Jen vs. the Surf City USA Half Marathon - Feb. 2, 2014

My first huge running event does not disappoint me.  In fact, it actually reminds me of how much fun organized chaos can really be.  Thinking about 20,000 runners chasing each other down Pacific Coast Highway all at one time makes me laugh a little as I enter the island-themed expo tent to pick up my bib the day before the race.

Race expo by day, Tiki Bar by night.

I'm already feeling quite confident having nailed the parking situation.  I've got a couple of side streets that I know I will be able to count on the next morning.  (I try to stay away from mass parking lots at all costs.)  I grab my bib and exchange my long sleeve tech tee for a larger size - they usually don't care if you do that.    The bag they give me is outstanding, and will look great filled with groceries from Trader Joe's. 

The expo itself impresses the heck out of me - booths everywhere.  Free samples flying around.  Cool innovative running products that leave me questioning whether or not I need to buy compression socks and sleeves for just my two legs, or both legs and both arms?  Or maybe just one and one; one leg and one arm?  I can ask around.  See what the others are doing.  I see a Dunkin' Donuts booth which perplexes me (because we're supposed to be athletes here, aren't we?) but realize it's all about the coffee.  I grab two free stickers for my car - a 13.1 Surf City USA sticker and regular old 13.1 sticker (from the Racegrader booth) and figure bragging is warranted.  13.1 is a lot of friggin' miles.  I want everyone to know I do this.

The next morning I wake up at 3:00am and get there at 4:30am.  I have NO PROBLEM finding parking on the side street of my choice just a few short blocks from the starting line, and have several options in fact.  I park, then fold my seat down and grab the blanket I brought and take a nap as I wait for my 8:11am corral time.  As 7:45 approaches, I see cars frantically driving by, desperate for a spot.  One guy even thinks I'm leaving.  Yeah, in his dreams.  He doesn't notice my sweet orange running headband on my head.

We're goin' to Surf City, cause it's two to one.

I get to my corral and can't believe the throng of people. Rows and rows of port-o-johns line the street and Jan and Dean's Surf City song is blaring on repeat through a loud speaker.  As I stand with my group, freezing, I eavesdrop on a teenage dude behind me, informing his friends that he's got Skittles and Gobstoppers in his pack if they ever need any fuel during the race.  I might hit him up on that later.  I hear a group of older women next to me exclaiming about the race bling and how they're only doing this for the awesome medal.  So I'm not the only one!  I put my timing chip on my shoe and dislike it.  I'm afraid it's going to get bent or squished.  How is this better than a simple strip across the back of your bib?  I look back at Skittles and he is nowhere to be seen.  I realize people are starting to inch forward and position themselves better.  I sneak up to where the pacers are with their goal pace sign attached to a long stick.  They have to carry that thing the whole race and also keep that pace up so people who forgot their watches will know how fast to run.  What a sucky job.  I close my eyes and bask in another rousing rendition of Surf City as I grab my foot to stretch my quad.  I feel the chip crumble under my grabbing hand.  OMG!  Did I just destroy my chip?!

Laces out!

I spend the next ten minutes freaking out about my chip and looking at other people's chips to see if any of theirs have bends in them.  They do.  Some look worse than mine.  I feel better.  I just want my time recorded.  I'm going for the Beach Cities medal - you know, do three half marathons/full marathons in the series and get a fourth medal for being a go-getter.  This has gotta count.  

At 8:30 we finally start inching towards the starting line and by 8:40 we are crossing it.  It feels good to be moving.  About a minute into mile one I see a clown on stilts holding up a huge posterboard that says "13.1" but the ".1" is crossed out and he is yelling at us that there are only 13 more miles to go.  Hey, I know when I'm being mocked.  Then I hear "Twooooo girrrrlllsss for eeeeevery boyyyyyy" and decide I'm going to kill that song as soon as this race is over.

Surf City, here we come.

I relax a little as I notice all of the ridiculously idyllic scenery around me.  Palm trees.  Blue skies.  The morning is gorgeous and I regret not having my sunglasses.  Everyone is having fun.  Only two runners are yelling at each other off to the side and using the F word.  And I'm dodging hocker puddles, but it's all part of the magic.  I start noticing a lot of discarded clothing off to the side - jackets, hats, shirts.  I can't imagine letting go of my half zip long sleep running jersey from TJ Maxx no matter how hot I got.  It was such a steal.  I would definitely tie it around my waste high school grunge style.  Stumbling onward, I pick up free Clif Shot Bloks and Gels whenever they are available and stash them in my sturdy running pack for future races.  I'm that cheap.

We're goin' to Surf City, gonna have some fun.

At mile ten I am about to die, and I still have the near equivalent of a 5K left to run.  The pretty palm trees and blue skies can go screw themselves.  I see a discarded plastic rosary on the ground and wonder who lost their faith and why?  Was it severe dehydration?  Was it the pain in their knees and the fact that they paid for this torturous experience with their own hard-earned money?  I start having to rely on a sort of clumpy limpy run technique (taught to me by no one) and decide I will run for 30 seconds and walk for 30 seconds, and keep rinsing and repeating that.  I cheat during this portion of my strategy multiple times.

Two swingin' honeys for every guy.

What annoys me about this course is that they have the full marathon mile markers along part of the same path as the half marathon markers, so when you see one, you can't be sure it's one of yours until you get up close.  Having been fooled too many times, I try not to get excited when I see mile eleven creeping up.

I appreciate all of the well wishers that show up to cheer us on with their cowbells.  You can never have too much cowbell, THAT I know.  I see some people walking around with their medals and I can't wait to be done.  Jan and Dean continue to torment me with their golden oldie.  And my right hip is raging.  I usually have trouble with it when I run and walk and run and walk.  Somehow it doesn't hurt as much until I start alternating speeds and I blame it on the impact difference and angle of my body.  When you run forward you are kind of leaning forward.  When you walk you are straight up and down.  Ah, who cares about logistics anyway.  My hip is pissed.

All ya gotta do is just wink your eye.

No matter how good running is for you, too much of anything is probably bad.  Even kale.  And 13.1 miles is too much.  And yet I love the challenge.  Crossing that finish line after doing the impossible gave me such an incredibly emotional high at Honkers that I know it's worth it.  Don't worry Body, I'll let you rest for a whole two weeks after we're done.  And we'll also eat some ice cream.  I don't remember mile eleven or twelve, and who cares anyway - they're very forgettable miles.  They are the most annoying ones because they are the last ones in the way of the last mile, which is the mile you WANT.  It's the mile you look forward to.  But honestly, I had to walk a lot of mile thirteen...EVEN with the finish line in my sights.  I just didn't have much left and that's fine.

Yep, the song is still playing.

I didn't train enough and I'm not in it to win.  Just to get the medal.  Just.  To.  Finish.  I muster up some reserves for one last desperate sprint/hobble over the finish line and I tell the medal passer-outer that he is an absolute angel.  Then I grab a bag full of carby food and a banana and drag my bedraggled ass off to the side where I can sit down.  I realize that I keep getting stars in my eyes while standing upright, but can make them go away if I keep my head down below my knees.  I do this several times and am surprised at how this problem does not go away for a good ten minutes.  Having never experienced that for quite so long in my life, I get a little worried and start eating and drinking every free thing I grabbed.  Soon I'm better and just sort of trying to stretch all the pain away.  Unfortunately, it doesn't help, and instead, I feel my muscles stiffening.

I check out my medal and adore it immediately.  It is so huge and cool.  It is a freaking surfboard!  Oh man.  I reach into my bag in search of some more food and everything feels wet and sticky.  The fruit cocktail cup must have exploded.  Gross!  I wipe my hands all over my pants because let's be honest, they're going in the washing machine as soon as I peel them off.  And so am I, if I can fit.  I feel so gritty and dirty.  Like if a caveman and a homeless beggar loved each other very much and had a baby, and they let the baby roll around naked in a quarry, I would be that baby.  

When I can finally move again, I return to the expo and look up my time.  A new PR!  I'm stoked.  I grab some more free samples of granola, some sport drinks and whatever else I can find and then head over to the beach to take glamour shots of my medal in the sand.  The sun looks  absolutely amazing over the water and I take a shot of that too, and thank my lucky stars that I got to experience this. 

Buy this photo, National Geographic!

 Run time is fun time, and Surf City was a hoot.  I still cringe when I hear that song, but I also laugh.  I would definitely do this race again.  It was so well organized for such a ginormous event.  Seeing so many other race medals displayed at the expo booths gives me so much motivation as well.  I mean, what a total ploy to lure me in.  It totally works.  I grabbed a ton of postcards and ads for future races after seeing the bling they promised.  For me the medal is a tangible representation of the memory of the race, and it helps to bring me back to these moments where I feel I really lived, and participated in something that I'll always remember.  To this day I can remember many of these details like it was yesterday, but the medal is what brings back all of the emotion.  I'm grateful I get to do this.  Each race is an escape and a search and a journey all at once.  And running feels good to me for the most part.  It feels like what freedom feels like.

For the record I asked if they could put 'Half Marathon' so it doesn't look like I ran a full marathon in 2:40:45.  They said that's the name of the race whether you run the half or full.  Sweet, then I'm sure my story will change depending on who I'm showing this little darlin' to. 

Jen vs. the Honkers Motivational Half Marathon - Jan. 12, 2014

I feel bold flying south down the 405 freeway before 5am, dressed in running gear.  It feels almost like a dream.  Heavy fog surrounds my car, hanging low on the road, causing me to slow waaaay down on the exit ramp to the 105 E.  I can hardly see twenty feet ahead, and I'm freezing.  I crank up the heat and my Civic becomes a warm, comforting womb.  In a few hours I will be reborn into a life where I have completed a half marathon.  13.1 miles.  Last year I would have laughed at that idea in the face.  If ideas even have faces.

It's a foggy run-derland.

Los Angeles traffic rules when the city is asleep.  I arrive at the designated Kaiser Permanente parking lot in record time and soon I'm in line for a port-o-potty.  The sinks they have set up confuse me and I have to ask how to get the water to come out.  And then, like a pioneer, I'm pumping a pedal with my foot to wash my hands.  30  minutes to race time.  I walk towards the lights flooding Riverdale Park in Anaheim and enjoy the ambience.  I observe everyone's pre-race procedures and stare in disbelief when I see people running around.  I guess I can understand wanting to warm up but go pump some sink water for cryin' out loud.  You're about to run all the way to Sprinkles and back.  (A few days earlier I calculated that 13.1 miles from my apartment would be like driving to Beverly Hills and then coming home.  I remember how I felt when I made that discovery.  Deep seeded regret.)

Bowing to the mother Honker spaceship.

 I carefully stretch a few leg muscles and I'm done.  I decide I'm not making any more unnecessary movements, not burning one more calorie.  I'm gonna need every ounce of whatever is stored in my body from last night's Kraft Macaroni & Cheese Spirals dinner.  I watch a group perform a yoga warm-up together in the center of the park.  Then they herd us to the starting line, and my excitement returns.  I walk past the table with all of the finisher's medals piled on top of it.  I am immediately disappointed.  The marathon medal is twice as big as the half marathon medal.  Well, shoot.  Guess I'm coming back next year and running twice as far...I try not to think about it.  I'm still here to kick off a year of amazing, immaculate change.  Of hope and of accomplishment.  And of course, safety.  I adjust my Road ID bracelet and think about the fact that this half marathon could in fact kill me.  I wonder if it has the cojones to do such a thing.  To an innocent, wide-eyed gal wearing braids who is only trying to do something positive in her life.  I decide it won't even come close to killing me.  Because I'm going to kill it first.

A woman sings the national anthem at the starting line.  A man gets on the mic next and asks us to raise our hands if this is our first half marathon (I raise my hand), or first marathon.  And then disaster hits.  I have to pee again.  This happens to me sometimes.  I supposed I over-hydrated the night before and throughout the morning.  I hear the man say there are port-o-potties along the route but I don't hear which miles they are located at.  Oh well.  Time to run!

Pretend you're running from zombies, I tell myself.

The race travels up and down the Santa Ana River Trail.  A guy runs alongside me and says, "Beautiful run!  This is a beautiful run, isn't it?"  He seems so excited to be there, so enamored with his surroundings...with running in general.  It's catchy.  As I try to forget my bladder, I look around me at all of the runners, all of the scenery, and I'm happy.  I'm jogging, I'm warming up, and I'm having a blast.  And there is a medal in my future.  I look down at my cheapo Armitron watch timer and see I've run a little over 3 minutes.  Best to not look at that watch again for a good long while.  Since this whole thing is an experiment, I have no real idea what to expect in terms of what my end time will actually be.  And for this first race at least, I don't really care.  I just want to cross the finish line upright instead of crawling.  I think I can pull this off.  Magazine articles speak of maintaining a respectable finish line etiquette, as though I might actually have the option to do a bunch of arrogant push-ups at the end, or showboat my way through making obscene hand gestures.  No need to discourage me from that sort of behavior.  I anticipate not really having enough glycogen left to muster a smile.

The Honkers refrain from offering their support.

I hunker down and attempt to enjoy the environment all around me.  The fog is lifting and the sun is rising, and I look to my right and see the Honkers that this race is named after.  The Canada geese look like they could care less that I own a fanny pack that is designed not to bounce.  Ahead is mile marker one.  I rejoice!  I run past a volunteer and ask where the first port-o-potty is.  She has no idea.  My bladder is not happy with that answer.  I keep going.  Mile marker two gives me another volunteer that is not familiar with the toilet schematics either, and I press on to mile marker three where I see (drumroll)...a john!  Thank GOD.  Unfortunately there are two women ahead of me in line so I lose about ten minutes waiting but it's worth it.  I continue from there empty and free of discomfort.  Excellent.

A serene view of a muddy overpass.

I start to notice that most of the area around me is muddy and dead looking.  I wonder what this landscape looks like in the spring or summer.  Beethoven's 9th Symphony blazes through my iPod and I'm in love with my special Honkers playlist, which I devised the night before.  I've got classical, I've got dubstep, I've got movie themes and my own personal anthem (see sidebar).  I'm set for a very enjoyable run.  I do turn it off whenever I hit a mile marker however, because I love hearing the support from the volunteers, handing out water and cups of some sort of sweet energy drink, and telling me how awesome I'm doing.  They have even written inspirational messages and drawn cutesy pictures in chalk all along the trail near many of the mile markers, making me feel even more special, just for showing up.  They laugh at my jovial banter and make as much noise as they can as each runner stumbles past, and I love the attention.  It's awesome.  And I'm still feeling okay.

Thanks, trail!

 

Soon I'm coming up on 60 minutes of running and I know I need to eat something.  I have wondered about how this would play out - I've only tried simultaneous running and eating once before at the gym a week prior and didn't experience any issues.  So I go for the free chocolate Clif Shot energy gel that I got at packet pickup.  I initially have problems ripping it open but eventually manage to create a nice sucking hole.  I squeeze some in my mouth and am surprised it looks and tastes like, and has the consistency of chocolate frosting.  It's freaking delicious.  I finish the packet and guiltily throw it on the ground.  There are empty gel packets all along the trail so I feel it's expected, but I still don't like littering.  The thick frosting makes me incredibly thirsty so I grab some water at the next mile marker (5).  I feel like I have frosting all over my mouth and face and do a big wipe with my sleeve.  That's when I see I've got the chocolate goo under some of my nails.  Man, this stuff is a mess.  But it's cool because I'm truckin' along without hitting any walls so far and if I have to eat delicious frosting to stay strong I'll make that sacrifice, you know?  I halfway suspect that packing candy corn would have done just as well without the mess, but hey, I'm a runner now.  And runners eat energy gel.  Time to get with the program, Johnson.  (I end up eating two energy gels total for this race, which is perfect.)

Hi, I'm a running lunatic!

 At this point I see a photographer crouched ahead to my left and I smile for him broadly.  Little did I know I had Angel Stadium right behind me.  I'm a big believer in angels and all things spiritual and I like to think that this picture represents my guardian angels being 'behind me' in this whole running thing.  A part of me thinks they were the ones who gave me this crazy idea in the first place, to start running in races.  I think some of our greatest inspiration comes from 'above'.  I definitely feel more productive as a human being so far.  I mean, it's Sunday morning, and instead of sleeping in and watching Roseanne reruns from my DVR, I'm outside, getting some fresh air, and doing something I consider to be amazing and impossible both at the same time.  And downright good for me.  As I move ahead I keep seeing the full marathoners (you know, the people getting the bigger medals) heading back towards me, passing me up going the opposite way.  I clap for some of them, tell a few of them "Good job!"  I receive mixed responses and I decide to quit it, and let them concentrate on their doom.  I've got bigger fish to fry.

Up ahead I see the most beautiful sight thus far - the half marathon turnaround.  That means I've made it half way!  I see a woman at a table with a laptop making sure we don't keep going straight, into the horizon, never to be seen again.  I successfully run around her, then stop to take a picture of her.  I'm just so darn happy to see her!  I decide then and there that she must be the most beloved volunteer amongst all of the half marathon runners.  Then I realize that every mile I just ran must be repeated, and I take stock of how I'm feeling physically.

Turnaround...bright eyes.

 I'm definitely getting tired, that much can be deduced.  I've also got energy gel breath, and my right hip is starting to bug me (typical).  It's going to be a long second half.  By the time I stagger up to the mile 8 volunteer tables I'm thinking, "Screw this."  A woman hands me a cup of something perfect while saying, "Looking good!  Looking good!"  I retort, "If this is looking good, I'd hate to see what looking bad looks like."  She laughs good-naturedly and heck, so do I.  This is getting to be hilarious.  By mile 9 I'm thinking I've made a huge error in judgment.  By mile 10...I hate my life.  Miles 11 and 12 are spent trying to keep the pace with two old men, one wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a Bible verse on it about God giving him strength, and the other wearing an oversized fishing hat and a fuel belt equipped with a huge bottle of red fruit drink sloshing about.  I love these guys because they keep me motivated.  They are so not giving up, and neither am I.  To be honest, I don't remember if I ever passed them or not.  I only know we ran together, and then my mind sort of went into survival mode.  

Girl with medals, here I come!

The last mile frustrates me because I have to walk a bit...in the last dang mile.  You don't walk!!!  But my hip mandates it so I oblige.  (I also look at my watch and am shocked at how quickly the time flew.)  The longest mile I've ever run finally ends in a sprint towards the finish line.  I'm surprised when I hear the guy on the microphone announce me as I run through.  "And here is number 1168...Jennifer Johnson.  Coming in strong!"  I whiz past the woman holding the medals without even seeing her.  She chases me down and gives me one.  I thank her and walk off, stunned.  I keep walking around, and I grab a banana and a bottle of water.  I also ask for one of those solar blankets so I have something to sit on.  Then I sort of lose it.  I bend over and do one of those combo cry-laughs.  Kind of like Tom Hanks in The Money Pit, when the bathtub falls through the floor.  I'm delirious and my legs feel crazy stiff.  But I'm alive!  And the medal is so pretty!

Honkers finisher medal!

 I then proceed to text everyone I know who cares that I did this race.  I receive all the congrats and support I can stand and love every moment.  I PR at 2:48:42 (because this is my first half) and five minutes later I get to watch as the first full marathoner comes through.  The guy ran a full in the time I ran a half.  That is hardcore.  OK, he can have a bigger medal.  I get it now.  Twice as fast, twice as big.  I get it.  Suddenly my smaller medal seems just right and I sling it around my neck with pride, where it remains as I stop at Starbucks on the way home for a celebratory grande decaf Pumpkin Spice Latte, no whip.  Every time I stop walking or moving, my legs feel stiffer so I make it a point to keep the blood flowing for as long as I can before the car ride home.  Luckily traffic is not too horrible and I'm home in less than an hour.  I immediately continue stretching and admiring my medal.  And eating.  Then I take a hot bath and get into my pajamas, because let's be real.  I'm in for the day.  I've done more than any human should do within a 24-hour period.  I'm good.  I immediately Google if drinking wine after a race is good for the muscles.  Turns out it's not for half marathoners.  This news comes as kind of a huge blow, but I take consolation in the fact that I have a medal with ducks on it.  I proceed to change my bed sheets and do a load of laundry.  A few hours later my knees begin to hurt, which alarms me because I never experienced any knee pain during the race (nor do I ever when I'm training).  I pass this off as an overflow of lactic acid from my muscles, settling into all the nooks and crannies in my legs, and decide I need to invest in a good foam roller soon.

Insanely delicious after 13.1.

In the end, I feel illuminated.  I feel like I can do anything for the first time in a looooong time.  I used to feel that way as a foolhardy schoolgirl, but adulthood can wear you down.  Would I do this race again?  In a heartbeat.  It was so well organized, very simple, very peaceful, and very memorable.  I really do think I may do the full marathon next year (after ample training), but for now, half marathons may be my thing.  There is nothing like passing the finish line after 13.1.  And you never forget your first.  I look at that medal and the feelings come back to me.  I will never forget this experience for the mere reason that it was full of discoveries.  Full of so many awesome moments of possibility and enlightenment.  I don't pretend that it wasn't difficult.  It was sheer torture at times, but I think that's what I liked about it.  Because I persevered!  I didn't die!  I found out what I was made of, and it's pure diamonds baby.  I'm tough as diamonds.  And definitely tougher than Honkers.

   

My Honkers Results - Click for a larger view.