and saw Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center – a place where my brother was treated for cancer, and where I spent 8 years doing breast cancer research. As I walked past their Fred’s Team banners and balloons, the tears started flowing. I passed crowds of people from Germany, the Netherlands, France, and Italy. I watched as little kids cheered on parents. significant others cheered on partners, perfect strangers high-fived anyone who looked like they could use a boost. I watched in awe as Mary Keitany flew past us on her way to victory, then stood speechless as eventual 3rd place  American Olympian Molly Huddle and gold medal triathlete Gwen Jorgensen pushed though the wall. Then the professional men came, and my breath caught in my chest – their grace and power made it look so easy, but if you look close enough, you’ll see the tiniest grimace or errant arm swing, revealing the pain they’re trying so hard to hide. I waited (and cried. Again.) as Sam came up 1st Ave, and then when he met me on 5th Ave. New York was a party, and the positive energy was contagious. I was filled with pride, inspiration, and optimism.

Mary Keitany

Molly Huddle

Gwen Jorgensen

Top 3 men

For me, marathons are a very emotional experience – I cry when I watch them on TV, I cry when I’m on the sidewalk cheering, hell I cry when I’m running the freaking things. The Hartford Marathon was no different. The gun hadn’t gone off yet and already I had teared up three times. The first was when we were walking to the start line in the pre-dawn mist (sniff, it’s a beautiful morning for a race and I’m so happy I just went to the bathroom), again when I saw the Team Hoyt members rolling through the Start Village (sniff, so incredibly inspiring), and a third time when the race announcer reminded us that we did all the hard stuff and today was about having fun (sniff, alright alright alright. I’ve got 26.2 miles of racing ahead of me). The starting gun brought me back to reality. Okay, I guess I’m about to have “fun” for the next 3+ hours….

Okay, that’s better.

Pre-race. I may or may not have just thrown up in my mouth.

My honey stingers. Never race without them!

A few thousand of my fellow runners and I took off into the streets of Hartford. After 1 mile, the speedy half marathoners turned off, giving us full marathoners some peace and quiet so we could lament that fact that we didn’t sign up for the much less agonizing 13.1 mile option (…or maybe that was just me?). After a few miles of fantasizing about my post race meal — including but not limited to: a chocolate milk shake, a donut, sweet potato fries, and pizza — I caught up to the 3:05 pace group. I’ve never run with a pace group before — I run marathons by myself, completely in my own head, oftentimes oblivious to my surroundings. Since these middle miles were on narrow bike paths, I didn’t really have a choice except to run with the group. I spent a few miles getting frustrated with  the giant blob of 20 other runners who were closely following the group leader and his yellow shorts with the red chili peppers. I tried to avoid the group by purposely falling back, only to realize that lagging behind would work to my detriment. Duh. Then, I surged ahead, only to hear the thunderous footsteps of two dozen well-paced runners catch up a mere 1/2 mile later. And then I realized I was “that girl” that couldn’t keep a steady pace. Pace group, you win. We’ve got a whole bunch more miles to go, so let’s have fun together.

Once I accepted that I wouldn’t be running this one alone, I took full advantage of drafting and this camaraderie thing I hear so much about. Miles 12-23 went by SO fast. Thanks to an amazing group leader, our pace never deviated more than 3 seconds per mile. I kept telling myself that if I stayed with the man with the chili peppers on his shorts, I’d finish in precisely 3:05.

Then, mile 23 came around. As our pacer Morgan had done every mile, he announced the mile marker, our split, and our overall average pace. “We just passed our 23rd mile. We did it in 7 minutes and 3 seconds, for an overall average pace of 7:02. Great work everyone.” Something about that 23rd mile announcement made my head and body simultaneously freak the heck out. “Hold up. You mean to tell me I just ran 23 miles IN A ROW and my last mile was in 7:03? NUH UH.” I didn’t quite recover from that freak out, as I watched Morgan and his dwindling crew of 4 runners leave me in their dust at the next water stop. I told myself I only had less than 5km to go. 3 miles. I got this.

And so I thought about Sam for the next mile, about how I would make him buy me all of the ice cream and donuts on the way home (note: I did. And he did.). Then the next mile I thought about my sister and brother-in-law and how I hoped they were getting the athlete alerts and didn’t think I was crying on the side of the road (ahem, not that I’ve ever done that before). Then the last mile I thought of my 2 year old nephew, and how he loved to toast “cheers”, watch mickey mouse, and pretend he was a firefighter/gas station attendant. Before I knew it, I made the final turn and waved to Sam as I crossed the finish line. (Okay, okay. Maybe a tear or two happened somewhere in there, too.)

I finished my 28th marathon in 3:06:26, good for 20th female overall and 3rd in my age group, in a highly competitive Hartford Marathon field. Not my best, but certainly not my worst. But no matter, there’s plenty of time to make changes to the training regimen. The day was about celebrating: I put on my purple compression socks, collected my age-group award and we went straight to Dunkin Donuts.

I’ve been running for 12 years, and during that time, I’ve only lived in two cities. Since runners (and myself in particular) are creatures of habit, I had my regular running routes in Medford Massachusetts and Manhattan from which I pretty much refused to deviate. As a poor graduate student runner without a gym membership, I was *that girl* running on the streets in the harsh Boston winters, skating my way along the ice and uneven sidewalks of Mass Ave, fighting the wind along the Charles, and desperately trying to find footing in the snow through Davis Square. I remember coming back to my dorm room after a rather chilly run (translation: frikkin freezing), and my legs got horribly itchy when the blood in my legs realized that it was safe to return to the surface. Ah, those were the days… the days without proper cold running gear.

After two years in Boston, I moved to the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where Central Park became my default spot. There were plenty of rolling hills and enough people around in the early morning and after sunset so that my inner spidey sense  didn’t go haywire. I circled my way around the park, coming up with all sorts of combinations of 4- 5- and 6- mile loops.

Then a few years later, I moved downtown to join the cool kids in the East Village. Fun fact: you know all those bridges that cross the East River? You can run them! After photobombing enough unsuspecting tourists, I stopped running the Brooklyn Bridge and instead opted for the much quieter Manhattan Bridge, and the always great-for-people-watching Williamsburg Bridge. I had my 8 mile loop around the southern tip of Manhattan, my 14- 16- and 20 mile loops that took me to Brooklyn and around (and around and around) my favorite park evar, Prospect Park. I had a 4 mile route used almost exclusively for tapering and a track less than a mile from my apartment (that I didn’t use nearly as much as I should). You had a distance and a terrain preference, I could give you a route.

Then, we moved. We moved a mere 9 miles away, but it may as well have been 90: now when I walk the sidewalks at night, I don’t hear drunk people screaming, or incessant police/ambulance sirens. I see stars and hear crickets. Holy crap. Nature! No more human poop next to our garbage cans (yep. Human), no drunk people weaving their way down the block.

All this sounds like we moved to the country. Hardly. We’re in Queens. Both my parents are from Queens and when I hear “Queens”, I think of endless blocks of houses that differ only in their paint colors. I think of my Grandma Anne’s house in Howard Beach that would shake whenever a plane took off at nearby JFK (a la the opening scene in Mary Poppins), or my Grandma Annie’s house in Bellerose, with her giant backyard and bakery-and-candy-store proximity. But beyond that, Queens was a mystery – the simple fact that you can have an 80th Road, 80th Avenue, and 80th Street will likely confuse the hell out of me for a very long time. But, I successfully navigated from the subway to our new apartment on my first try, so I consider that a win.

We moved a few weeks ago, and the timing pretty much perfectly lined up with some of my heaviest miles in this training cycle. In a good way, I’ve been forced to explore my new surroundings. I may be a creature of habit, but one can only do the 1.5 mile stretch in Forest Park so many times.

My very own lead biker

The unisphere in Flushing Meadows

Velodrome!

With Sam as my guide (and lead biker), I was pleasantly surprised at what we’ve seen: I’ve made the rolling hills of Forest Park and tree-lined paths of Cunningham Park and the Vanderbilt Parkway part of my regular route. I’ve run through Forest Hills Gardens, past a VELODROME (yep, a freaking velodrome) and the famous Lemon Ice King of Corona, around the oldest reservoir in NYC, noted the location of nearby ice cream and bakeries (ahem Eddie’s Sweet Shop), waved “hi” to Citi Field, and followed the street markings for the first ever NYCRUNS Queens Marathon.

I’ve circled the nearby public track, and managed to end up on highway on-ramps twice on the same run (you’re tricky, Astoria Blvd!). The best part is that it was done over dirt trails, paved bike paths, and sidewalks upended from the roots of towering century-old trees. And all that was in our first month here. We have yet to run Rockaway Beach or the path along the Cross Island. If all my runs in Queens are this awesome, I have a lot to look forward to.

The past 2+ weeks, I’ve spent a ridiculous/embarrassing amount of time watching the Olympics (BMX = an Olympic sport. Who knew?) and can’t help but marvel at how easy the athletes make it look — Jenny Simpson closing in the final 100m to win bronze in the 1500m, Emma Coburn medaling in the badass steeplechase, Des Linden making 26.2 miles in the heat and humidity look like a Sunday morning jog, and don’t even get me started on Allyson Felix… Their various social media pages are filled with all the rewards and the good stuff that comes with being a world class athlete: the sweaty smiling selfies, the successful tune-up races, the confidence-boosting training runs, and the free goodies from sponsors. But what you don’t see, are the workouts that aren’t all rainbows and glitter, the diabetic-coma inducing (translation: delicious) dessert you can’t eat, the late-night party you can’t go to (and by “late-night”, I mean anything after 8pm), and the mind-numbing exhaustion that comes with pushing your body to the limit day after day.

New Orleans Marathon. February 28, 2016. My chance to try and podium in a major event. No pressure, right? Just go down there, have fun, and run (and to quote my aunt, “save the Hurricanes until after”)! In the weeks/days leading up to the race, I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I was going to run 7 minute miles for 26.2 miles. How is that possible? Sure, I’ve done it a bunch of times before, but to do it again? That’s crazy talk. I looked at my training logs to remind myself of the work I did, I examined my beat up feet and worn down shoes. I thought of the miles in Brooklyn, Princeton, Philadelphia, Miami, and Grand Cayman (wow, not bad for a training cycle). I recalled my favorite memories during past races – seeing my family at the finish line in Long Island, all those (10!) times I made the right on Hereford then left on Boylston in Boston, the final left turn in Prospect Park at mile 26 of the Brooklyn Marathon, and running on an air strip during mile 48 of the Nashville 50 mile Ultramarathon. But nothing helped, I just couldn’t get rid of the anxiety and self-doubt. I was hoping that when the gun went off, my head and body would sort themselves out and muscle memory would take over…

While looking around in Corral 1, I noticed the half dozen or so female elite runners, doing all sorts of jumpy warm-up exercise thingies, in their crisp singlets advertising their sponsors. And then there was me. No pre-race routine (unless you count repeating, “oh shit” over and over again), no fancy sponsors, just my favorite (stinky) sparkly soul headband, probably-time-to-be-replaced orange CPTC New Balance singlet, and a few Honey Stingers gels stuffed into the waistband of my shorts (little did I know, I would not be needing those today). The gun fired, and off we went, some much faster than others, but all of us doing our best to avoid the potholes and vie for shade as we paraded down St. Charles. The craziness settled after about a half hour when we reached that point in the race – usually around mile 4 of a full marathon – where the initial euphoria wears off, and everyone realizes exactly what they’ve gotten themselves into and suddenly everything is very quiet. I heard Sam’s unmistakable footfall behind me (he was running the half, and on his way to a near PR), and tried to quiet the nay-saying voices in my head by convincing myself that it was just a training run. We were on the Westside highway, running into that ever-present headwind, nailing another 6 x 2 mile workout. Alas, I could trick myself for only so long. By the time we got to mile 7, I realized I was working way too hard to keep up a 7:05 pace.

Something was wrong. Enter: panic mode, quickly followed by: stifled-cry-while-trying-not-to-choke mode. I signaled for Sam to pull up next to me so I could tell him things were not going well. He replied with some words of encouragement, clearly not getting what I was telling him. I tried sending him a message via ESP (and a few of my best dirty looks) to let him know, “DUDE. WE HAVE A NO BUENO SITUATION HERE.” No such luck. I resorted to actual speaking and told him I was thinking of calling it a day at 13.1. That got his attention. He stayed next to me, and did his best to keep me going, but I just wasn’t having it. At mile 12.5 the half marathoners turned off for the finish line and let me tell you, I have never been so jealous of half marathoners in my life. Normally, I love it when they split off and we have the course all to ourselves. Not today. I almost went with them – and could have collected a finisher’s medal and avoided the dreaded “DNF” (Did Not Finish) – but waited until the very last cone dividing our paths before following my fellow full marathoners, determined to try again. I desperately wanted to get my shit together.

It was my final attempt trying to save what was turning out to be a disastrous race. Between miles 12.5 and 15, I could see that I was the 12^th female and just a few minutes behind the lead woman, and – in what can only be described as a cruel joke from the marathon gods – my pace slowed from 7:05 to 7:15 to 7:20, and eventually, 8:00. I got passed by two women. I wished them well as I peeled off the course just beyond a medical tent. I saw Sam and started to sob uncontrollably. I was done. My marathon ended at 15.33 miles. I had just DNFed my first race. A medic came running over, asking if I was sick. In between tears and wiping gobs of snot off my face, I answered, “no.” He asked if I was hurt. Again, “no.” He wanted to get me a wheelchair. He wanted to call over another medic. Dude, seriously, I am not hurt. The poor guy looked so confused, if this girl wasn’t sick or injured, why did she just drop out of the race? “I just don’t have it today,” I said. Thankfully, Sam waved him off. And before doing anything else, I took off my number. I wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible, I was embarrassed by my yellow marathon bib.

In the hours (ok, fine, days) that followed, I was so sad. So disappointed. All those hours training in the cold, on vacation, early in the morning, late at night, and for what? So I could run 60% of a marathon? Much like you do after a relationship ends, I asked myself, what happened? Were there any signs? Could I have seen this coming? I guess the short answer is “probably” and the long answer is a conversation to be had after a glass or two of wine (preferably with a box of tissues handy). I tried not to focus on the race and spent the next three days in Lafayette, Louisiana where I nursed my bruised ego in the form of boudin, po’boys, and bread pudding.

I took a few days off from running, and then – thanks to some advice from my coach – got back outside. We agreed that the best way to get rid of the demons of the New Orleans Marathon was to run: I’m signed up to run a half marathon this weekend. If all goes well, I’ll have a finisher’s medal and hopefully a little bit of that self-confidence I keep hearing about. If not, well, at least I’ll get a free bagel.