The blog-time continuum is about to get disrupted, as I have yet to finalize the post about last week’s (two weeks ago?) February vacation, where we did little more than ski, eat, and drink with Mr. P’s family for a solid week. But today was the Hyannis Marathon and I wanted to write about it while it was still fresh in my mind (and legs).
I had viewed Hyannis Marathon as a potential Boston Qualifying run. I would have needed to finish in 3:37 (about 3 minutes under the official qualifying time for women my age) to actually be able to register … and honestly, it was a crapshoot. Aside from 2 progressive long runs and some speedy intervals in my regular weekly miles, I didn’t do any specific road marathon training, and I even skipped runs so I could go XC/Alpine and otherwise frolic in the woods. My road half-marathon and 5K times indicate I have the fitness to run well under 3:37, but I fully admit to not putting in the proper training for a road marathon. I hoped my ultra-training base could carry me through.
And it almost did. I finished in 3:42… I was on pace (or below) for 18 of the 26 miles, and I fought an insanely gusty headwind for some of the course. Can’t complain about the weather otherwise, and my digestion/energy preserved. My legs simply got tired and sore and I couldn’t push through. I didn’t walk at all, but fell to a 9 minute mile pace in the eight miles, which was enough to sink me.
Pushing through Hyannis wind, somewhere around mile 15
I did finish 1st place Filly (filly=woman over 140 pounds). Ha. When I previously blogged about this race, I mentioned my disdain for the concept of a “Filly Division” and my intention to bypass it. However, my body is still clinging fiercely to its winter coat of fat, and when I weighed myself yesterday morning, I thought “Screw it. Filly it is.” So I changed my registration and winded up 1st Filly.
The Filly from Philly!
I had floated the idea to Mr. P back in France, on a ski lift. “Maybe I should switch to Filly?” Little Boy was intrigued by the word, and when explaining it to him I joked lightly about “It means I’m a big fat lady.”
Obviously a joke, but Little Boy seemed to remember my wording.
Confession: I have an unhealthy relationship with whipped cream. I call it “whipped crack.” I cannot be in the same house with whipped cream without repeatedly emptying the contents into a ramekin and licking it off a spoon. I have begged Mr P. (who likes an occasional dollop on his ice cream or fruit) to stop buying it… but in response to always finding the whipped cream gone, he just buys more. Two, three cans a week.
So after dinner one night, I was fixing myself a ramekin of whipped cream when Little Boy wondered into the kitchen. He probably heard the telltale noise of the cream being dispensed.
“Mommy?” he said. “Maybe the reason you’re a Filly is because you eat so much cream.”
Little Boy said it, of course, in the most helpful, supportive way ever. Like it as an intervention. And he’s probably totally right. I cracked up.
I am glad I tried another road marathon, but honestly, these things are not for me. I am hankering to get back into the woods for some slow and steady ultra training.
Big thanks to Mr. P and Little Boy for coming to Hyannis with me. We had a blast in a salt-water swimming pool, watching some good cable TV, ate some delicious sashimi, and had an overall nice weekend.
