The Perfect Storm

Sometimes, you have the elusive perfect season. Your training is flawless. You never get sick or injured. You run a PR during your tune-up race, then smash it during your goal race.

More often, though, you have to clear a few hurdles.

Occasionally, your whole season is Hell's Steeple and you keep tripping and falling on your face.

Something like this

Last fall, I pretty much had the perfect season. When it was all over in December, I decided I would take a short break and then slowly build back into marathon training. During training, I'd run eighty miles per week. I'd race the Resolution Run 15 Miler as a tune-up, and maybe also the 20K. I'd run the Eugene Marathon in May. It would take me two hours and fifty-nine minutes.

This is what actually happened: One January morning, I woke up with a large bump on the right side of my forehead. It hurt. I ran ten miles and then drove to Urgent Care. They told me that I had an infection and prescribed antibiotics. I took the antibiotics and the bump went away. Just a hurdle.

One week later, I felt the same pain behind my ear. There was a bump there too. I consulted Dr. Internet and decided that I most definitely had shingles. I went back to Urgent Care. They told me I didn't have shingles and that it was just a swollen lymph node. The boil in my forehead had drained into the lymph node behind my ear. Ew, gross. But still, just a hurdle.

A couple of days later, I woke up to pain inside my ear. I went to my doctor. The infection had spread to my middle ear. The antibiotics weren't doing anything. It was probably MRSA, or some kind of antibiotic-resistant strain of staph. She gave me different antibiotics. Just a hurdle, but come on, dude.

The infection lasted over a week. In the meantime, I was trying to slowly build back my mileage from the break. I was barely running by my own (albeit twisted) standards. But I underestimated how compromised my body was. The lingering soreness in my outer right ankle developed into the unrelenting, sharp, stabbing pain that I know very well: Peroneal tendonitis. Shit.

I extended my break a little. I cross-trained some more. I went to physical therapy. And I gradually reintroduced running. All was good.

Then I strained my adductor.

Back to the bike. Then to the Alter-G. First for easy runs, then for tempos. I could hardly run at all at full body-weight, but at reduced weight I could run medium-long tempos at 6:30 pace. So I did a lot of those. They kept me sane.

I scratched from Eugene and signed up for Grandma's Marathon because it's the only decent June marathon in the country. I tried to balance my ambition and my health.

It always looks more reckless retrospectively.

I supplemented my lower mileage weeks with lots of biking. By the time I got to week sixteen, I felt awful, even though I'd been used to running three week cycles of fifty-five, sixty-five, and seventy-five miles for pretty much all of last year.

But I made it. I hit my normal mileage again. I started to feel better. I had some pretty damn good workouts.

So I flew to Duluth, Minnesota on a Thursday, crashed in the university dorms, and got ready to race. I was alone for most of the weekend, a puddle of nerves, nausea, restlessness, and excitement. My friend Jamie showed up at 10:30 PM on Friday. I wanted to be annoyed at her for getting in late. But I actually felt a lot more calm. There was something soothing about having a friend in the room, even if we wouldn't actually have any time to catch up and hang out and we both had to get up at ass-o-clock to push our bodies as hard as we possibly could. For the first time all week, I slept like a rock.

Jamie's alarm went off at 4:00 AM. I got out of bed at 4:45 AM as she was heading out. We exchanged half-asleep mumbles. That was the most I'd see of her all weekend.

It was pouring and I was standing there in spankies and a singlet trying to not freeze my butt off, but to still secure my spot in the starting corral. I was one of very few people my speed stupid enough to do this. Most of them were hanging out under the edge of a roof, warm and dry. A courteous runner handed me a garbage bag. I poked a hole in it and wore it like a shirt. Thank god.

This outfit doesn't go very far in the rain.

When the gun went off, I settled into whatever the hell pace felt right, which was supposed to be 7:00 pace. I don't own a Garmin or anything like that. I hit the first mile in 6:58.

The second mile was a little fast, then I backed off and settled into the 6:55-7:00 pace I was trying to hit. My shoelaces (which were definitely double-knotted) came undone at mile five. I tried to fix them, then they came undone again. They were soaking wet and the knots weren't holding. I tried to fix them again, and this time I tucked them into my actual shoe. They came undone again, so I gave up on that. I'd lost probably thirty seconds on this stupid stint, so I decided to make it all up at once, which is probably the second dumbest thing I did during that race.

The next seven miles were uneventful, except that there was a dude in a kilt running my pace, and I was determined not to lose to Kilt Boy. The rain stopped.

Around mile seventeen, I started to feel really bad. Stiff neck, burning muscles; I figured I was hitting the wall early. But I'd taken in a gel already, and I'd been drinking plenty of water and Powerade, so I wasn't sure why. I tried to remember what my coach told me. Relax your muscles. Smile every mile. Stay positive. Something about waxing and waning. It'd come back, I just needed to be patient.

Fading. 7:15. 7:30. Something.

At mile twenty, I started wheezing. I  tried to talk myself out of it. "No," I said out loud to my lungs, "stop." At mile twenty-one, I figured maybe some water or Powerade would make me feel better, so I took one of each. Ice cold. I chugged. It got worse. Much worse. Asthma. I remember this. Asthma.

I still knew at that point that if I jogged it in at my easy pace, I'd qualify for Boston by about twenty-five minutes, and then I could run it with my sister. So in the logic that only ever makes sense at mile twenty-one of a marathon in Minnesota when you can't breathe, I was like, jog it in, Talia, just jog it in. Except this wasn't the wall I remembered from NYC, the but-I-only-have-one-speed haze; this was the fire that can only be described as The 800 Feeling. I had to run an 800 for five miles.

The wheezing got worse. People around me were cheering me on, trying to encourage me to keep going, telling me they'd run with me. Kilt Boy passed me. I couldn't get out more than a word at a time. Finally, I turned to one guy and said, "ASTHMA." He ran up front to find a medical tent for me, then ran back to tell me where it was.

I was sitting in a military vehicle trying not to suffocate while a nice military woman tried to comfort me.

I was in an ambulance being drilled by questions from EMTs that I couldn't answer because I couldn't talk.

There was this thing that looked like an inhaler so I grabbed it as quickly as I could and tried to use it but then I heard "the other way, it's like a fake inhaler" and I flipped the nebulizer in a panic and took a deep breath and left it there breathing in and out and in and out and oh my god I could breathe. My lungs filled with the cool, misty, bitter bronchodilator.

I found this on Google Images and quite frankly have no idea what the hell she's spraying in her face, but this is pretty much the only way to explain how refreshing it felt to be able to breathe again.

When I finally felt like I could safely part with the nebulizer, I gave the EMTs my information, then told them that no, I didn't think I needed to go to the hospital. I looked at my watch and realized that I could still technically qualify for Boston if I jogged it in. I started to get up.

My legs didn't move. They had a hell of a lot more sense than my mind.

I slept all day. I woke up at 6:00 PM and ordered a pizza. I ate the whole pizza. Then I went back to sleep and woke up the next morning.

Now I rest. Now I stop feeling sorry for myself. Now I figure out what to do about this. I've already been in to see my allergist. This is what sport is. This is what being an athlete means. Shit goes catastrophically wrong, we fail, we learn, we move on. We accumulate experience and wisdom and become better athletes as time goes on. And when we finally succeed, it's just that much sweeter.

Identity and Sport: Why it Matters

In October of 2014, FloTrack posted a story about Matt Llano, the first openly gay professional distance runner. The video was posted on National Coming Out Day.

FloTrack's Facebook page was immediately flooded with comments to the effect of "who cares if he's gay," "why does this matter," and my personal favorite, "61:47 is a slow half-marathon; you're only featuring him because he's gay." Most of these comments have been deleted.

I defended Matt Llano and I was personally attacked for it:

At least he apologized?

It's easy to pass this guy off as an anomaly, but homophobia is still pervasive in sport.

Before my running days, I was a competitive swimmer. I remember one travel meet in Buffalo. All of the boys tried so hard to prove they weren't gay that some of them slept on the floor. I was supposed to share a bed with another female athlete, and she refused without telling me why. So we ordered a cot for the hotel room. She made me sleep on the cot. The cot was hard and I didn't get much sleep. Outside of the hotel room, I heard one of my teammates tell her "at least she's only half lesbian."

That stuck with me so much that I never discussed my bisexual identity with my swimming teammates after that, or with my running teammates in college. In fact, when I moved to Seattle, I went back into the de facto closet.

Let me explain the de facto closet. Many who are not explicitly homophobic, who are accepting and tolerant, seem to think that sexual orientation is a private matter that should not be discussed unless it is prompted for. Sometimes that's protective instinct. This post might influence my career potential in the future. Someone might find it and decide that I am an apt target for a hate crime. That's life, I guess; I'm OK with it. Identity is only a vulnerability if it is something you are ashamed of.

But sometimes, it's the view that identity is fundamentally a private issue. After all, they don't run around telling people they're straight, so why should Flotrack announce that Matt Llano's gay? Why should I be open about being bisexual?

The reality of the situation is that unless you come out, people assume you're straight. So if you're not out of the closet, you're in the de facto closet. And that's OK; if it's not safe to come out, you don't have to come out. That's fine. But it's really uncomfortable. It's living a lie. Imagine living in a world wherein everyone assumes you're gay, where that's the norm; wouldn't it get uncomfortable after a while? Wouldn't you want to say "by the way guys, I'm not gay"?

In sport this is even more true for men because sport is perceived as masculine, but gay and bisexual males are perceived as feminine, so they are even less visible.

Visibility is important. High-profile LGBT athletes open up dialogue. They have influence. They inspire. And they provide a gauge. You can see your friends' reactions before you open up. Do they post about how disgusting it is that Matt Llano is interested in other men? Do they say it's against God's will? Do they say that they think it's fine that he's gay but that he shouldn't tell anyone? Do they refrain from commenting? Or do they support him whole-heartedly and defend his decision to go public?

It wasn't long after Matt Llano's post that I got fed up with living a lie and came out again myself. I was met with overwhelming support by my Club Northwest teammates. I am a lucky gal.

It doesn't get much better than this.

Olympic decathlon gold medalist Bruce Jenner has gone public with her transgender identity. She still says she's OK with the pronoun he, but identifies as female, so for the sake of this post I will use she. I've seen a lot of the same reactions. "It's cool that [s]he's transgender, but why does [s]he have to be public about it?"

Actually, it's alarmingly refreshing to see non-LGBT athletes accept Bruce's identity. My guess is that these people are tolerant and open-minded, they just have a lot to learn.

Bruce's story is going to open the dialogue for trans-folk. This dialogue is decades behind the gay, lesbian, and even the bisexual dialogue. For starters, most people don't even understand what it means. The key is first to understand the difference between biological sex and gender identity.

Biological sex is a combination of your chromosomes and physical characteristics. For most people, these fall into clear categories and we are either male or female, but the same is not true for everyone. Caster Semenya is a great example of an intersex woman; that topic alone warrants its own post. (As an aside, this term is not totally PC anymore, and a lot of people prefer to talk about assigned gender or assigned sex at birth; my knowledge was out-of-date when I wrote this.)

Gender identity is, well, an identity. If you feel like you are male, then you have a male gender identity. If you feel like you are female, then you have a female gender identity. Again, for most of us, this is clear, but there are far more than two gender identities, and some refuse to identify at all.

A cisgender person has the same biological sex and gender identity. If you have never once thought about the difference between biological sex and gender identity, then you are probably cisgender.

But that doesn't mean that everyone is the same. A transgender person has a gender identity that is not in line with his or her biological sex. Some choose to operate to align the two; some don't. Some present themselves as the gender they identify with; some don't.

All of this is a spectrum just like anything else. And all of this is independent of sexual orientation completely. A transgender person can be straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, queer, asexual, whatever. They are independent variables. But for the sake of this post, I'll leave it at that.

Some states that legally protect lesbians, gays, and bisexuals from employment discrimination don't even protect trans-folk. Being openly transgender in today's society is probably a much more difficult experience than being openly queer.

So why does it matter that Bruce Jenner is transgender?

• This will open the dialogue in the sporting community as well as the community at large.
• Bruce Jenner has influence.
• The transgender community can draw strength and inspiration from Bruce's story.

A Year in Review - 2014

Take out your bible. Not Jack Daniels. Not Noakes. The other one. The Old Testament. Now turn to page 229. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the words soak in:

He wanted to impart some of the truths Bruce Denton had taught him, that you don't become a runner by winning a morning workout. The only true way is to marshal the ferocity of your ambition over the course of many days, weeks, months, and (if you could finally come to accept it) years. The Trial of Miles; Miles of Trials. How could he make them understand?

On December 29th, 2013, Saba passed away. Everyone loses grandparents. Most people lose four. But something was different about Saba. He was a Holocaust survivor, and I don't mean like a managed-to-hide Holocaust survivor or pretended-he-was-Christian Holocaust survivor or moved-just-in-time Holocaust survivor. Not to belittle any of those. Surviving is surviving. But he survived a Nazi death camp. With no education past the age of eight, he went on to be an engineer. He was the kindest, most giving person I have ever met. And in my mind, he was immortal. If you can survive a Nazi death camp, you can survive anything.

I learned the hard way that nobody can escape death. Every step I took became a tribute.

Savta, Dad, me, Lymor, and Saba

MONTH BY MONTH

January

On January 1st, 2014, I woke up feeling like my stomach was going to explode. I had to volunteer for the Resolution Run 5K, so I decided to just take a Zofran and gut it out. I survived the volunteer work but the pain got worse, so I went to the ER. Not a great way to start the year.

My coach had me take it easy when I started running again. But I wanted to do more. When most people are sad, I think they tend to withdraw from their interests. I'm not like that. I drown myself in them. They distract me.

By the end of the month, with nothing to owe to my own patience and everything to owe to good coaching, I was running pretty well again. Take that, life!

February

I opened up the season with a rust-buster of a 5K, Love 'em or Leave 'em, in 18:51, a road PR. And why stop there? I was in awesome shape. I threw in the FSRC 15 miler in 1:40:35 for 4th. I didn't even run all-out. I started at marathon pace and gradually picked it up. I was invincible. This was going to be the best season ever.

Highest highs and lowest Lowes at the FSRC 15M

March

I continued on my little invincibility stint for most of the month. It was hard to breathe, though, and I wasn't sure why. But Kimber had allergies, and that meant I probably was making it up and didn't also have allergies. I had a blatant asthma attack during a workout, which my coach called "exercise-induced bronchospasm." I looked it up. It was asthma. Whatever. I didn't have asthma. It was in my head.

The stomach pain came back at the end of the month. I went back to the hospital. Still no cause. Less than a week later, I decided to make my 10000m debut on the track. I mean, why not, right?

It was probably the worst race of my life. Predictably. So I drowned my sorrows in volunteer work, then in ice cream, then in dancing the night away at a gay bar with my teammates. Is that really all you've got, life?

April

I took a trip to Boston to watch the marathon and run the B.A.A. 5K. I told myself that the 5K was "just for fun." Secretly, I put myself under a lot of pressure to run 18:15, the time I had magically decided I was capable of running, or at least 18:30, the time I actually knew I was capable of running.

Then I got to the starting line. Our numbers were in order from fastest to slowest. Pretty much nobody actually knew that. I remember trying to walk in front of someone whose number was a few thousand higher than mine. He yelled at me. I told him I was going to run 5:50 pace. He sarcastically said that was really slow and he could run faster than that. I told him if that was true, he should also move up toward the front.

Then we were off and I was stuck behind hundreds of people who didn't understand what seeded entries are, zig-zagging to 6:07. I panicked and hammered out a super fast second mile, then died a painful death and finished in 19:02. You do the math. My teammate Valerie, who ran a much smarter race, passed me during the last mile.

I was not happy, but whatever. I had a marathon to watch! I got to write about the marathon. I had a strong sense of duty. It made me feel better.

Teammate Katie Conlon ran a huge PR and smiled the whole way

May

I was two-and-two, looking for a personal victory at Cinco de Mayo. Seattle had its first hot week leading up to the race. Dehydrated, allergy-ridden, and (as I later found out) iron-deficient, I rode the Struggle Bus to 1:27:30. It was the most painful race I have ever run. I have no idea how I made it to the finish line, let alone in a not-too-terrible time, albeit not at all what I was looking for. It sucked, it really sucked, and everyone who saw me at the end could see just how much it sucked, but it was the toughest I had ever been. I had transcended. Or some shit.

I won a water bottle for dehydrating myself to the point of almost fainting

Determined to find the cause of my stomach pain, I underwent exploratory surgery shortly after. The doctor found abdominal adhesions (scar tissue) sticking the area near my appendix to my abdominal wall. She got rid of them. I have had zero pain since.

June

Post-surgery was weird. My core strength was totally gone. I strained my diaphragm trying to get back into running too quickly and I was totally convinced I had a blood clot and was going to die. I got really, really depressed for two weeks, and I didn't have running to help me feel better.

When June finally arrived, I was healthy and ready to go. I decided to open with a double debut in the 1500m and 800m at Northwest Regionals. 5:09 / 2:36. The former converted to a 1600m PR so I guess I'll count it.

I finished the month with a 5000m race at an All-Comers meet. I had an asthma attack during the race. Turns out I'm allergic to basically everything. Whatever, life. I've got this.

July

The asthma attack turned out to be a positive event, because I went to an allergist, started medication, and began getting weekly allergy shots. My running became a lot more consistent.

In mid-July, I had the opportunity to race the 10000m in 85 degree heat at Club Nationals because that's fun or something. It was actually awesome. Times were slow because of the heat, but I came back late in the race to pass Denver and take 8th place, completing the Club Northwest sweep. I hadn't been expected to score, but it had been a personal goal, so I was very happy with my racing.

August

I topped off my summer season with 38:56 at the Railroad Days 10K, a PR by almost a minute, enough to win my age group, despite being injured for several weeks leading up to the race. There's really not much more to say there.

I took the rest of the month off to let my lingering peroneal tendonitis finally heal.

September

I opened my season in Israel, because why not? It was hot, a different kind of hot, a thick sunny hot that permeates the air and your skin and your bones until you melt, a hot that only native Israelis grow immune to. I won. It was a terrible race though.

Feeling hot, hot, hot

I had the opportunity to run with a couple of Israeli groups. I met world-class steepler Noam Neeman, who ran for Maryland for a season. I ran with another group through a Kibbutz and stopped for fresh, free pomegranates mid-run. I just wished I hadn't been so out of shape.

October

Fall, fall, sweet cross country fall. Opened with a 24:09 hilly XC 6K at WWU. It was the same exact time as last year. I was out too slow. A week later I raced with a bad cold at Emerald City Open. 24:46 on Lower Woodland. Bad run. Felt terrible. Everything hurt. Couldn't walk for the next couple of days.

November

I returned to Lower Woodland Park for my second time this year and sixth time over three years. I ran PNTF Championships in 23:55, a 46 second course PR. It was glorious.

My new teammate and training partner Tayler, who doesn't like this picture, ran even better

Everything I had worked for all year was finally coming together. I'd made it past all of the hills in life and onto a nice, long, flat straightaway; I'd gotten into a rhythm. I ran Northwest Regionals in 23:18, a 25 second XC 6K PR.

December

I wasn't ready to call my season over. Which is why I'm lucky, in a way, that I got to go to XC Club Nationals in Bethlehem, PA. It was really a matter of circumstance. Ruth Perkins, one of our top seven runners, got hurt and couldn't race. I felt kind of bad going on those terms. I didn't want Ruth to be hurt. Another sort-of alternate turned down the opportunity.

I got the email just a few weeks before the race. I said yes three minutes later.

I ran a 3000m time trial in the Dempsey as a tune-up in 10:57. It wasn't supposed to be (and honestly wasn't) all-out, so seven seconds slower than my PR was really promising.

The trip to Bethlehem was the best weekend of my life so far. I ran 23:25, so almost my PR, and very consistent. But I had the freaking time of my life.

Love these girls to death

LESSONS LEARNED

1. I'm one tough cookie. I don't know where that phrase comes from, since it makes me picture a really stale, crumbly cookie, and nobody actually likes those. But whatever. It's true. I can take anything and come back stronger. I get it from Saba.

2. Focusing on helping other people takes away the internal pressure I feel when I race. Joining the board has been awesome for me. Suddenly it's not me, me, me; it's team, team, team. Is Katie going to run that huge PR? (Yes.) Is she going to qualify for Trials? (I'd put my money on next year.) What is Ruth going to run at Twin Cities? (Spoiler Alert: 2:40:02.) Is Ashley going to keep up her streak of running a PR at every single XC meet this season? (Almost.) How is Megan going to handle her first XC season back post-baby? (How does leading the team at Club Nationals sound?) I can't be nervous. I'm just a part of something bigger. 

3. Some days, it's smarter not to race. But I'm not mature enough to hold myself to this. Which is what coaches are for. So I have a deal with my coach about this. And we communicate. It's cool.

4. Don't challenge life. Seriously. It's not worth it. As I reveled in just how much I could overcome, I got MRSA in my ear. I tried to run with it and my peroneal tendonitis came back. Not fun! If life is easy for you, just enjoy it for a little. 

5. Being out of shape won't kill you. Actually, all of my best seasons have been after forced longer breaks. So maybe MRSA is really a blessing for someone like me.

6. Be assertive about your health. I never thought I'd figure out the cause of my stomach pain. But I kept trying. I figured it out. And now I'm healthy. I thought my breathing problems were in my head. They weren't. I figured it out. And now I'm healthy. Fight for your health. It is the most important thing.

DEAR SABA,

I will never have to go through what you went through, but your strength lives on in me, and I can show it to the world through sport. The Trial of Miles; Miles of Trials.

Love,
Talia

Having Fun

Before every race, I open up a text document and write out my anxieties as questions. Then I answer them. Then I end it with a little note to myself.

Here's the one from just before PNTF XC Championships a week and a half ago:

Q: This course is hard and it's going to hurt like hell. 

A: True, but you've done it five times already, and you've been fine each time. Plus it can't hurt any more than last time when you ran it sick. 

Q: My legs don't really feel rested. 

A: You may not feel rested, but you've backed off appropriately, and you've slept eighteen hours in the past two days. You'll feel great. 

Q: What if I end up alone? 

A: You've raced alone countless times. You can handle it. Try to keep company, but if you end up alone you know you can pull through.

Q: What if I run slowly? 

A: Then nobody will really care. It'll be an off-day. But you're well-trained and felt pretty good Wednesday, so there's really no reason this should happen. Just trust yourself and trust your training.

Relax, have fun, and run fast :)  

I'm not really sure where the last bit comes from. It's usually something impulsively write to myself. It's what I want to hear. It's reassurance. It's what I would tell myself if I were my coach. Relax, have fun, and run fast. 

Have fun. I'm back on the line and the tension is building and the gun is about to go off and two weeks ago I ran this course sick and it was basically torture. Have fun, I remind myself. This is fun. You like this sport.

What follows is the best race I've run this year. What follows is a minute faster than two weeks prior. What follows is a 46 second personal best for this course. 

What follows is this:

calm, confidence, fight, & joy

I repeat these words to myself at every workout that follows. 

Calm. The beginning of a race when you're all butterflies or the first quarter of mile repeats when but 90 feels so slow and you want to hammer it. Impatient, you surge. It bites you later. So trust it. Relax. You have plenty of time to run fast.

Confidence. The second stretch of a repeat or race when gee, I don't know if I can sustain this pace. Of course you can. You've done all of the work. Now trust yourself. 

Fight. The finish seems unreachable and every inch of your body is searing in pain and that girl surges right past you. I should just let her go. She's faster than me anyways. What? No. Fight back. She's yours.

Joy.

Joy.

I'm having fun. I'm smiling. 

I read this terrible sports psychology book this past summer that really missed the mark for me. It dismissed the whole "just have fun" thing as absurd for the elite athlete, as deterrence from the real point, winning. After all, it said, winning is fun, so if you win, you'll have fun.

Well, I'm no elite athlete (yet), but I've finally figured it out. I work the exact opposite way. I run better when I remind myself to have fun. When I remember why I love this sport. The moment that I feel joy is the moment that I stop fighting the pain. I don't ignore the pain. And I don't just accept it. The moment that I feel joy is the moment that I embrace it. 

Because after all, the reason I love this sport is because it makes clear to me just how much I can overcome.

Israel, Part I

So once upon a time, I was born. Somewhere in Rhode Island. Home of clam cakes and coffee milk and Del's Lemonade. From an Israeli-American couple. With dual citizenship.

Consequentially, I "only" have to run 2:43 in the marathon to compete in the Olympics. Some people have abnormally good genes, some people are born at altitude, some people grow up running to school, or start running in school. I was born with another gift: A dual identity, a rich cultural background, and a guaranteed trip to the Olympics for something 100+ women in the US can do.

So obviously I have to try, because who wouldn't? Let's be real, though, 2:43 isn't easy. But it's a hell of a lot easier than 2:26, what I would've needed to make the US team in 2012.

Anyways, fast forward to two weeks ago, and I was on another goddamn airplane flying cramped up in a tiny seat not sleeping for something like a ten hour overnight trip. It'd be worth it, though, to see my family.

The next morning, I went for a nice easy run around Ness Ziona, kind of made up where I was going and somehow found my way home, looking something like this: 

"It's too hot"

A day and a half later, I was with my mom and savta (grandma) getting ready to race a 5K "for fun," ten hours jet-lagged, still unaccustomed to the Israeli diet of hummus, pita, diced cucumbers and tomatoes, fresh squeezed juice, Milky, and Krembo. I told my mom, "I'm going to puke." 

Milky

Krembo

I decided I'd just run to win with an honest effort. No jogging it in, but no worrying about time, either, since I was feeling pretty terrible before I even started running.

So I did just that. I ran a super slow (for me) 5K a solid 1:20 off of my PR, but tried hard and won. And it was fun in the totally miserable way that only runners understand.

Plus, I got another photo for my "Talia face" collection

Then I almost did puke. I went to talk to the dude by the ambulance to ask him for ice, because I felt so hot, so goddamn hot everywhere I didn't know what to do. I was going to melt away under the sun and dissolve into the thick, wet Israeli air, my gut twisted and drowning in Milky, so much Milky, why does Milky have to be so good? 

"You'd be better off just lying on the grass," he said, so I did. And started to itch. Everywhere. I was allergic to the grass.

I won $150 to some local spa. In typical Israeli fashion, we weren't able to reach the owner to book an appointment before I left, so I gave it to my aunt and cousin and told them to go together.

The real point of all of this was to scope out some clubs so I can run in the Israel marathon championships if I choose to. And it kind of worked. A little. Sort of. OK, not really. It was pretty chaotic. Still fun, but chaotic. And it warrants its own post.

TO BE CONTINUED

Chasing Denver

Eleven months ago, I had just gotten back from my sister's wedding and something was seriously wrong with my stomach. I couldn't eat or drink and was in immense pain, so I figured I'd cut my long run short and just run ten miles. Totally logical.

Ten miles later, I downed some whey isolate in Gatorade because that wasn't real food and I'd be fine, and I found myself on the floor of my bathroom screaming. I went to the ER.

One week later, I found myself racing a 10K. Slowly, miserably, I dragged my sorry ass to a 39:49. I wobbled over to my coach and told him "THAT FELT TERRIBLE!" He said "I thought it would." I regretted showing up.

Anyways, I didn't know it, but the qualifying time for USATF Club Nationals was 39:50. I also didn't know it, but USATF Club Nationals was going to be in Tacoma, WA for 2014, which meant I could go without being one of the top runners in our club. I'd just secured my spot to run twenty-five laps around a little oval against really fast people because apparently that's fun in my twisted little head.

Training was going very well this time around, and I knew I was in shape to run under 39. Also, I didn't end up in the hospital, which is always nice. Everything was perfect! Well, except for this:

"AN EXCESSIVE HEAT WATCH MEANS THAT A PROLONGED PERIOD OF HOT TEMPERATURES IS EXPECTED. THE COMBINATION OF HOT TEMPERATURES AND HIGH HUMIDITY WILL COMBINE TO CREATE A DANGEROUS SITUATION IN WHICH HEAT ILLNESSES ARE POSSIBLE. DRINK PLENTY OF FLUIDS... STAY IN AN AIR-CONDITIONED ROOM... STAY OUT OF THE SUN... AND CHECK UP ON RELATIVES AND NEIGHBORS."

Tom's advice was not quite as dramatic:

"I think it would be wise ice your head during the longer races. The best way to do this is to have a baseball cap or visor to hold an ice-filled sandwich bag with crushed ice in it. We will have sandwich bags and ice available but are asking you to bring your own ballcap. We puncture several holes in the sandwich bag if you want to squeeze cold water on your head during the race."

So I bought the dorkiest-looking bright orange hat I could find.

I threw out my preconceptions about how fast I should be running and decided to start conservatively. If running a fast time didn't turn out to be realistic, I still had two goals: Beat the girl from Denver Track Club. And score.

When the gun went off, I lost her. I figured she was behind me, but really she was out with the lead pack at a near-suicidal pace. Alone, I stayed focused. 95, 95, 95, 94, 96, 95. About three miles in, being alone got to me, and I started to fade a little. 97, 98. That wouldn't do. But I was feeling sorry for myself.

Then I realized that one of our girls had dropped out and one hadn't shown up, which left nine of us, Adrienne already behind me. So I had to get that last point. I had to beat Denver. And that's around when Mark yelled something like "8th place is 200 meters up and fading!" I didn't want to hear it. 200 meters is far. But god did I need that point.

200 became 150. "There's a point 150 meters up, go get that point!" And then Tom told me I'd gained 16 seconds on her in one lap. That's when it lit up. The fire. It had been subdued by months of setbacks. I'd been serious about my running, but I hadn't been hungry. And boy was I hungry. Denver was mine. I was chasing Denver.

Before I knew it, with about a mile to go, she was with me. I made a decisive move and left her behind. For about 200 meters, I felt scared. I felt like she was going to catch me. So I ran as fast as I could to make sure I broke her and she stayed back. She did.

And that's how I completed the top eight sweep in the 10000. With my single point out of 161 total for the club's women. And it's probably the point that has the most value to any single runner. 

We got second overall!

PS: Denver, if you ever read this, nice race. You were bold.

#Awkward

I'm an awkward person. Really. In high school that used to be a bad thing, but in the Real World it seems like my friends like me for my strengths and accept (or even embrace) my quirks, so being awkward isn't a big deal.

I'm also a huge track nerd. Put the two together and what do you get? Extremely awkward encounters with professional runners.

Here's my top five:

1. Andrew Wheating, Eugene Marathon

Right after I ran the Eugene half, my sister, boyfriend, and I went to a party hosted by Picky Bars at Ninkasi. I'd expected Lauren Fleshman. I hadn't expected Andrew Wheating. So when I saw someone who looked a lot like Andrew Wheating standing there, a real person, in a brewery, after staring at him for a solid ten minutes I finally worked up the balls to approach him. I opened my mouth and out came "ARE YOU ANDREW WHEATING?" When he laughed and said yes, I told him I hadn't recognized him without the beard. By beard I meant the little fuzz on his face in Behind the Stands. He looked seriously confused.

And also really tall

2. Lauren Fleshman, Club Nats

This was my second or third time meeting Lauren Fleshman. Not sure. It was after XC Club Nats last year. I'm past my partying days, but Club Nats is the exception. I mean, when else do you have a thousand or so post-collegiate runners clustered in the same city, all of them done with their seasons at the same exact time? So after the race I drank through the awards and then got dragged along to another party after that. I was wasted by the time I ran into Lauren Fleshman, who is like my favorite. So that's what I told her. "You're like my favorite!" I have a way with words.

"Oh well," I thought, "next time"

3. Lauren Fleshman, Beat the Bridge

Unfortunately, "next time" I was two days post-surgery doped up on Tramadol. I decided it'd be a good idea to take the bus over to the Beat the Bridge 8K to watch my teammates and take pictures. When I finally figured out in what direction the race was going to start, I took a seat next to a wonderful blonde lady on the curb. I put my Picky Bars water bottle down next to me. She turned and said "I thought I recognized that water bottle!" It was Lauren Fleshman. I informed her that every time I see her I "turn into a babbling idiot," and then mentioned my encounter with her at Club Nats. She said she remembered it. Great. I didn't take a picture this time because I didn't want her to think I was stalking her.

4. Kim Smith, Brown University Track

I was doing a track workout on a hot summer day in Providence in 2012. My old coach Bob asked if I'd met Kim Smith because she was there, at the track, also doing a workout. I said that no, I hadn't, but I knew who she was and followed her running. So Bob introduced me to her. Not her to me. Not like "Talia, this is Kim Smith" but the other way around, "Kim, this is Talia, she's one of our marathoners." Oh shit, what was I supposed to say? So we both complained about how hot it was. It was hot. Really hot. Hard to do a workout when it's this hot. She was leaving for the Olympics soon. Cool. It probably would have made sense to say something like "good luck in the Olympics."

5. Joan Benoit Samuelson, Iron Girl Columbia Half

This was a women's-only race and it was probably the coolest thing ever. Joanie was the special guest. She was also racing. When the gun went off there was the lead pack right there and no men and just women and the clock and oh my god the lead pack the lead pack I had to be part of the lead pack so I raced up to the front and held on for as long as I could. Then I faded. And faded. And faded. At one point I heard light, efficient steps behind me and I thought "I'm about to get passed by an Olympic gold medalist!" Joanie ran right by. I hung on to her for as long as I could. It wasn't very long. I ran a PR that day, but it was a terrible race in terms of strategy because, well, there was no strategy. I just got so damn excited. You run, you learn. I approached Joanie after the half-marathon. She said (in the voice that moms use to guilt their daughters) "you went out too fast!" Oops.

Also, back then I was really into PJs as warm-ups

Oh, and here's an honorable mention from last night: