Daddy-daughter running diaries

Not long after I published my mushy Mother’s Day post, a good friend—and loyal blog reader—of mine pointed out that I sure as heck better write something equally sappy to commemorate Father’s Day. Of course, I was already planning to do so because (a) my dad is awesome and deserves mad props for his awesomeness, and (b) writing this blog post was much cheaper than buying and mailing a card. (Thanks for teaching me how to budget, Dad!)

My dad and I chillin' like movie stars in SoCal (Brad Pitt is taking the picture).

My dad and I share much more than just our good financial sense. From him, I inherited my charming foot deformity, my taste for anchovies and green olives, and, perhaps most notably, my insatiable desire to win at everything. As a pro football coach, he pretty much has to be competitive. And although he always emphasized sportsmanship and humility above all else, my dad definitely nurtured my innate competitive drive throughout my childhood—whether I was vying for the lead in the local children’s theatre production of Oklahoma! or a spot on the middle school math team. So, despite being raised in the age of participatory trophies and no-score youth basketball games, I developed a competitive spirit so strong that to this day, I can’t even get through a friendly game of Scattergories without a little smack-talk.

And even though cross-country was a bit outside of his wheelhouse, my dad fully immersed himself in the world of distance running to support my passion for it. If that’s not the definition of great parenting, then I don’t know what is. Here’s the “run”down (see what I did there?) of our most memorable father-daughter running moments:

A Daddy-Daughter Jog Down Memory Lane

1996 (summer) – I enter my first 5K road race. My parents also enter the race. After leaving my mom in the dust, my dad and I set out on a joint mission to conquer the eight-to-ten-year-old female age division. By the midway point, I am whining and complaining so much, you’d think it was an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. Knowing full well that my drama queen antics are all for show, my dad risks a CPS investigation as he basically drags me through the final mile. Just as he predicts, my tears magically disappear when I see the huge throng of spectators gathered around the finish. I sprint across the line, win my age group, and receive my first-ever gold medal. From that moment on, I am in love with running.

1996 (fall) – My dad lets me race his offensive linemen in practice drills in hopes that they might be motivated by the threat of getting beat by a third-grade girl. I am oddly satisfied by my repeated victories over a group of 300-pound men.

2002 – It is the morning of my very first high school cross-country meet and I am a nervous wreck. It also happens to be school picture day, and in the midst of dealing with a Stage-5 Hair Crisis—trust me, curlers never work the way you want them to—I almost forget to pack my race bag. When I finally get to school, I make the horrifying discovery that in my rush to get out the door, I forgot to bring a sports bra. I immediately go to the office to call home. My dad answers the phone. My face burns red with embarrassment as I explain my predicament in panicked whispers. Ten minutes later, my dad shows up at school with the necessary equipment wrapped discreetly in a plastic bag.

2004 – My dad is coaching in Europe, and my family and I visit him over spring break. I am right in the thick of training for my sophomore track season. Because he does not want me to get kidnapped by a group of Euro-thugs in a Taken-type scenario—although, for the record, Liam Neeson ain’t got nothin’ on my dad—he insists on accompanying me on all of my training runs. He enacts the rule that I must stay within his sight at all times, so I end up doing a lot of back-and-forth running. This seemed overprotective and annoying at the time, but in hindsight was actually very loving and sweet.

2005 – For the second year in a row, my dad spends hundreds of dollars to take me to California so I can compete in the Footlocker West Regional Cross Country Championships. My race performance is mediocre at best, but he knows I gave it my all and offers lots of congratulatory praise nonetheless. Afterwards, he tries to ease my disappointment by devising a completely skewed, wholly inaccurate mathematical calculation proving that I am actually one of the top 50 high school runners in the United States. Also, he buys me a Tommy’s chiliburger.

2007 – It’s my freshman indoor track season at the University of Montana. I’m set to run the 800 meters in a meet at the University of Idaho, which happens to be in the middle of butt-effing nowhere. My dad doesn’t even think twice about making the five-hour trip to Hick Town, USA, to watch me run for two whole minutes. In his rush to get there in time for the race, he neglects to fuel up and runs out of gas midway through the drive. Without a moment’s hesitation, he gets out of the car, and—dressed in jeans and a leather jacket—begins jogging down the interstate toward the next exit. A nice young man takes pity on him and gives him a ride to the closest gas station. He makes it to the track just in time for the 800. A local sports writer is so impressed by this story that he later pens an entire column about it.

2010 (spring) – I’m set to run the 800 in one of the most competitive track meets of my college career: the Rafer Johnson/Jackie Joyner-Kersee Invitational. The meet takes place in Los Angeles—my dad’s old stompin’ grounds. I’m pretty sure my coach has fudged my entry time so I can run in the fast heat. To get myself in the psychological state necessary to compete against women with thighs the size of my torso, I repeatedly tell myself that (a) I am a badass and (b) as such, I can definitely keep up with these chicks and their massive quads. Once I hear my split at the 200-meter mark—27 seconds, the fastest I have ever run 200 meters, period—I realize that my plan is effed. I blow up hard core at 500 meters and finish dead last. My dad commends me for taking a risk and tells me it’s good experience to race against such a competitive field. Also, he buys me a Tommy’s chiliburger.   

2010 (fall) – It’s my senior cross-country season at UM, and we’re on our way to one of the biggest meets of the season: NCAA Pre-Nationals. For some odd reason known only to the NCAA and possibly Dr. Phil, the Division I cross-country championship course was built in the boondocks of western Indiana and is only accessible by a series of windy backwoods two-laners. My dad has traveled all the way to the Hoosier State to watch me compete. I have no idea how to direct him to the course, so I suggest that he follow the team van. He is staying at a hotel a few miles up the road from ours and plans to jump on the freeway as we approach his exit. Despite my moronically vague descriptions of our location—“Um, we’re, like, on this road that is next to, like, another road...oh, and the roads have lines on them!”—my dad somehow manages to perfectly time his freeway entrance, sliding right in behind the team vehicle in the legendary maneuver that forever will be known as “The Merge.”

2013 – I’m now a full-blown has-been, and I’m running in my latest community road race—a 10K in Polson, Montana. When I pick up my race packet, I find out that the 10K course is actually just two loops of the 5K route. I also find out that there are approximately six people registered for the longer distance, half of whom are men over the age of 50. After the starting gun—er, whistle—goes off, I am running alone within seconds. To help me deal with this double-whammy of monotony (repetitive course + no competition), my dad drives the car alongside me at various points throughout the race. He and my mom cheer just as enthusiastically as they would if I were pulling ahead of Kara Goucher in the Olympic Trials.

So Dad, thanks for always being there to cheer me on no matter what. I can always count on your congratulations, encouragement, and support—whether I win a major award or just a participatory trophy (although for the record, I hate participatory trophies and think they are slowly destroying America). Love you! 

Liar, liar, spandex shorts on fire

Fifty percent of runners admit to occasionally fudging their PRs, and the other half are liars.

Actually, I guess that makes all of us liars. Which is why it should come as no surprise that my opening sentence was, in fact, a lie. I totally pulled that statistic out of Sarah Palin’s brain thin air.

Some might argue that lying is simply part of human nature. When was the last time you made an honest statement about your weight? What about your age? Your salary? Average number of drinks per week? The number of fun-size Milky Ways you’ve eaten today?

But seriously, how many times have you rounded down a race time when someone asks you how you did? I remember the day I finally broke 2:14 in the 800 meters for the first time. Well, technically I didn’t break 2:14. I ran an altitude-adjusted 2:13.98. But that didn’t stop me from telling anyone who would listen that my PR was 2:13.

I ran my first half-marathon a couple of months ago. My real time? 1:28:34. But that didn’t account for water stops. Or my infamous Porta-Potty fiasco. Or time lost on turns. So really, my time was closer to 1:28. And if you adjust for heat and altitude…

I’ve learned that all Facebook statuses relating to run/race times must be taken with a grain of salt. I’m sorry, but when you claim to have run three miles in 17 minutes when I know for a fact that you gave birth two months ago, I’m going to call bullshit.

When I see you at a local 10K three weeks later, a teeny-tiny-intsy-weentsy-itty-bitty part of me will wonder whether your claim was legit, and I will momentarily fret over the possibility of being beaten by someone who, mere weeks ago, was carrying a full-grown human infant inside of her body.

Then I will beat you by four minutes and feel good about it. Later, I will feel guilty and stupid for celebrating my victory. (Although the real victory is that I can celebrate with a post-race beer without having to worry about it tainting my breast milk.)

The bottom line is that numbers are a slippery slope. But there are certain people in this world who aren’t afraid of testing that slope, even if it means collecting a few mud stains along the way. And those people are politicians.

Political figures are always up for a good lie. I think it’s their way of gauging the intelligence of their constituents. Some lies are vague and inconsequential. Nobody seems to care when politicians vow to “do the right thing,” or “fix the system in Washington,” or “create new jobs.” We all know that these guys, if elected, won’t make much headway on any of these promises.

Instead, they will probably father illegitimate children, misappropriate campaign funds or have extramarital relationships with White House interns. And then they will lie about it.

So, by way of deductive reasoning, if runners are liars and politicians are liars, then politicians who run must be ultra-super-duper-mega-liars.

When vice-presidential candidate Paul Ryan claimed that he had run a “two-hour and fifty-something” marathon in a recent radio interview, runners everywhere perked up their ears with great interest. And skepticism.

If you’re reading this blog, you probably know why Ryan’s statement raised so many eyebrows: because running a sub-three-hour marathon is hard. I mean, I barely dipped below 1:30* in my half-marathon, and I’m a pretty good runner**.

Unfortunately for Ryan, confirming the falsity of his marathon time was even easier than confirming the paternity of the Schwarzenegger housekeeper’s son. If Ryan really were a sub-three-hour marathoner, he probably would have been aware of a little thing called race results.

Why he thought he could get away with it is beyond me. Contrary to popular belief, runners are interested in lots of things besides running—including presidential elections. It didn’t take long for the government watchdogs at Runner’s World to call shenanigans on Ryan’s claim. All they had to do was dig up some old race results.

What really gets me is the degree to which Ryan exaggerated his time. Knocking off a minute or two is one thing. I could even forgive rounding to the nearest five minutes. But misstating your PR by more than an hour? That’s just plain dumb!

Ryan’s only saving grace is that (1) most Americans don’t give a hoot about marathon times, and (2) his lie has been overshadowed by even more egregious fabrications, such as Rep. Todd Aiken’s imaginative take on the female reproductive system.

Ryan might lose a few supporters in the running population. He might even inspire a new vocabulary word in the running jargon handbook. (“You ran a 19-minute 5K last weekend? You’ve got to be Pauling me.”)

But, for most voters, Ryan’s stretch of the truth probably won’t be the deciding factor when they cast their ballots in November.

* Has been confirmed by documented evidence.

**Questionable at best.

This, not That

Five months into my half-marathon training, I have come to a terrible conclusion: I’m turning into That Lady.

You know the lady I’m talking about—we’ve all seen her, or her male counterpart, That Guy.

They’re the way-too-serious recreational runners who cruise down the local river trail dressed in head-to-toe tech gear: compression socks, arm sleeves, moisture-wicking visors, GPS watches, hydration belts, Breathe Right strips.

In college, my teammates and I used to make fun of them. Of course, most of us were too poor to afford any sort of gear to supplement the oversized sweats and T-shirts we were issued at the beginning of the season. But come on, nothing makes you more legit than running a Division I college cross-country workout in a grey cotton T-shirt that was made for the world’s fattest cross-country runner.

So anyway, now that I have a real-ish job, I have been able to add to my gear arsenal. When someone suggested that I try GU in order to combat the “ugh” feeling that I experience at around mile eight of my long runs, I went to the store and bought a whole bunch of GU packs.

And just like that, I became That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts before long runs.

The only problem was that ingesting the GU mid-run caused an unfavorable reaction in my GI tract. My first thought was, “Shit—did I check the expiration date on that mayonnaise?”

Turns out, Best Foods had nothing to do with my mishap. I had completely overlooked the fact that GU is supposed to be consumed with water. Otherwise, you don’t digest it properly. Rookie mistake.

Soon, I was That Lady who stuffs GU packs in her shorts and plans her runs around designated water stops. I even considered planting water bottles along my routes.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. If you’ve ever Googled “Public water fountains in [insert your town here],” then you most likely have played the role of That Lady or That Guy at some point in your life.

Right around the time when I was researching algebraic equations that could help me determine the water and GU intake intervals that would maximize my energy levels, I realized that I had gone too far.

When I started training for this stupid race, the goal simply was to finish. Once I got a couple of long runs under my belt and realized that I was definitely capable of finishing 13.1 miles, the goal was to crack the top 10.

By the time I was crunching numbers like a tax accountant with a meth problem, I was determined to win at all costs.

The thing is, I’m the kind of person who can drive herself insane over the most minute details of a race—stuff that has nothing to do with fitness or preparation.

The 800 meters was bad enough. During my warm-up routine, my mind was usually consumed by a continuous stream of ridiculous worries. Should I wear tights or not? Is my ponytail too high? Do I have a visible panty line? Is Dancing With the Stars on tonight?

And that’s only for a two-lap race. Multiply it by, oh, 26, and you can see why I so vehemently resist becoming That Lady. My obsessive personality can’t handle That Lady.

Therefore, I’ve decided that I shall henceforth be known as This Lady. This Lady eats GU whenever she feels like eating GU. This Lady doesn’t give a rip about VPL. And This Lady is going to kick some serious ass next weekend.

Buyer's remorse

If you’ve ever been shopping in a supermarket, I know you’ve made at least one impulse purchase in your lifetime. My usual weaknesses generally fall under one of two categories: chocolate and Cosmopolitan Magazine.

This weekend, however, I expanded my repertoire of rash commercial transactions. On Saturday morning, I impulse-bought 10 kilometers.

Actually, to be more accurate, I impulsively agreed to register for a Saturday morning 10K race while (slightly) under the influence of a Friday evening microbrew.

As you might recall, I have never raced a 10K. In fact, six miles is on the far-right side of my normal training distance bell curve. One might even consider it an “outlier.” (That one was for my high school Algebra II teacher, who always insisted that math would eventually come in handy in my everyday life. It took eight years, but there you go, Mr. Hammond.)

What made my decision all the more surprising (and stupid) was the fact that I was fully aware of what this particular 10K race entailed: a roughly one-mile climb up a mountain trail just minutes into the race.

I know that many runners wouldn’t bat an eye at such a course. But I am not ashamed to admit that I am not that hard core. I don’t like dirt. I’m not a fan of rocks. And mile-long hills? Not really my style.

Remember, I’m an 800 runner. (Sorry…a retired 800 runner. I’d probably have to be a few microbrews in the hole before I’d agree to run one of those again.) The point is that I am naturally drawn to flat, hard, predictable running surfaces. Cement, asphalt and rubber are some of my all-time favorites.

Suffice is to say that Saturday’s race pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone. I showed up hoping to see at least one—just one—person at the starting line that I knew, for a fact, I could beat. But unlike my last racing endeavor, there were no old men in kilts, no middle-aged women in sparkly green tutus.

My heart pounded, and I started to feel a terrible twisting sensation in the pit of my stomach as panic set in. Suddenly, I felt athletically inferior to every Vibram-shod, GU-carrying, tech-fabric-wearing competitor in my immediate vicinity. That included the nine-year-old kid in the Transformers t-shirt and the eighty-year-old man in denim cutoffs.

I hung out near the front of the pack at the starting line, careful to allow any runners wearing singlets and/or racing flats to get ahead of me. I knew those people meant business, and I did not want to be the defenseless target of mid-race F-bombs when they had to go off-roading to pass me on the single-track trail.

I started out conservatively. My plan was to treat the mountain climb as an extended warm-up. You know, the kind of warm-up where you traverse several steep switchbacks while testing the structural integrity of your Achilles tendons.

Well, that plan fell apart about halfway up the incline, when I was forced to choose between walking and rupturing a calf muscle. During my walk period(s), I came up with a new plan that involved sucking it up and finishing while maintaining a safe and prudent pace.

On my way down the hill (and by hill, I mean nearly vertical and borderline-unnavigable mountain face) I made a quick assessment of whether I had a realistic shot at a come-from-behind victory.

In the distance, I could barely make out the form of a runner sporting a pink tank top and a bobbing ponytail. Using the basic rules of logic, I narrowed the possibilities down to two scenarios: I was either getting my butt kicked by some kind of badass-renegade runner lady or a dude who was incredibly comfortable with his sexuality.

I crossed the finish line and limped to the end of the chute, where I handed my tag to a race volunteer. (At least, I’m pretty sure I did. Apparently there was no record of me finishing, although I’m pretty sure the unrelenting pain in my back, thighs, glutes and feet provides sufficient proof that I did not imagine the whole thing.)

Then I sat down. Once my legs had stopped twitching involuntarily, I started stretching and massaging my calves. Even though the race had been, for the most part, pure hell, I was glad I made myself do it.

I finished (or at least I'm claiming to have finished) third overall for women, which according to my calculations, makes me 1/3 badass-renegade. (There you go, kids. Another practical application for math.)

Sound track

Back in my high school track days, there were two voices I could always hear above the noise of the crowd during a race: my coach’s and my mom’s.

In honor of Mother’s Day, I would like to share a story with all of you. It involves my mom, a camcorder and the 800 meters.

Now, my mom is a football coach’s wife, which means she’s had plenty of practice in the art of obnoxious cheering. Over the years, she has developed a superb yelling voice that carries for miles and can be heard above even the most rambunctious of football crowds.

In general, track and field fans aren’t pegged as a particularly rowdy bunch, but my mom always wanted to make sure I could hear her shouting my name over the masses. Especially when I was right on the heels of a distance stud who had a national title to her name and had never lost a race on Montana soil.

It was a nail-biter that came down to the last fifty meters. With 200 to go, I surged ahead, thinking I was about to hand a freaking Montana running legend her first loss inside state boundaries—on her home track, no less.

I heard my mom screaming for me all the way down the homestretch, but in the end my premature move came back to bite me in the tukkis. My competitor lurched ahead of me just before the finish line, and my dreams of statewide running glory were dashed against the rocks.

Still, it was my most exciting race to date, and I couldn’t wait to go home and watch it on film.

My mom was always good about filming my big races despite the fact that she suffers from an acute lack of cinematic photography skills. When she really put her focus into it, she usually did a decent job. But sometimes she got so wrapped up in the action that she completely forgot that the camera was, in fact, rolling. This was one of those times.

Here’s a short synopsis of her footage from this particular race:

Starting gunshot to 200 meters (video): Grainy and shaky, head and body appear in frame sporadically.

Starting gunshot to 200 meters (audio): “Let’s go Brooooookkkkeee!” [Loud but controlled, with the occasional “That’s it!” added in for good measure.]

200 meters to 400 meters (video): Bits and pieces of my moving legs are occasionally visible between infield spectators.

200 meters to 400 meters (audio): “Stay with her Brrroooooooooookkkkeee! Looking goooooooooooodddd!” [Voice growing increasingly shrill, with lots of high-pitched “woooooooooos” added in.]

400 meters to 650 meters (video): Quick, repeated aerial motion shots of grass in sync with arm-pumping as camera handler sprints across infield to better view race action.

400 meters to 650 meters (audio): “Ahhhh! Brooke, you’re right theeeeerrrrreeee! Go get heeerrrrrrrr! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” [Pitch approaching hearing range beyond human capability.]

650 meters to 800 meters (video): More grass and shoe shots with brief finish line shot from behind.

650 meters to 800 meters (audio): Cheering devolves into indiscernible, unintelligible words such as, “Goooooaaaawwwwwhhhiigggggeerrissssiieeeeeee!!!!!”

Back then, it was somewhat disappointing to see my extremely out-of-focus head moving across the bottom tenth of the frame as the camera dialed in on the stadium lights across the track. Now I wouldn’t trade it for all the YouTube sensations in the world.

I mean, I know how the race went—I did run it after all. But while I was running, I only got to hear little snippets of my mom’s earsplitting two-minute-and-seventeen-second shriek-fest. (Yep, I even remember what my time was. Sick, right?)

Now that her vociferous cheerleading performance has been permanently captured for all of posterity, I can go back anytime I want and reminisce about how truly awesome she was (and is).

Happy Mother’s Day, mom. And thanks for cheering.