How I Got Hypothermia on a 50 Degree Day in Los Angeles or My First Road Marathon

Ethiopian runner, Markos Geneti, shattered the Los Angeles Marathon course record by two minutes on Sunday. Joeseph D’Amico ate only McDonalds for 30 days before the race and set a personal record of 2:36:14. Heck, a 400-pound Sumo wrestler set the record for being the heaviest person to complete the LA Marathon—ever. It’s like no one cared it was the stormiest day in the city’s history with 2.54 inches of rain pummeling downtown L.A.—an inch more than the previous record set in 1943—and wind gusts of up to 40 miles per hour. Except the reported thousands of runners evaluated for hypothermia and the 26 runners taken to the hospital.

I was one of those 26 runners.

***
Oh my God. I’m going to pass out. I can’t feel my arms!

I’m walking down San Vicente Boulevard in the pouring rain, drenched and holding my arms up to my chest.

“Don’t slow down or you’ll freeze!” a runner yells to me as he passes by, chugging through the last two-and-a-half miles of the Los Angeles Marathon on Sunday.

Too late.

Another runner stops to walk with me. “You can do this!”

“I’m pretty frozen. Don’t walk because of me!” I say. He jogs off.

There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to walk two more miles. I’m going to pass out.

Just then a lady in scrubs signals for me to come over to her. I hobble across the newly formed river that was once the eastbound lane of San Vicente.

The lady takes one look at me, then opens up the back doors to an ambulance to reveal a teenage boy covered in blankets on a gurney and two pretty EMTs. One of them strips off my shirt, socks and shoes, puts a blanket around me then tries to take my temperature with a disposable thermometer. It doesn’t register.

“Can you get in the front seat? It’s a lot warmer up there,” she says.

I try to stand up but my legs don’t work. My quads have gone rogue. I drag myself into the driver’s seat with my arms, then rest my head on the steering wheel directly in front of the heater vent. I have company; a man who looks about my age sits in the passenger seat, contemplating running the final 2.2 miles. He looks at me, then jumps out of the ambulance. We’re at mile 24.

The EMTs hand me heat packs and more blankets. I’m not shivering. I’m trying to control my heart rate by breathing against pursed lips.

I’m going to pass out.

Another plastic thermometer gets shoved into my mouth. Again, nothing registers.

“We’re going to take you to the hospital to get you warmed up, OK?” someone says. I start to cry.

“It’s OK. You’ll run another marathon.”

I don’t care about the marathon—I’ve run four before. I can’t feel my arms.

A gorgeous man opens the ambulance door and puts me on a gurney. I wish I had put cover up on the giant forehead zit that my visor is no longer hiding.

I’m lifted into the back of another ambulance. Hottie EMT and his buddies say how crazy it is—how so many people are “dropping” at mile 24. The EMTs can’t keep up. They’ve already taken half a dozen people to the hospital and more are pouring in. Hottie EMT and the ambulance driver try to get my vitals. They can’t get my pulse. They ask for my social security number and I spit out nine numbers—I’m clearly coherent. Oh well, they’ll get my pulse at the hospital.

I begin to shake like a spaz.

The doors slam shut, the siren starts, and Hottie EMT stares at me, failed marathoner number seven. So embarrassing.

***

I wanted to run a 3:30. The only other marathons I had ever run were at the end of Ironmans or on Catalina Island and my only strategy was to not walk. That worked well. But for a stand-alone marathon, I wanted to run. I put my 10K time from February’s Redondo Beach 10K into an online calculator that told me I could run a 3:23 marathon. I decided 3:30 would be a good goal. I didn’t wear a Garmin and decided I’d rely on a pace group to get me to the finish. I was in the back of the chute with the masses at the start, not seeded, so when I finally crossed the start line, I was over two minutes behind the pace group. I ran to catch up.

I zig zagged around walkers and joggers, passing the 3:50 pace group early on. I ran a few more miles and saw a little flag up ahead. That had to be the 3:30 group. I got closer and read the sign: 3:40. It began to rain. I pressed on, concentrating on a man in a tutu up ahead. When I got closer, I realized it was my friend, Guillaume.

“Where the hell is the 3:30 pace group?” I said.

“They’re going way too fast,” said Guillaume.

I kept going. The wind blew. It rained harder. Then I saw Jason. Just the weekend before, Jason and I had decided we’d run together since we both had the same goal. I blew by him looking for the pacer.

I finally caught up around 10K. I thought I’d settle in with the 3:30 group, and I did for about another 10K. Then they started to slip away. I couldn’t let that happen. I wanted to run this race for my Grandpa—I spoke at his funeral six days ago. I wanted to qualify for Boston for him. For me. I kept the 3:30 group in my sights until about mile 18, then I started to slow down. The rain poured relentlessly. The wind picked up. My muscles screamed. I never paid any attention to the scenery, noting for a split second when we ran by Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. I noticed when we crossed under the 10. We were so close to Santa Monica. So close to the finish. Jason ran by me.

I slogged through Veteran’s Park, soaking my shoes in a stream I didn’t have the springiness to jump across. My orthotics absorbed the water like diapers. I got colder. The rain picked up. The wind blew. My muscles throbbed. I slowed down. I got colder.

As I passed under the 23 mile banner, I stopped running. My legs stopped running. I couldn’t move my legs to run. Guillaume ran by me. I began to walk along the grassy median. I got colder.

***

My watch is still running when I arrive at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica. If I were crossing the finish line right now, instead of  moving into a hospital bed, I’d clock a 4:15. Instead, I’m learning that Hottie EMT’s name is Robbie—right after the ER nurse takes off all of my clothes in front of him and asks when my last menstrual period was in front of him. Robbie leaves to rescue more waterlogged damsels in distress while the ER nurse covers me in human bubble wrap—a plastic, air-filled blanket that blows up full of hot air. I shiver. My heart rate shows on a screen, hovering around 100. My normal resting heart rate is around 40.

The ER nurse turns on March Madness and lets me hang in my cocoon. She comes back to take my temperature. It’s now an unshocking 96.9 degrees.

“Who’s going to pick you up?” she says.

“I only know two phone numbers by heart,” I say. Coachubby’s and my mom’s. My mom lives in Arizona and Coachubby is most likely waiting for me by the meet up letter Z, like we had planned, because how many people’s names start with Z? His phone is at home. I call mom.

“Hi mom. I got hypothermia.”

“What?!”

“I’m fine. I need you to go on Facebook and look up our housemate. Go to his Facebook page. In the upper right hand side it says ‘send message’. Tell him I’m at the hospital. He has a smartphone. He’ll get the message.”

Duke sinks several more baskets while Michigan tries to catch up. I call my mom back.

“I think I poked your friend Mo,” she says. “What’s a poke?”

“Oh my God.”

“Let me know when you get home.”

I try to sleep. Then the nurse comes in.

“Your husband is here to see you. Do you want to see him?”

Do I want to see him? Nah, I’ll just stay here naked in my bubble wrap all afternoon.

“Yes!”

Coachubby walks in. Our housemate got the message and dropped him off. Coachubby died late in the race too, he says. He wanted to run 2:50. He ran 3:05. He qualified for Boston. Jason ran a 3:30.

I am an idiot.

“Not fair,” I say. “Now I have to run another one so we can run Boston together.”

The nurse drops off a pair of hideous gray sweat pants for me to change into. My other clothes are wet and my favorite blue shirt with my race number didn’t make it into my “patient belongings” bag. I look like a homeless crackhead. Coachubby gives me a piggyback ride through the rain and puts me in the back seat of our housemate’s Prius.

Back at home, the rain still pours. The trees shake like the wind will uproot them. I imagine we’re in a hurricane. I lie on the couch and decide to check the race results for my splits. The Los Angeles Marathon website says I ran a 3:36.

Now I wonder who has my shirt.

Bay 2 Breakers 2010--Happy 60th Birthday, Dad!

What better way to celebrate dad's big 6-0 than by making him run 7 miles through San Francisco with me and a bunch of naked people while brother and coachubby drunkenly waddle behind and mom documents the experience--and the full-frontal nudity?

That's what I thought. There is no better way.

And so, here's Bay 2 Breakers (minus a lot of the full-frontal...you can thank me later).

How to Look Thinner in Your Race Photos

Forget dieting, the glycemic index, and all the other painful stuff you do to try to look like Michael Lovato in your race photos.

On my way to a practice Treeathlon (Stanford's triathlon) yesterday, I picked up a fellow triathlete and aerospace engineer who let me in on a little secret:

The faster you run, the thinner you'll look in your race photos.

OK, so he didn't say it like that. But that's what I got out of our conversation about the principle of length contraction.

The faster an object goes, the shorter it will appear in the direction parallel to the direction it's traveling.

So say the race photographer is off to the side of the course. If you go really, really fast straight down the course, you'll look thinner to the photographer who's observing you from the side.

And by really, really fast, I mean close to the speed of light.

According to my genius triathlete passenger, if you ran at half the speed of light (150,000km/second), you would look 13.4% thinner from the side of the course.

So keep up those track workouts and don't worry about grabbing that extra doughnut in the break room. Because when you get even half-way close to running at the speed of light, you'll look fantastic in your photos!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Hilly Stanford Run Directions (10+ Miles)

Once upon a time, when I could run freely without protest from my sciatic nerve, I used to do this run all of the time, throwing in multiple dish loops to make it take 2 hours. If you're ever around Stanford, you must at least do the dish loop part--it's a rite of passage. On a clear day, you can see from San Francisco, across the bay, and to the mountains south of San Jose. Pretty sweet stuff.

View Xtreme Dish Run in a larger map

P.S. If you've ever beaten an unruly and genuinely pissed-off sciatic nerve, please let me know how, without actually beating it. Or ripping it out with your bare hands. I'm told it's a required body part, unlike an appendix.

The Original Pain in the Ass

"Turns out this lady was freaky-deaky and hurt her back on a sex swing," says the 5'6", 32-year old, short brown-haired dude who pulled my pants down and was jabbing his thumbs into my butt.

Let's back this up a bit.

I went to physical therapy every day before Christmas with one goal in mind: to fix the pain in my ass.

My left butt started hurting November 6th. By mid-December it still hurt, and stopped me from running the California International Marathon. I was not pleased. The pain in my ass was becoming a true pain in the ass. Something had to be done.

And so for four days straight, I walked over to PT to have my pants pulled down by a brown-haired, lawyer-wannabe-turned physical therapist/bar mitzvah DJ, then have my left bum manipulated, stretched, stimulated with tingly pads, and iced.

Merry Christmas to my butt.

In order to decrease the awkwardness of the situation that broken butt syndrome (aka piriformis syndrome) creates, I tried to chat up Dr. DJ. Maybe it would keep his eyes off of the, um, prize.

"What's the most common injury that you see here?" I asked.
"Oh, usually a lot of lower back pain."
"Do you get a lot of older people with that problem?" It seemed like a logical question. One that would conjure up images of his grandma and keep his eyes off of my left butt cheek.
"Well, this one woman came in when I was an intern."
"Uh huh." Good. Grandma stories. It's working.
"And she told me she was having intense back pain."
"Uh huh." Maybe she hurt it picking up the dog or something.
"So I had to ask her how she did it to get an idea of what I'd do to treat it."

"That makes sense."

"Then she blushed and got all embarrassed."

"Oh God!" I scream.

"You don't even know what happens next!"

"No! Freaking-A! That hurts!" He found the evil spot.

"Oh. Well, it's supposed to hurt."

"OK, continue."

"She tells me she did it having sex."

Holy Lord this is awkward.

"So I go to tell my attending, since I have to ask permission before doing anything since I'm just an intern. He says I have to get more detail so we know how to treat her."

He squeezes out more lotion and jabs his thumbs into my butt. Coachubby is gonna love this story.

"Uh huh."

"So I have her write it down on the treatment form. Turns out this lady was freaky-deaky and hurt her back on a sex swing."

"No way!" I start fiddling with my wedding ring.

"So after she left, we took her name off of the form, and framed it and put it up on the wall."

"Ha. That's...funny," I say.

Dr. DJ pulls my my pants back up over my left butt and begins to stretch my hamstring. That innocent stretch never seemed so awkward. It was a relief when he had his young, blond sidekick take me to the "stim machine", where he wiped my bum down with alcohol and stuck pads onto it.

Maybe it was all done in that order to make "bum stimulation" not seem as embarassing.

Either way, lesson learned: Do not injure your bum. Fixing it is awkward. And a pain in the ass.

The Javelina Jundred

What better way to celebrate Jalloween than by running 100 miles...straight.
In circles.
In the desert.

Check it:


P.S. It's supposed to be black to start. It's art.

You Run Like a Man

Perhaps you've been reading about the case of South African runner, Caster Semenya, who won the 800 meters at the track & field World Championships on August 21st in Berlin. She crushed the women's field by over 2 seconds.

Basically, due to Semenya's masculine appearance, and ridiculous speed (she won in 1:55.45. I was psyched to run an 800 today in almost twice that!) the IAAF (International Assoc. of Athletics Federation) is conducting an investigation into whether or not Semenya is, indeed, female.

Aparently, a trip to the loo doesn't cut it anymore. They're getting all fancy and scientific, looking beyond the obvious junk-or-no-junk evaluation into blood tests, and tests conducted by an gynecologist, an endocrineologist, and even a psychologist. What's the psychologist going to ask, "Do you think you're a girl?"

(For a full evaluation of this incident, including it's implications in the World's apparent prejudice against South Africa, check out this NYT article.)

I realize this is a sensitive matter, not only for Semenya, but for her family and for her country, but I have one thing to say:

If someone thought I was so ridiculously fast as to accuse me of being a man, I'd gladly take the compliment while grabbing my air balls and flipping my accuser the bird.

Saving the Fish

I didn't want to run today.

In fact, I didn't want to move at all today. Usually this happens when it's tremendously depressing outside, but it was a beautiful, sunny day. My brain has recently been unusually antagonistic against my body.

But a baby 25-minute run was on the schedule, so after doing everything I possibly could this evening that was not running--reading every online newspaper, magazine, and even PerezHilton.com, beginning to edit a FinalCut video, and kissing the cat--I got my cookie-dough-filled butt out the door.

And boy, was one little fishie happy I did.

I chose a loop that would bring me for a stretch on the beach, and right in the middle of it, a little fishie was flippity floppiting in the surf. He beached himself. (I say he, because, honestly, girl fishies are probably better with directions and hazard avoidance.)

Ignoring my gag reflex, I picked him up and hucked him back into the ocean, soaking my shoes in the process.

I didn't wait to see if he'd simply beach himself again, but I like to think I saved one little fishie's life today.

So there you have it.

Even if you feel like your workout schedule is all about you, and therefore extremely selfish, think again. Your workouts benefit your community more than you think.

Maybe you have a Tuesday morning run that you do religiously, and so does some little old man on your street. Maybe, just maybe, your guaranteed Tuesday morning smile and "howdy do" are something he looks forward to every week.

Maybe you're more fun to be around because you will actually eat ice cream with your kids, knowing you've earned it today.

Or maybe, just maybe, you could save someone's life. I rescued someone's cell phone just last week from almost certain death in a mulch pile along a running path.

And today, I pulled a solid for the marine world and returned one of its missing fishies before his family had to start postering anemones with his slimy, silvery face.

Triathlete Diva Goes Straight to Video

Doing my part to help a friend create a kick ass run-coaching website, I agreed to let him film me running on a treadmill and doing a bunch of funny looking core exercises last October.

Behold the results at RockHardRunners.com, under "video gait analysis".

It's a pretty spiffy website all around if I do say so myself. And that has nothing to do with my pigeon-toed stint on the treadmill.

Running With Diabetes (or How NOT to Kill Your Dad on New Year's Day)

My dad has Type 1 Diabetes. Less commonly referred to as "Spontaneous Diabeticus" (actually, singularly referred to as such, by myself) he became diabetic within a year after completing the Big Sur Marathon at the age of 43.

You can imagine my mother's excitement following my 2006 announcement that I would compete in Ironman Arizona. Does Spontaneous Diabeticus run in the family? Do big athletic accomplishments awaken a dormant gene that otherwise does not affect fit members of my family?

Like it or not, my dad's diabetes has had a profound effect on my life. Mostly for the good. And after a decade of running with my dad, one would think I'd know how to be prepared for a long run.

But no.

Ready to kick off 2009 in style, I suggested we run around the mountain my parents live on. The run should be about 10 miles, I thought, an hour and forty minutes. When my padre and I run, we usually run 1 hour and 20 minutes anyway, so it shouldn't be a big deal, right?

Don't ask me what I was thinking. I wasn't hung over. Maybe the prospect of running through familiar neighborhoods made me forget that a 1h40min run is not a small undertaking.

About an hour into the run, padre started stumbling.

That should've been the first sign. I attributed it to his generally ridiculously tall stature. It takes longer for brain signals to get to his feet than it does for mine to get to my feet.

Then, padre wanted to walk.

That's normal. It's a long run. We can enjoy the scenery.

Then padre said he was just sooo tired.

That's normal, it's New Year's day. Staying up until midnight will do that to you.

Then padre got goofy.

Shit!

I began frantically scanning homes to see which ones looked the most inviting and most likely to have orange juice in the fridge. I scanned the cars driving by to see if I recognized anyone. I didn't have a cell phone, ID, money, food or anything on me like I usually do for long runs (in the mountains, no less! What's money going to buy me in the mountains?)

The houses at that point were all gated estates, difficult to approach.

The firehouse/police station was a half mile away. It was my best bet. But do I leave padre to sprint over there to get help, or do I make him trudge along with me? He was stumbling badly enough that I didn't want to leave him alone. We slowly made it across the street to police property. Then I left padre in the driveway and bolted inside.

"Do you have any sugar!?"

The only person inside was the 911 operator. "Um, we have Splenda," she said. That was not going to work. She called EMTs while I ran outside for padre, who had continued stumbling in the direction of home, which also happened to be the direction of the fire station. He was hell bent on making it home without anyone's help--he certainly didn't want mom to come pick him up. He had 2 miles to go.

I ran up to the fire station and told them to come quickly, while padre sat down under a tree on the side of the road. His blood sugar was 35. (80-120 is normal.) EMTs told padre they usually treat anything below 60 with an iv. Padre opted for a couple of packages of gooey glucose.

Mom and coachubby came to pick us up.

We had run for 1h 17 minutes. Our usual run. But that didn't include walking time. By the time we reached help, I figure we were out there for a grand total of 1 hour and 40 minutes--hardly too long for padre to exercise. We'd gone mountain biking longer than that earlier in the week.

So what gives? What can a diabetic and his athletic accomplices do so nobody ends up trying to steal citrus from stranger's trees in an attempt to squeeze the juice into the diabetic's mouth?

1. Run with sugar. This seems simple enough, but if you're like my dad (smart but stubborn), you may convince yourself that your blood sugar elevates when you're exercising. This is true--the liver's natural response to exercise is to break down readily available fuel to keep you going. However, if you go too long, or miscalculate the insulin you take before exercise, you may be in for hypoglycemia. Take a GU, or two, or three with you--each of you--or some sugar tablets. Padre's blood sugar was high before we went running, which was not the norm, so he took insulin before we ran, which was not the norm, so he got super hypoglycemic while running, which is not the norm.


2. Overplan your run. (This is wise even if no diabetes is involved.) Think you're only going for an hour in your immediate community? You never know what might happen out there, even if surrounded by neighbors. Bring fuel for an extra unplanned hour of exercise, just in case.


3. Learn to recognize the signs of hypoglycemia. Trembling, weakness, and tiredness are all beginning signs of hypoglycemia. When it gets worse, the diabetic may stumble, slur speech, become confused--or basically seem drunk, for lack of a better explanation. (These symptoms are then followed by what could become a deadly coma.) By the time he reaches this state, sugar must be digested immediately, hence your readiness with the GU and sugar tablets, right? Don't make my mistake and run without them--ever. Even if you're not going far from home.

Other tools can help diabetic athletes keep their blood sugar ranges normal during strenuous activity. Not too long ago, Team Type 1, a professional cycling team comprised of mostly Type 1 diabetics, was featured in Bicycling Magazine, along with a new monitor that displays blood glucose information collected by a sensor inserted in the jersey pocket. It appeared this new monitor collected data from sweat, unlike other monitors that require a subcutaneous sensors.

Remember, bonking doesn't just suck. If a diabetic bonks, he dies. While it's his responsibility to monitor his own blood sugar, attempting new athletic feats may leave your diabetic athlete friend in new monitoring territory he wasn't quite prepared for. That's where you come in--to help should he ever not be able to make coherent decisions himself.

Now you know why $5 from each of my superawesome Triathlete Diva jerseys goes to Team Triabetes.

Is the Recession Making People Evil? Thank Goodness for the Ridgecrest 50K

People in LA are getting meaner.

Either that, or I'm getting more sensitive. But three years in a big city is supposed to toughen a person up, not make her a big ball of emotions, so Theory 1 overrules Theory 2: people in LA are getting meaner.

In an admittedly Pollyanna-ish view of the current recession, I believed people would be nicer to each other, more willing to help one another out, and more respectful of each other. It would be a grand ol' group effort of positivity that would keep everyone afloat, since "we're all in this together", as many a song has said.

LA is notorious for crushing dreams, and accordingly, it swallowed that one whole.

It seems that several people have taken an "every man for himself" outlook on things. It's like Los Angelenos are all actors just rejected from their billionth audition. Dejected, they wallow in their own little bubble, not aware of the people around them--people that could help them thrive.

What better way to leave this festering bag of depression (and evil, cyclist-hating drivers) than by driving three hours north to the high desert of Ridgecrest to run (or in my case, be a roaming cheer squad at) a 50K?

For those of you who don't want to do math, that's 31 miles.

On the roster: Robyn (Silverwoman extraordinaire), Eric (RockHardRunners ultra fanatic), coachubby, a frenchman, and a 30K-er. And me--a lone runner determined to run as far as the hambutt would let me, while cheering for everyone else.

I started running the 50K backwards at 9AM, figuring I'd see coachubby an hour out, then turn around and come back.

Not so. In fact, I never saw any of my friends.

.

But all of the participants I passed while I was running the wrong way wore huge smiles when I cheered.

An incredibly fit Santa whistled people along at the Gracie's Mansion pit stop, 5 miles out from the 50K finish. He was excited to see me running, even if it was the wrong way, and let me huddle by his portable stove while waiting for coachubby.

.

When coachubby didn't come, and it started to rain, I ran for it. I stopped at the final aid station to cheer again. This one was wo-manned by three cherubic, enthusiastic ladies. They were so excited every time someone came by, it was impossible for racers not to smile at the women through their pain.

.

I ran the last mile, coming upon a 50K finisher.

"You're doing great!" I said.

"So are you!"

"I haven't run half as far as you have!"

"No matter, you're a runner, too!" says the older man with a rapid-fire turnover I could never hope to match.

And so I remembered why I race. Or why I go to events even if I'm not racing to cheer on friends.

Races like the Ridgecrest 50 and 30K create that perfect world where, if only for a day, everyone around you is positive, encouraging, motivated, and working toward a goal--one that is immediately rewarded upon completion.

Races can be a mini utopia.

The longer and tougher they get, it seems, the more cordial everyone is to one another.

And so the trick is to take this positivity phenomenon and somehow spread it to where I live...Sunday beach long runs, anyone?

.

(And yes, I finally saw coachubby and my friends. Coachubby walked the last 15 miles swinging his arms like an angry grandpa so he'd finish, in spite of an IT flare up.)

Ode to a Toenail Lost

You held on

For so long

it is true

But this morning

without warning

breaststroke kicking killed you

Oh brave little toenail

Second on the right

You served without fail

and gave a good fight

Though Ironman turned you blue

You stuck through more training like glue

But today

Death became you

I will not forget you easily

Especially because now my foot looks freaky

I eagerly await your renewal

so I can wear open-toed shoe-als

Know that you died for a noble reason

and do not fear, it's the end of the season

So you'll be loved more and not destroyed

Unless I decide to run a marathon to fill the void!

Rock Hard Runners Rarin' to Go!

Do you have chronic running problems? Like a relentless IT band that just won't leave you in peace? Or perpetual slow-runner syndrome? Want to go faster, or run injury free? Maybe it's time you got a professional run analysis.

While your chances of making it to this year's Olympics are over, maybe after receiving the gift that is a professional run analysis, you'll give Gebrselassie a run for his money at the next Olympics, provided it's not too smoggy.

And I know just the man for the job! Standing something like 6'5", 200lbs (I made that up. But he's a tall, muscular runnerman), Eric Skelley of Manhattan Beach is taking his passion for running and using it to help others achieve their fast-footed goals.

Rock Hard Runners is Eric's running company, based in Manhattan Beach, CA, in his garage. And there is absolutely no better place to have a run analysis--or person to do it for you. Skelley's passion oozes through every inch of him, which makes it impossible for any serious runner to be as passionate as he, just based on total human surface area.

Eric will take you through a 10 minute warm-up on his treadmill, then have you run at a comfortable pace while filming you--first from the side, then from the back, then close up on your feet.

Next, he'll have you cool down, then watch yourself on a giant flat screen computer monitor. Get excited, this is your Pam Anderson in Baywatch moment. Your movements will be shown in slo-mo and analyzed. Right away, you'll probably see what you're doing wrong. (And if your shorts really aren't that flattering.)

After figuring out what you need to work on so you can have your showdown with Gebrselassie in 2012, Eric will teach you core strengthening techniques that will not only flatten your abs in no time, giving you a flashy figure, but also help make you a stronger, faster runner.

What sets Rock Hard Runners apart from the rest? The man, and the location. Several other run-analysis companies in Los Angeles are incredibly corporate. They run you through the gammut, comment on your form, show you the video, and give you exercises. But could they care less if you actually get better? I got the feeling from one Santa Monica-based company that they wanted me to stay miserably mired in IT problems forever so they could prescribe their expensive run-specific weight-training packages to me in the future.

Eric and Rock Hard Runners is different.

Eric's "runner's den" is a very casual environment a few blocks away from the beach, and all the attractions Manhattan Beach has to offer. And, most importantly, the sole focus of your analysis is YOU. There is nobody else there, just you and the original Rock Hard Runner himself, who has a genuine desire to see you succeed as a runner. His enthusiasm for the sport is almost tangible.

Eric, a native of Pennsylvania, is a 3x Ironman finisher, and finisher of the annual 50-mile endurance run on Catalina Island, one of the toughest out there. A big proponent of strength training to stabilize your core to help you run faster and more efficiently, Eric has developed some super secret signature moves that you won't believe you were able to run without. (He's also an ER nurse, so if you happen to, I don't know, fall off of the treadmill, help is an arm's reach away.)

So if you're looking to amp up your run, without feeling like you're just another wanna-be athlete hanging out in a cold, impersonal gym, where it's the bottom line and not you who matters, GO TO ROCK HARD RUNNERS! It's all about you, and pure passion for the sport.

So refreshing.

XOXO,

Triathlete Diva

PS. If you want to meet Eric, email me! (Contact info is in the right-hand column.)

How to Look Like an Airhead on a Long Run

Despite the fact that the long run is typically known as a transcendental personal journey, one that's often completed in contemplative solitude, it is still possible to appear like a ditz if you follow these steps:

• run the same 14 mile loop you've done a million times, only to realize you've never made the final turn back to the car on the first try


• identify neon-yellow clad bike cops ahead on trail


• ask cops for directions to desired trailhead


• follow cops there


• find cops standing in a circle around a dirt inscription that reads "This way, cutie! -->"


• acknowledge cops' firm admission that they did not write the direction


• run right by trailhead anyway, despite neon cops, dirt marking, and trailhead sign


• turn right around when cops call you back as you wonder aloud how you got there so fast


• say "thank you" as the cops tell you "Only 6 more miles to go!" in a tone that suggests they fear you won't make it and they'll be called back later to find your rattlesnake bitten ditsy self somehow lost on a single-track downhill trail--the only trail in that area


• it doesn't hurt to have blonde hair bleached from previous such noon-time excursions

These steps may have been taken from personal experience, that may have occurred while running up the Temescal Canyon Ridge trail to the Backbone Trail and back down to Will Rodgers' State Park where it all started. And this may be the only instance in which somebody's husband's directional savvy actually outdoes her own.

Happy trail running! And may mountain bike cops magically appear should you get lost!

Catalina Island Marathon - Puke, Pain & Perservereance

Runner's World named the Catalina Island Marathon the best off-road marathon in the world, sighting pristine wilderness, wide dirt trails, ocean views, and buffalo crossings as reasons for the pick. I think it's the best in the world because it happens to be where coachancé proposed to me last year, after running his little marathoner bum off and placing 7th overall. This is what prompted me and coachancé to get in on the action in 2008. Three of our friends decided to punish themselves last Saturday as well. Happily, we all made it out alive. This is our story.

Crossing the 26 miles of Pacific ocean to get to Catalina was supposed to be the beginning of our weekend get-away destination event vacation. With 5-6 foot ocean swells tossing the boat to and fro, the boat ride quickly became an opportunity to drop some weight before the big event. One of our friends was hugging the toilet the entire time.

And the next morning, during jam-packed 5am boat ride from Avalon to the race start in Two Harbors, our same wussy-stomached pal dropped some more water weight, and his pre-race meal, into the Pacific. He was light as a feather and ready to go, he said.

While the wind made for a queasy ride, it also made for the best tail-wind in the history of the 31-year old race, according to race officials. After hanging out in a little café in Two Harbors for 45 minutes, it was time to strip, make a final bathroom run, and make our way to the start line. For the first time in co-ed racing history, the female bathroom line was non-existent, the male bathroom line was out the door, and some cheating men crept over to the women's side. It was beautiful.

The race started just as the sun was coming up, and all 603 runners made their way up the first climb, gaining breathtaking views of the ocean and Catalina's mountains with each step. While Runner's World compared the marathon's elevation map to the Dow Jones, I'd say it's pretty equivalent to the emotional roller coaster/stress levels of a bride 2 weeks out from her wedding, with the wedding occurring at mile 23, and the stress plunging into the sea soon thereafter.

The only goal I had entering the race was for me and my girlfriend, R, to beat our two dude friends. However, seeing as they both got queasy--and one puked--on the ride over, it wasn't much of a fair race. We creamed them. (Coachancé was not included in Operation Girls Rule, because he is a scary fast freak of nature runner, so there wasn't even a race to be had.)

The course map looks something like this: spiky at miles 2, 4, 6, 9, 11, then gradually uphill from miles 13-18, steep uphill from 18-20.5, 5 rollers that you can count off in your head from 20.5-23, then straight down for the rest of the race. If anything, the elevation changes give competitors something to constantly focus on. And fiery quads.

At about mile 2, some self-professed Catalina Marathon veteran decided to strike up a conversation. "What's your best marathon time?" He asked. "This is my first marathon that wasn't at the end of an Ironman," I responded. "Oh. So what do you want to finish in?" I had no idea. I just run how I feel. "4 hours," I said. Now go away. "4 hours! That's a pretty lofty goal for your first one. This course is pretty tough, you know," says Mr. Know-it-all. "Yep," says I. "You should probably take it a little easier on these first 6 miles," says Mr. KIA. "Ha!" says I. I step it up. He takes off on a downhill, my non forté.

At about mile 11, I heard, "Hey, baby! Nice ass!" Who the heck would be so forward, I wondered. It was R. She had completely broken away from the boys, and we were headed to victory.

At about mile 19, something terrible happened. My foot seized up and my big left toe curled under and wouldn't go back to normal. No no no! This can't be happening! Must...beat...boys...I tried to run in a way that I wouldn't have to flex my foot, as that seemed to induce the psycho cramping. And then I ate almost all of my salt pills within a 20 minute time frame. Must finish! No evil cramps!

At about mile 24, I couldn't remember why I ever thought running downhill was all that fabulous. Each step felt like an elephant was kicking me in my soles. Visions of hip replacements in my 20s floated in my head. And visions of walking down the isle with a walker.

Finally, the finish banner appeared. People were cheering. Coachancé was cheering. I gave it all I had. And you know what? I wasn't too far off of the random goal I had picked at mile 2 to make Mr. KIA go away.

R & I get hardware! Go girls!

Post race festivities included: standing in the freezing cold ocean until we couldn't feel our bodies, rubbing in the fact that R and I kicked the boys' arses, lots of pizza, awards, and lying horizontally until it was time to bust out the karaoke.

In fact, we were even forced to spend the night! Because of the wind, no boats were leaving the island, including the 6:30pm ferry we were scheduled on.

The Catalina Island Marathon is absolutely gorgeous, super fun, and a perfect challenge. As one of my buddies noted, it seems like the people there value how many times you've done it far over how fast you run--little year pins that stream down the veteran marathoners' hats like tails denote their seniority. And as far as I can tell, the buffalo seem to be an urban myth. I never saw one, despite the claim that 200 of them are hanging out on the island. Maybe they're shy of runners.

Happy marathoning!

Catalina Island Buffalo Run Hurts Like Hell

But it’s worth it! This past Saturday morning, about 300 athletes rolled out of their beds and moseyed on over to the start of Catalina Island’s 8th Buffalo Run half marathon. With a 9am start time, and every hotel within walking distance of the race start, the Buffalo Run seemed like an athletic vacation. The sun was shining, bringing temperatures into the mid-70s, and making some people mourn their decision to leave their Fuel Belts at home.

Just after the horn sounds, however, it becomes very clear that this is not a vacation. 5 miles straight up paved and dirt roads quickly separate athletes who are there to win from those who just want to finish.

The Buffalo Run course map only highlights the peak elevation within each mile, proving a bit misleading. From the map, it looks as if the first 5 miles are up, then there’s a 1-mile downhill, a 3-mile gradual climb, and a 4-mile plummet back down into Avalon. The truth is the first 5 are up, there is slight relief from about a mile downhill, then treacherous rollers set in, comprising the next 4 miles before a quad-deadening descent brings you in for a quick and painful finish.

This year’s race, according to analysis of several competitors’ Garmins, was about 13.45 miles long, making this year’s times visibly slower than last year’s, when the course was said to be a bit short, coming in at 12.95 miles.

Ben Brown took the men’s race again this year, finishing in 1:24:19, just under 17 minutes before the next competitor crossed the finish line. He’ll be back to defend his American Trail Championship title by competing in the Catalina Marathon on March 15th—he’s been sponsored to run again this year, he said on the podium.

The first female finisher, 36-year old Buffy Jones, finished 9 minutes ahead of the next woman, in 1:48:07.

The race is undeniably beautiful. Views of snow-capped mountains past the layer of filth of Los Angeles were awesome—it was hard not to gawk at the view while running the rollers on top of Catalina’s gorgeous mountains. The course was stocked with Gatorade, water, and pretzels, among other things, with friendly volunteers, and even friendlier competitors who cheered each other on when passing, and on the out-and-back portion of the run. Everyone strikes up conversations at the end with whomever they ran near. I got to speak to the third-place woman, who ran the first 5 miles with me, then kicked my ass.

If you’ve been looking for a trail run, look no further. With a laid-back attitude, a great field of competitors, an unbeatable course, and a sunny day at the beach to look forward to when you finish, there is no reason to go anywhere else. (Not to mention the sense of accomplishment that you get when you finish one of the toughest half marathons around. The pain that lasts for at least 48 hours afterward will remind you of just how awesome you are!)

And no, sadly, no buffalo were reportedly seen on the run. Gonna have to do the marathon and run by the airport for that!

See you out there,

TriDiva

Triathletes Suck at Running

OK, this statement is simply not true. But this triathlete sucked at running on Wednesday, when she ate it so bad running down a concrete street that her hip swelled to the size of a softball, and somehow her knee, palms, elbows, and shin got into the action.

Noting a man walking up the sidewalk approximately 15 seconds into my run, I decided to look cool and make a quick glance behind my right shoulder before crossing to the other side of the street I live on while keeping up my pace (established approximately 2 seconds earlier). I looked over my shoulder, and took a step with my right foot and WHOOP! Like stepping on a banana peel, my foot slid right out from under me, and I landed on my right hip and hand and knee and shin. As common courtesy between men and women doesn't seem to exist anymore, the man walked right on as if he hadn't seen anything while I lay in the middle of the street. Nice.

I got up and found what I had slipped on: a giant piece of 1/2 inch thick plexiglass some punk left in the road. Nice. I put it on a fence, then continued my run and picked up the road trash on my way back so I could show it to my coachancé, and so I'd have a specific object to be pissed at, other than myself.

Moral of the story: Look before you step, or else you can get road rash that looks like you crashed your bike--except without the harrowing tales that accompany bike crash wounds. AND if you see someone fall, at least ask if they're OK. Especially a week before Christmas. Geez.

Flexible Flat Feet? You MUST Read This!

Can you touch your thumb to your arm? You have flexible joints. Got no arch? You have flat feet. And while there are several athletes that stand as living proof that you can still pull off some awesome run times—and even win some races in the run—your fun flexible body might just have a few things hiding under its skin for you.

Flexible Fact #1: You’re probably a great swimmer, with feet that flippity flop like giant paddles.

Flexible Fact #2: You’re probably pretty fun between the sheets.

Flexible Fact #3: You might just have an extra bone in your foot.

That’s right, an “auxiliary bone”, if you will. This little sucker has up and taken your tibial tendon’s connection away from the strong navicular bone, and made this important tendon attach to it’s little bony self.

What does this mean? If you twist your ankle—or even just run a lot—you can tear / aggravate the ligaments that are holding your “bonus bone” to your navicular. What does THAT mean? Your arch will feel like it’s on fire and determine for you that you must stop running. You may even have to get a cast put on to take the pressure off of this area and allow it to heal.

What does that mean? Pool running. But how can you pool run with a cast that can’t get wet stuck to your foot? You must buy a big ugly blue boot with a pump that will literally vacuum seal your foot inside of it, and also make you the nerdiest, strangest looking Smurf-person at your aquatic center.

On the positive side, should this become a chronic problem and a little bit of time off just doesn’t do the trick, you can get your evil little “accessory bone” removed, and have your tendon reattached to the navicular bone like a normal person.

On a more positive side, maybe a week in a cast with an ugly blue bootie will calm your little bone down. It got the attention it was asking for. Maybe now it’ll shut up.

So if you’re having arch pain, and have flat feet, and can put your feet behind your head, perhaps a little extra bone is to blame for your pain. Have it checked out before you do any more damage!

Happy Pool Running!

5 Things to Get You Excited About Pool Running

So you’ve twited an ankle, have tendonitis or your body has otherwise decided to make you stop running for a while. Instead of overdoing your cycling and swimming workouts to make up for missed runs—RUN! In the pool. That’s right, it’s not just for old ladies in exercise classes any more. Instead of dreading extra time spent with pruny fingers, think about these 5 reasons why pool running kicks butt.

1. You get to use the “aquajogger”—that purple floaty things you laugh at grandmas when they use it to aquacize. Only you look cool in it. And you’re doing a real workout.

2. Because you’re upright, you can carry on a conversation with the cute lifeguard (he’ll talk, even if he’s not supposed to.)

3. You can analyze and critique the strokes of all of the lap swimmers and possibly gain insight as to why people (like TriDiva) don’t go anywhere when they use their arms.

4. You can tack the workout on to your swim, giving you less transition time, less time to think about going out, and more time to read Cozmo…I mean Triathlete Magazine…with your breakfast.

5. Should you choose to tack your pool run onto your swim, you’ll have that much more time to get rid of your googlie-eyes before you are seen in public. (And in TriDiva’s case, this is much needed and appreciated!)

Happy recovering!

Ironman Arizona '07--The RUN

Only a marathon left. This day was going fast!

Right off the bat, I had to use the porta potty. Luckily, there was one just after exiting transition. I felt like I wasn’t going very fast. I stopped at all of the aid stations to make sure I got all the calories I could from their cups of Gatorade (the yummy yellow kind now, horray!) and part of a banana ever 3rd aid station.

The thought of eating another gel made me want to puke.

The course was 3 figure-8 loops, which I liked. It made it mentally easy to break it down, and I got to see my cheer squad. A lot. And eventually I got to see all of my friends, too, as I lapped them.

My mantra for the first loop? Just chill. Enjoy the scenery and sneaking up on my cheer squad. I don’t believe anything is cooler than deciding to do a crazy workout and having thousands of people around to help you do it. Strategically placed porta potties. Gatorade when you want it. Water. Food. Everything’s out there so you can get what you need and continue on your journey. When I would go for long runs in Phoenix, I’d have to wait until it was dark outside, so if I had to use the bathroom, I could hide in someone’s hedges and go. Or, I’d drive around, figure out which houses were under construction, had porta potties in the front yard, then wait until Sunday, when nobody would be working, to do my long run. No fun at all.

After completing the first loop, I decided my mantra for the second loop would be: Just chill. Yes, the same mantra. I figured I was at a pace I could hold, and considering I had never ever run more than 20 miles before, I wasn’t sure if I could ever push it and finish. Better play it safe.

My cheer squad was all over the place. Just after I crossed the bridge at Scottsdale Road, where I had to put my visor on backward since the wind was trying hard to knock it off my head and I didn’t want to loose it to the lake, I saw them. Cheering like maniacs. Then I saw them again under the Mill Avenue bridge. Then I saw them again on the North side of the bridge. And then I saw two of my friends walking together. They cheered for me.

Coachancé gave me a double “high 5!” and, here’s where biotch, well, um, “in the zone” TriDiva comes in. My thought at this point? Please, don’t let him run along side me. I will then realize how dreadfully slow I am going and be sad. Don’t let him jog beside me. Shoo!

Not a very kind thought toward the love of my life and the man who was currently carrying my ring for me in his Camelback so I could stick it on my bloated pinky as soon as I finished.

As the final loop approached, I became pretty euphoric. I AM going to be an Ironman. No doubt about it. And the coolest part? I’m going to do it before sunset just like I wanted. As long as I don’t walk.

All of that training, my cool coachancé me-specific training plans, all of those psycho runs in the Santa Monica mountains. Including that one time where I freaked out because I got dehydrated and got the freezies, but was instantly restored when I saw my coachancé cheering for me by the car as I finished. He has been cheering for me for months, and has cheered for me during every workout. I am so blessed, and all of those moments are culminating to this point, and I only have less than 9 miles left! I want to cry.

But first, I have to poo. Every time I’ve eaten a banana, I’ve gotten the most horrendous stomach cramps about 2 minutes afterward, fart a minute after that and feel better. But I don’t really want to eat anymore. I don’t want to wait in line for a porta-potty, but I can’t help it. There’s no way I’ll make it another mile without one.

For heaven’s sake! Get out of the porta-potty! I’m on a mission! Don’t mess this up for me people!

I’m in! I go to the bathroom, then I’m back out on the trail. (See the pissyness coming through?) I smile for the camera I’ve passed 2 times already. The biggest, most victorious smile I can muster.

Hey! There’s my Ironcheersquad again! They’re everywhere!

Apparently, my padre was surprised that I was still running. Well, duh! I wasn’t going to walk. I did train for this!

The little inspirational quotes on all of the mile markers came in handy now. “Pain is only weakness leaving the body.” Hell yea! And I don’t know if any of them actually said this, but I like “pain is only temporary”, and my other mantra (besides today’s “just chill”): “it’s supposed to hurt”. So no wussing out! Bring on the pain!

I was a little sad I’d never be coming back around this part of the run loop again. This was the last time I’d pass the aid station with the man with the loud speaker under the bridge. The last time I’d come over Scottsdale road and almost get blown into the lake.

All of the volunteers and other Ironcheerers kept saying, “Good pace! Keep it up!” which made me incredibly happy. Even if they said it to everyone, I was only concentrating on me now. Oh! There’s my cheer squad again! I’m too tired to smile. It takes too much of the energy I need to drive to my legs. Sorry.

A volunteer near mile 24 asks me if it’s my last lap, after saying, “Great pace!”

YES! I say.

“You’re going to finish early!”

Woo hoo! Whatever that means. But yes, I’m going to finish before sunset, darn it! Push it TriDiva, you’ve only got 2 miles to go! I haul as much bum as I can. The last 5 miles, I couldn’t eat anything at the aid stations. My stomach was sick of eating. And sick of processing everything. And probably wanted to cross the finish line more than my brain at this point.

Then I begin to cross the Mill Avenue bridge. This is it. It's all over. Unless I trip and fall on my face and break my entire body, I'm going to be an Ironman.

I kick it in. The crowd gathered around the chute is going wild for everyone. It is amazing. I hear coachancé and hairystomach screaming. This is it. I am done. It’s all over. I am an Ironman. I didn’t pause to take in the crowd. Oh, no. I sprinted down that chute. The girls at the end barely had enough time to grab ahold of the tape after the guy in front of me blew through it so I could get my finisher photo breaking the tape as well.

Oh crap! What am I gonna do to cross the finish line! Coachancé asked me about it before and told me I should think about it. I do a very generic, but empowering fists in the air pose as I run through the tape.

It’s over. Done. Kaput. I am an IRONMAN!