Volunteers Keep Us Going

Somewhere just before Mile 25 of last year's Manchester City Marathon, I encountered the course's final water stop.

I'm sure I needed water. I'm sure it felt good to stop to take a drink. But I don't even remember taking a sip.

Rather, what I remember about the last water stop of the race was the warm smile and friendly face of one of the volunteers.

He was an older gentleman, who eagerly engaged me and my running partner in casual conversation.

It was more like we'd met up with an old friend at the supermarket than a stranger along a marathon course.

He joked with us and asked us questions. He paid us compliments that I'm sure we didn't deserve at that point.

He had us laughing at Mile 25. If that's not impressive, I don't know what is.

I felt as if I was the only person he was looking to help. What's remarkable about this, of course, is that he'd been doing this for hours - literally. He'd been standing at this water stop, set up behind MerchantsAuto.com stadium, handing out tiny cups of water as hundreds of runners passed by.

I have no doubt that he was as cheery and upbeat with everyone as he was with me.

Race volunteers are one of my favorite parts of any race. From a practical side, races couldn't go on without them. The Manchester Marathon alone, which will have its fourth running next Sunday, requires about 500 volunteers with duties ranging from handing out water, to providing bicycle support to helping with traffic flow and working the pre-race activities such as registration pick-up.

Some of the larger running events need up to 3,000 volunteers, some of whom are dedicated solely to cheering and crowd support.

Sound strange? I don't think so. There are points along a course that a simple word of encouragement or a handmade sign help keep me going more than any cup of water could.

I distinctly remember a woman - a stranger - standing at the corner of River Road and Union Street near the start of last year's marathon, quietly encouraging me and calling me by name. (I had my name written on my shirt.) It brought an instant smile to my face.

Scenarios like this played out over and over during the run. Each volunteer adds a little something special to race day memories.

Pick-me-ups come in all varieties, like signs people make and the kids who hold their hands out to give high-fives. Personally, I appreciate the lone volunteer who stands on a secluded part of the course clapping for hours.

A team of St. Anselm students mans the water stop just before Mile 20 of the Manchester Marathon course. I remember their enthusiasm and their laughs. They played music loudly out of a parked car, prompting runners to stop for an impromptu dance to Michael Jackson’s Beat It.

Volunteers and spectators are a special bunch. After all, we (the runners) are working toward that medal at the finish line or a new personal best time.

What do race volunteers get? They get to help runners take off their shoes, they get to hold us up when we're feeling weak, they get to hand us bottles of water and bananas to eat. They wrap us in thin foil blankets. They get to take care of us.

But Dot Callaghan of Rochester says they get more than that. She's been volunteering at the finish line of the Boston Marathon for 15 years. She helps families track their runners, answers questions - and yes, helps runners take off their shoes at the end of 26.2 miles.

She helps them find their hotels, look-up their official finishing times and track down any clothes they may have left on the shuttle bus. During the race, she serves as an information source for family members tracking their loved ones.

The day, says Dot, is both exhilarating and exhausting. It's the energy of race day that keeps bringing her back, she says.

If you've ever stood along the sidelines of a race or watched runners cross the finish line, you may know what she means. It's hard to leave a race without feeling inspired and impressed.

To volunteer for next week's Manchester City Marathon, email manchestervolunteers@yahoo.com or sign up at the event website, www.manchestercitymarathon.com.

If your want to do something a little less formal or just want to get a taste of what a race day is like, come by and cheer the runners on.

They'll be happy you did. And I suspect you will be, too.

Because I Can

I've gotten used to seeing my mom not be able to do things.

I don't mean things like mountain climbing or marathon running; I'm talking about the kind of tasks that most of us don't even think about - putting your shoes on, getting dishes out of the cabinet, brushing the back of your hair, opening jars, getting up from a chair.

The list goes on and on.

Despite her obvious physical challenges forced upon her by a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis, my mom fights fiercely to remain as independent as possible.

She drives, she works, she folds laundry. She's come up with her way of completing simple tasks, like the way she precariously balances her coffee mug at counter-level while she ever-so-carefully tips the coffee pot to slowly pour her morning cup.

Believe it or not, she's become almost an expert on carrying and opening things with her mouth. We joke about how her jaws are definitely healthy and strong.

As a family, we've been accustomed to helping her. With the kids grown, most of care-taking has naturally fallen to my dad. He cooks dinners, does the grocery shopping, cleans the house. He's taken on more than most dads I know.

I think that's why I think it was particularly startling when my dad fell into a different role this week.

My dad had a hip replacement on Thursday. Even saying those words seems strange. My dad is the strong one, the healthy one. He's the one that's belonged to a gym - and gone religiously - since I can remember. He's the one who woke up in the early morning hours to fit a workout in or took the family dog on four-mile walks.

He's certainly not the one who needs surgery and doctor visits and medication.

Apparently, the doctors didn't agree. What started as a mention of a bit of hip pain a few months ago and the slightest of limps quickly progressed to a scheduled surgery date.

On Thursday, we added another artificial joint to our family. It makes five - my mom's two knees and two hips and, now, my dad's left hip. We're on our way to becoming a bionic family or breaking some sort of record, I'm sure.

I waited for my mom and brother in the lobby of the hospital, knowing they were only a few minutes away. We loaded my mom into a wheelchair borrowed from the hospital, met up with my sister and made our way to my dad's room on the fourth floor.

It was a scene that's become pretty familiar to us. My family members - all of us - huddled at the foot of a hospital bed, usually needing to pull in some extra chairs into the tiny visiting space. We crack jokes and laugh. We don't talk much about the surgery, pain or anything like might set off the easy fainting triggers of both my sister and brother.

But this time it was notably different.

It wasn't my mom in the bed. It was my dad.

We're not used to helping my dad. And he's not used to getting help.

When he ordered soup for dinner after surgery, there was some hesitation when it came time to actually get the soup into his mouth. With tubes coming out of his hands and his movement impeded by the post-surgery pain, he couldn't easily lift the spoon from the bowl to his mouth.

I held up the spoon and asked him if he wanted me to feed him. Actually, I purposefully didn't use those words. I asked him he wanted help. Asking to feed him made him seem too helpless.

I think we did three awkward spoonfuls before he asked me - perhaps told me? - to hand him the bowl. With a few laughable comments, he grabbed on with both hands and drank from it.

Although he was in relatively good spirits, seeing my dad in a somewhat pained and helpless state was just plain weird. He was pale, he was overwhelmingly tired. It wasn't him. I left the hospital that night with a strangely heavy heart.

It wasn't the kind of feeling that meant impending doom or something particularly sad. It was more like the feeling that I'd just realized something life-changing: My parents weren't young anymore.

I know that sounds kind of crazy, given the aforementioned five artificial joints and routine hospital family gatherings. But before now, those had always been attributable to arthritis - and the fact that, only 30 years old when she had her first attack, my mom had been stricken much, much too young.

I was completely relieved when, bright and early the next day, my text message alert rang out with a message from my dad from his hospital bed. I'm feeling much better today. Love Oxycontin!

He was cracking jokes and obviously feeling much better than that weak man I'd seen the day before. That stranger I'd seen the day before.

My dad's recovery, only 24 hours in by the next time I saw him, was amazing. He showed off his walking skills with a loop around the nurses' station. Together we walked - my dad with his walker, me pushing my mom in her wheelchair.

I joked that I hoped that this scenario - with wheelchairs and walkers - was not a glimpse into the future for me. I was only half joking.

The next day, with my dad's continued improvement, the docs gave him the okay to go home. So without even a minute in a rehab facility, he happily packed up.

We'd discussed logistics for getting him home the night before. Mindful that my mom wanted to help, I gingerly suggested that she stay at home and get things ready there while I picked him up. After all, it wasn't really practical for someone who needed help to pick up someone who needed help. Simple things - like carrying his bag - would be impossible. Luckily, she agreed.

The nurse wheeled my dad down to my car and stood by (so she could "see if he remembered what I taught him") while he slowly eased himself into my passenger seat. I've watched my mom struggle into a car countless times and, again, it was odd to see my dad suddenly having the same difficulties.

Once in, we headed home - with a brief stop to drop off some prescriptions at the pharmacy. He was obviously not feeling well. He often closed his eyes, conversed with one-word answers and, generally, was not himself.

Eventually, we pulled up to their building. We unloaded the walker and reversed the process he used to get into the car. He walked - impressively for someone less than 48 hours out of hip replacement surgery, I might add - to their new apartment. And went directly to bed.

He asked for extra blankets and something to drink. He napped on and off, occasionally joining the conversation with me and my mom from the other room.

I spent the next 24 hours in a new role - my parents' caretaker. I made dinner. I picked up prescriptions. I did laundry and dishes. I served them drinks and snacks. I helped them out in and out of chairs. I washed their hair. I fetched countless items for them.

I placed my mom's wheelchair next to her electric lift chair - which my dad is using temporarily - so they could share the sliding tray table for their dinner.

It may not sound like an ideal weekend - and I wouldn't exactly say that it was - but it gave me a real sense of appreciation.

I appreciate the closeness of our family and our willingness to come together and help out when needed. I appreciate what caregivers go through every day - my dad, in his care for my mom, included. I have a greater appreciation how difficult things can be for my mom.

And somewhat selfishly, I appreciate all of those little things I can do.

I don't take for granted that I can hop out of bed without pain, that I have the ability to decide between the elevator and the stairs, that I can quickly run into the grocery store for a few items or that I don't have to worry about whether a place is fully handicapped-accessible.

If I'm thirsty, I simply go to the fridge and get a drink. It doesn't matter if my shoes don't have velcro straps. I don't need any specially created aides - giant shoe horns, leg straps, grippers - to help with simple tasks.

This weekend has shown me that my active lifestyle, even with all the craziness that goes with it, is that more important to me.

After both of my "shifts" on parent duty this weekend, I went out for a run. Admittedly, running wasn't near the top of my to-do list. I was exhausted after making sure all of the details were taken care of for my parents.

But lacing up my shoes and hitting the pavement was one of the best things I could have done for myself this weekend.

I used the time to think about how lucky I am to have my health and fitness. I took in all of the sights and sounds of a near-perfect fall day. At times, I wondered what it would like if I couldn't run. I hope that day never comes.

I've often said I run simply because I can. This weekend certainly reminded me to take advantage of every moment that I can. After all, you never know when it won't be there anymore.

Training For Training

I did it. I submitted my application to Team in Training's Boston Marathon program.

My first thought: Holy crap. What if I get in?

As I wait to hear whether I've been accepted into the program - yes, there's actually a line of people waiting to be "chosen" to run 26.2 miles and raise $3,200, imagine that! - my emotions range from excitement to plain ol' fear.

On the one hand, I'm excited to take on another fundraising and marathon training challenge. Plus, c'mon, it's the Boston Marathon. Or maybe I should say, it's The Boston Marathon. With a capital T.

Does it get better than that for a runner?

Although training doesn't start until December, I'm already in "marathon mode" - not in a sense that I'm logging tons of miles, but I'm just mentally getting ready.

Last week, I even solicited the help and advice of Manchester's TNT coach, Lauren. I plan to train with the TNT Boston team periodically (yes, I'm already talking like I've gotten in. Dangerous!), but since the runs are about an hour away, it's unlikely I'll make all of them.

Plus, I know Lauren can really help me improve.

I've watched her coach our recent TNT team. I was honestly blown away. I was over-the-top impressed with her dedication and, more than anything, knowledge. She took the time to get to know every runner - their habits, their goals, their abilities.

She suggested custom training plans and included speed workouts and strength training. She monitored their tweaks and twinges throughout training, guiding them when it was time to back off a bit and pushing them when she knew they could handle a bit more.

The result, not surprisingly, was one of the best-trained TNT teams I've ever seen. (They also totally rocked the fundraising, too, bringing in more than $30,000 for their relatively tiny 10-person team.)

I can only hope for the same success. (That is, if I'm accepted.)

As I told Lauren, I've already done 26.2, so it's not just about finishing. I know I can do that. I just want to do it better this time.

By "better" I don't necessarily mean a time goal - although I have some internal numbers rattling around in my head. I just want to be confident in my running and feel strong. I want to be healthy and smart about it.

Lauren, it seemed, was eager to jump on board, replying to my email with some suggestions to get ready for training.

That's right, I now have training for training.

Her main suggestion was to build up my base mileage. For now, she suggested running three to four times a week at three to four miles at a time during the week. My long run will work its way up to 10 miles, with a short recovery run the following day.

Quick math: I'll be logging roughly 20-25ish miles. Then, I'll increase my mid-week runs to six to seven miles per week, plus the long run. Up to 30ish miles per week. Oh, I also need to add in a couple days of strength training.

Yes, folks, that's the plan to get ready for training.

That must be the fear part kicking in now.

It's not that the miles are overly daunting - I've certainly logged that kind of mileage before, especially in the early months of the year before my bike miles make up the lion's share of my miles.

What concerns me just a bit is that I don't know what to expect once training actually starts. Just how much am I actually going to be running? And just how cold and dark and snowy will it be?

Plenty of unknowns. Have I mentioned I'm not a huge fan of unknowns?

What I do know, however, is that I trust Lauren, her advice and her knowledge. I know she won't steer me wrong - and, in fact, probably wants me to succeed and improve just as much as I do.

I guess now I just have to wait to be accepted. In the meantime, I'll start building that mileage up. Can't hurt either way.

Walk The Walk?

Applications for the Team In Training Boston Marathon program come out tomorrow. Why do I know this?

Because I have a reminder on my calendar. And I also haven't deleted the email notice from Team In Training announcing the date.

I can't deny the lure of the Boston Marathon. I can only attribute these actions to a tiny seed that was planted two years ago when I watched my first Boston Marathon from a crowded corner at Boylston and Hereford - less than a mile from the finish line.

Totally inspired, I crossed the finish line at the Manchester Marathon seven months later.

When I crossed the 26.2 mark, I wasn't sure if I'd ever want to do another marathon. I could easily have checked that off life's list, right? It's a pretty big deal to go from a non-runner to a marathoner. No one ever expects you to run two marathons.

I mean, seriously, running a marathon is really hard. There's no way around it. The training is physically hard, filled with sore knees, tired legs, loose toenails and muscle knots.

But more than anything, it's incredibly time-consuming. To do it - to do it well - you have to commit literally hours and hours to running.

You have to commit to running in rain - or, for Boston, in the snow. And dark. And cold.

You have to commit to waking up early and almost entirely giving up your Saturday mornings. You have to commit to running when you plain just don't feel like it.

You have to schedule your life around running; rather than schedule your running around life.

Knowing what it takes, I'm not sure if I'm ready to commit to that again.

Then, I think about this past April, when I took my familiar spot at the final turn of the Boston Marathon - one of nearly a million spectators who lined the streets to cheer and support runners.

There's nothing like standing at that final turn, to see the pure emotion on the runners faces - joy, pain, relief, all of it. (Here's the post I wrote about Marathon Monday 2010.)

The cheers from the crowd gave me goosebumps - and even thinking about it now makes me smile a bit.

It makes me think of my first marathon - and the pride and complete sense of accomplishment I felt as I made the final turn. It makes me remember how I spontaneously decided to wave my hands in the air as I crossed the finish line, friends and family lining the street on the last few steps. (Check out my finish line video here.)

See? There I go again. Notice I called it my "first marathon"? That implies there might be a second? Must be that seed starting to sprout again.

The idea of running Boston is certainly firmly planted in there somewhere. Like a lot of runners I know, my only realistic way to get there is with a charity number. (There's no BQ in this gal's near future!)

That means, not only would I have the challenge of the training schedule and the 26.2-mile run ahead of me. I'd also have the task of raising nearly $4,000.

Sometimes the idea of fundraising is almost as daunting as the run itself.

When I think like that, I want to give myself a swift kick in the pants. After all, through my time as a mentor for the Team In Training program, I have spent many seasons (years, really) encouraging and supporting runners.

I've eased their fears, helped them with fundraising ideas, encouraged them and showed them that they can do this. They can train for a marathon. They can raise the money.

And they do. All of them.

Part of me thinks it's time to take on another fundraising challenge. I've given plenty of time and energy to TNT. But I know time and energy doesn't pay for cancer research.

There's also that part of me that fears regret more than anything. What if, in just one short year, I'm no longer able to run a marathon. What if the decision to run or not to run is no longer mine?

I've talked the talk. Now I just need to decide if I'm ready to walk the walk. Or, as the case may be, run the run.

My Kind of Vacation

As I packed for my 10-day vacation a couple of weeks ago, I went through my checklist: bike shorts and shoes, gloves, water bottles, helmet.

I neatly folded and stacked everything I’d need for my cycling adventure in Napa and Lake Tahoe into my suitcase.

Eyeing a little extra room in my bag, I grabbed my sneakers and my running clothes. “I’m gonna bring some running stuff,” I told my TC. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” he replied.

Our vacation was planned around the Tour de Tahoe, a 72-mile organized bike ride around Lake Tahoe. But I secretly hoped to squeeze in a few running miles, too.

I’ve done plenty of exploring while running and riding, but if you’re like me, you probably tend to stick to routes you know. I know my go-to running routes by heart – the 3-miler, the 6-miler and the ambitious double-digit ones around my neighborhood.

Somehow this year, I’ve found myself evolving into a duathlete. Riding my bike started as a way to cross-train and prevent running injuries. But it’s become yet another athletic pastime that I enjoy.

Cycling is also a way to expand my comfort zone a little further. After all, a three-mile bike ride wouldn’t get me very far. Thanks to my pedal-power, I’ve been able to explore many nearby towns on two wheels.

That’s why the idea of creating a vacation around riding (with a bit of running) was particularly interesting.

My running adventures have taken me to Portland (Maine), Cape Cod, Lake Placid (N.Y.) and even Orlando to participate in half-marathons. Each time, I get a thrill out of exploring a new place on foot – even if it is a designated race route.

There’s just something about seeing something for the first time that makes the miles pass quickly. And, taking the time to step out of a car – to actually smell the air and hear the sounds – is particularly appealing.

After the series of hoops I had to jump through to get my bike to California – having a bike shop box it up, shipping it on the plane, reassembling it in a hotel room – I was set to explore. (I’ll note my running gear, which was tucked safely in my luggage on the bags-fly-free airline was much easier, and less expensive, to travel with.)

The first bit of exploring I did, however, wasn’t by bike at all. I woke up early the next morning, thanks to the fact that my body’s clock was still clearly in the Eastern time zone, and I was itching to get outside. TC sat at his laptop planning a cycling route. I, on the other hand, opted for my running shoes.

We headed off in the same direction, north along Route 29, the main highway that runs through the Napa Valley. Soon, he was out of sight and pedaling hard up a mountain. I stayed on the flat road, turning off the busier highway in favor of a quieter local road that was lined with vineyards on each side.

I took the time to breathe deeply, taking in the new scents of my new surroundings. I saw birds I’d never seen, towering mountains in the distance and, a bit to my dismay, heard a nagging rustling in the tall grass along the road. (I never looked to see whether it was a snake or a lizard or a rodent – none of which I wanted to see.)

My route took me by workers tending to vineyards and past houses (estates, really) with architecture and landscaping that we just don’t see at home. I wish I had my camera with me, but since I prefer to run light, I’d left it back in the hotel room. I’d have to settle for the pictures in my mind.

Before I knew it, I’d gone almost five miles. The out-and-back plan, since it was the safest in unfamiliar territory, would mean I’d put in 10 miles.

It’s been a while since I’ve run double-digit miles (not a good thing when I have a half-marathon on my calendar in less than a month, by the way). But at that moment, I didn’t feel any sense of fatigue or aches. In fact, I wished that I could keep going and exploring.

Luckily, my practical side – the one that knew I would pay the price for trying to crank out 14 or 16 miles – prevailed, and I turned around at the five-mile mark. My enthusiasm for the new place would have let me run forever. At least it felt that way.

I repeated the same routine the next morning with a slightly shorter route on some new roads. I followed the run with an after-breakfast bike ride of 35 or so miles.

My bike enabled me to get off the main road and see a part of the country that most tourists don’t get to experience.

A lot of people think vacation should be simply a time for rest – maybe sitting on a beach somewhere with someone bringing you colorful drinks decorated with tiny umbrellas. To me, vacation is about spending your time the way you want to.

In those moments when I was running or riding along the vineyards of Napa or the mountains of Tahoe - more than 200 in all - there’s nothing I would have rather been doing.

These runs and bike rides weren’t just training miles. They were a very important part of my vacation memories - great, great vacation memories.

Oh Tahoe, You Take My Breath Away!

Riding around Lake Tahoe is simply breath-taking. Both literally and figuratively.

Figuratively, no written description - or even pictures - could truly capture the beauty of this spot. The lake, the mountains, the tall trees. Even the sky is bluer than I think I've ever seen it.

One of my fondest memories of our time in Tahoe will be coming around a corner on a small, secluded road we found near Fallen Lake and being faced head-on with a towering mountain looking out over the lake.

It seems almost every turn has some sort of scene like that.

Literally, riding around Lake Tahoe takes my breath away. Meaning, riding at this altitude - we're at 6,200 feet above sea level - is a challenge. By comparison, that's approximately the same altitude as New Hampshire's highest peak, Mt. Washington. It's certainly not often that I do training up there.

I'd been warned that riding in altitude was going to be a challenge. TC had been here a couple of years ago for the Tour of Tahoe and described the almost unbelievable shortness of breath I'd experience almost instantly.

Drawing on his experience, we decided to spend the bulk of our trip in Tahoe to acclimate before Sunday's big ride around the lake. It's a smart move.

The hotel's info booklet has an entire page dedicated to altitude sickness - listing symptoms like headaches, dizziness and, of course, shortness of breath. It cautioned against heavy exercise. At these heights, people just aren't able to do what they usually can.

But, c'mon, we have our bikes in our room and no rental car. It wasn't like we were going to have a low-key couple of days. Plus, one of the goals of these first few days in Tahoe is to acclimate to riding at this altitude.

So we suited up and planned a 40-miler for the first day.

It wasn't going to be like the 40-milers we have at home, the ones where we pedal hard and don't usually stop. Here, we planned to use our bikes to explore the area and see parts that regular tourists probably don't experience.

Planning a route here is challenging. Roads are either very, very flat or very, very steep. And not much in between. Unfortunately, the flat options are pretty limited to a couple of major-ish roads around the lake. Not exactly ideal for cycling. And certainly not ideal to trying to ease into riding at altitude.

The steep roads shoot off in every direction from the basin where our hotel is. I'm talking really steep. The elevation maps are daunting, to say the least.

TC did his best to plan a scenic route with minimal climbs for our first ride. According to the plan, we'd have one mile-long bump to tackle somewhere around mile 10. After that, it would be pretty moderate and easy.

We woke to a chilly morning with highs only in the 40s - too cold for me to think about getting on the bike - so we took our time with a leisurely and big breakfast that would feul our ride. (As a bonus, the cooked-to-order breakfast is provided complimentary at our hotel. We definitely get our money's worth.)

Shortly after 11 a.m., when temps had reached the low 50s, we decided that we would hit the road. Gearing up was a challenge, as I'd only planned for warmer rides and hadn't packed any long riding pants.

I decided to wear a pair of long compression socks I'd picked up at the pharmacy before I left. I'd actually cut the feet out of them and economically fashioned them into a pair of arm sleeves that I planned to wear on the day of the tour.

On this ride, however, they'd be used for their original purpose. I pulled them up on my legs until they almost reached my knees. Good, that would keep me warm.

Once outisde, I was instantly chilled. I'd never ridden in temperatures like this. (I'm truly a fair-weather rider.) When I didn't need them on the brakes, I curled my fingers up under my hand to keep them warm. Half-finger gloves don't do much for warmth.

We took an access road behind the hotel to lead us to Pioneer Trail. Within the first mile, I quickly learned what TC had meant about riding at altitude. The tiniest incline - one I probably wouldn't have even noticed as an incline at home - literally took my breath away.

I gasped and huffed and puffed. Wow. They weren't kidding.

We pedaled slowly and took our time. Breathing got better, but still was certainly a challenge.

Then we reached the hill on Tahoe Mountain Road. And up we went.

My legs felt fine, but my breathing was labored and difficult. I pushed forward, breathing harder and harder. It was borderline embarrassing. I felt like I hadn't ever ridden up a hill in my life.

My lungs burned - "like razor blades were inside them," as TC described later. I wanted to stop. I really, really wanted to stop. I wanted to get my heart rate out of the red zone and my breathing back to normal.

TC talked me through it, counting down how many tenths of the mile-climb we had left.

Then, I saw the top. I could make it the rest of the way. We stopped at the stop sign at the top. I looked back down the hill. It was steep, but I'd definitely done worse. Still, that hill had kicked by butt.

Welcome to altitude riding.

The rest of the ride was spent exploring the Fallen Leaf Lake area, including a hidden waterfall, beautiful lakeside homes and a secluded lake at the end of the one-car road we'd discovered.

From there, we turned back towad Lake Tahoe and headed to the beach. We stripped off our shoes and socks and leg warmers to walk barefoot along the shore. Now this was a rest stop. I'm not really sure how long we were there - long enough for both of us to fall asleep. Imagine that, falling asleep at Mile 25 of our ride!

Eventually, we pressed onward. TC asked whether I wanted to tackle the climb. I knew exactly what he meant. This climb has been on my mind for months. It's a tough, steep-pitch, switchback-filled climb around Mile 15 of the Tour of Tahoe.

I'd explored it virtually with Google maps street-level feature and literally by car when we arrived in Tahoe. To say it was on my mind is really an understatement.

I told him to head toward it and I'd see how it went. My plan was to ride the decent gradual uphill to the climb and re-evaluate. I stuck to TC's wheel like glue up that hill. And, surprisingly, I felt pretty good.

Up to the first switchback, I told TC.

We turned a ridiculously tight and pitched turn and pushed upward. It was hard. But I took it slow, finding a somewhat comfortable gear. I got out of the saddle when I needed to, which helped a lot. (Mental note for Sunday's ride.)

We took a break a little past the planned stop. Did I want to go back down or finish out the climb? I had the harded part ahead of me - a double-switchback pitch that would surely push my legs and breathing to their limits.

I decided to go for it.

I don't remember much about the climb, actually. I remember going super-slow and pushing super-hard on my pedals. I remember gasping along the way. As soon as the final pitch was in sight, I clicked down into my Granny Gear to pull myself the rest of the way up.

Yay!

We stopped at the top to admire the view. The beach we'd just ridden from was a long, long way down. TC gave me the biggest hug I can remember getting and we celebrated with a few pictures.

Then the descent, which was a bit harrowing and scary. I was certainly on my brakes around the hair-pin turns, but rode the downhill better than I thought I would.

It was 15 miles, almost all of which was slightly downhill, back to the hotel. TC led the way and rode it hard. I struggled to keep up. My eyes were locked on his back wheel, only a few inches in front of me. I hung on, surprisingly, despite the fact that our speeds were in the 20 mile per hour range.

When we finally reached a red light in town, I got a rest. You're giving me a good workout here, I told him. When did you become such a good rider, he replied.

Yesterday we put another 30 miles on our bikes. Today we have an easier day planned - with 15 miles out to the beach, a day of reading and relaxing, and 15 miles back.

Tomorrow's the main event, the tour of Tahoe. The 72-mile ride around the lake attracts a couple thousands cyclists. I can't wait to be one of them.

Mile 2,010 (and beyond)

Yesterday I completed Mile 2,010. And 2,011.

Tomorrow, I'll probably do 2,012. Or maybe even 2,030. By the end of this week, I'll probably pass Mile 2,100.

See, even though I finally completed my personal challenge to run/ride 2,010 miles in 2010, I'm far from being done. (The fact that I'm writing this after just arriving in Lake Tahoe a few days before the 72-mile organized bike ride I have planned virtually guarantees me a hundred or so more miles this week.)

In the weeks leading up to that 2,010th mile - after I could really see the "finish line" approaching - I began to think about how I wanted the completion of the challenge to be. After all, the end was really in my hands.

Would it be on a run? Or a bike ride? At home or on vacation? Alone? Or with TC?

Would I mark the event with a celebration? Or pass through the mile like any of the other 2,009 that had come before it?

I could have easily banged out the final miles before leaving for vacation (I didn't log any miles last week - a first for any week this year). I held back a bit, rationalizing that I wanted to give my legs a bit of a rest after a high mileage week the previous week - I logged 118 miles between running and biking - and I wanted to give my legs a break before what I expected to be a physically active vacation. (In my first few days here, I've gotten in a 10-mile run, a 5-mile run and a 36 or so mile bike ride - and all those in what was going to be the restful leg of the trip.)

Soon, I realized that I'd probably hit the 2,010 mile mark somewhere in the first few days of visiting the Napa Valley. Could it have worked out more perfectly?

My trip to the Napa Valley with TC has been in the works for a while. Actually, we originally had plans on visiting Napa in April, then following it up with the Tour of Tahoe in September, but unexpected changes at work chained me to my desk for a few weeks during our planned April vacation.

So, we decided we'd just extend the September trip - visiting Napa first, then taking on the Tahoe bike challenge.

Since I'd already had a week off from running and riding, I was itching to get out and do something almost immediately. But our trip had a series of logisitical hoops to take care of first - for one, unpacking and reassembling our bikes. (Another post on traveling with bikes later, but let's just say that we hunted down a bike shop to help us out after discovering that a borrowed pair of scissors from the hotel's front desk isn't the ideal tool for the job.)

One we got settled at one of our hotels (we're already on the fourth of the trip - the final, luckily), TC and I headed out. He was on his bike; I laced up my shoes and hit the road for an ambitious 10-miler. Believe it or not, it's been months since I did a double-digit run - and the thought of the Maine Half Marathon I have on my schedule less than a month from now is a little more than daunting.

The morning 10-miler was unlike any long run I've done in a while. There's something about running in a new place - with new sights and sounds and smells - that helps me forget how far I'm going. Running alongside Napa Valley vineyards made me wish I could have kept going and going and going. (My practical side won out and I looped back for my planned 10 miles.)

The next morning, after we'd spent the night at a wonderfully private bed and breakfast, we were at it again - TC tackling some ridiculous mountain road, me running alongside vineyards. Five miles this time.

We ate a delicious breakfast prepared for us by the innkeeper and headed out again - now together, both on bikes.

To say that the area was beautiful is really an understatement. It's breath-taking. Crisp, blue sky. Towering mountains, vineyards as far as you can see. Pictures really do not do it justice.

I knew I'd hit the 2,010 mile mark on this ride. Or at least I thought so. According to my calculations, I needed roughly 35 miles to get there.

We mapped out a route, but about 10 or so miles into our journey, decided we'd change our plans - the plan now was to have no plan. We explored sideroads and saw parts of the Napa Valley that I'm sure most visitors never experience. We pedaled through Yountville and down a secluded road where we passed locals in wide-brimmed hats and farmers driving tractors.

I looked down at my odometer. We'd gone about 16 miles. Less than 20 to go.

At that moment, I consciously decided I didn't want to count miles anymore. I wanted to take in the sights and enjoy the unstructured nature of our ride - something that, thanks to a prominently placed bike computer that displays my speed and distance at all times, is rare.

I clicked a few buttons on the bike computer until it displayed the clock feature. Usually, I display my distance. The clock feature, I figured, was the least measured option I could choose.

We hooked up with the Silverado Trail (a part of which I'd run earlier in the morning) to make our way back toward the inn. We stopped to snap pictures and, for the most part, rode side-by-side and talked. (Thank you, California bike lanes.)

TC eventually asked me what I was showing for mileage - I hadn't told him that I consciously stopped tracking. (Actually, when he reads this post will be the first time he learns of it, since when he asked I immediately became curious and checked.)

I had about 5 miles to go. Our inn was nearby, and it would be close. It was no longer a guarantee that I'd hit 2,010 that day.

Then, TC asked me the question that I'd been asking myself for the past few weeks: "What do you want to do?" When, exactly, did I want to hit Mile 2,010? Today? Tomorrow? In Tahoe?

I was too close not to jump at the chance to wrap it up during that ride. Besides, the ride had been near-perfect and I knew there wouldn't be many other opportunities like this one.

My odometer clicked to 35 along a cut-through road between the Silverado Trail and Route 29, the main highway running through the Valley. I asked TC to pull over so we could mark the moment with a photo.

It wasn't the most picturesque part of our ride, surely. But it captured the moment - the sun, the cloudless, blue sky, the vineyards - and a smiling, but somewhat tired-looking me standing with my bike on the side of the road.

No real fanfare. (I confess that I thought of doing something silly, like holding my bike over my head mimicing a pic I saw of the woman who won the Mt. Washington Hill Climb - but when the moment came, I didn't do it.) TC and I high-fived and pecked. I'd done it - and I certainly couldn't have done it without him.

As always, he's encouraged me more than I ever could have imagined. Among other things, he's pushed me to do more bike miles than I thought I could do, persuaded me up hills I didn't think I'd make it up and endured my early morning alarm clock so I could sneak in some running miles during the summer heat.

After the photo-op on the roadside, we traveled the mile or so back to our inn - told you it was going to be close! We cleaned up and headed off to experience another Napa memory, a wine tasting at a small, local winery.

There, I posted my photo on my Facebook and dailymile accounts with a simple caption: Mile 2,010.

The comments and "thumbs up" started rolling in. I'm often surprised at how encouraging people can be from across the computer screen. They probably don't realize how much that ongoing support is a key to success.

Not surprisingly, my friends like to push me a bit. So it wasn't long before the question came: What next? Some even offered their suggestions. Boston Marathon? 3,000 miles by the end of the year?

Although I joked with TC that I've earned the right to hang up my sneakers and bike for the next three months, I don't see that happening. I haven't quite decided what's next - but I'm sure something will be next.

Until then, I'll take the next few days in Tahoe to challenge myself in a new setting, with a new single-ride mileage PR on the schedule. And maybe, if the mood strikes, I won't have that bike odometer staring at me for a ride or two.

Mile 2,010

Here's a pic snapped at Mile 2,010 for the year, just outside St. Helena, Calif.

Now Or Never

This is it.

My "training" for the Tour of Tahoe is done. I logged a 50-miler yesterday, which included a trip up Mile Hill (which is actually 1.25 miles long, go figure!) about 20 miles in. That climb was followed by a long, slow, grind up another hill on Route 13.

As he mapped out the ride, TC noted that it would be a good last ride before the Tahoe trip - pushing me up two decent-sized hills and getting some good mileage on my legs.

Just add another 20 miles somewhere in the middle and I'd have my Tahoe ride, more or less. Oh, and raise the route about 5,000 feet to add the extra challenge of riding at higher altitude.

I mounted my bike Sunday morning with 100 miles and change left in my personal challenge to ride and run 2,010 miles in 2010. I'm certainly more excited than I thought I would be (or perhaps should be?) as I've ticked off these last few hundred miles. That "finish line" is finally in sight.

The plan was to knock out 50 miles - not my highest mileage to date, but certainly the most I'd planned in a while. I felt good to be out for a distance ride.

I looked forward to completing the miles, but I felt a rush of butterflies and stomach flip-flops at the thought of Mile Hill. I'd never ridden it. I'd never even thought about riding it, actually. I was familiar enough with the long, steep climb by car that it made me sufficiently nervous to even think about riding it on two wheels.

It was the third leg of the stool - the third of three hills TC had planned for my You Better Get Your Butt Up Some Hills If You Expect To Survive Tahoe crash training regimen.

I'd already made it up Mountain Road. Just the its name gives you a sense of this 2.5 mile climb. A few days later, I went up and over another nearby climb. Both were big confidence boosters.

But Mile Hill was still out there. A 1.25-mile steady incline, ranging between 6-10 percent incline. What made Mile Hill a little bit different than the others was that it did have any breaks along the way. Even the other big climbs flattened out briefly in spots to give my burning leg muscles a break.

Mile Hill's elevation chart ranged from red to purple. As TC described it, "You'll get a rest, but it will be at six percent grade, so it's still going to hurt. It's just going to hurt less than the other parts."

Oh, great.

I mentally prepared for the long haul up - but I had to get there first. We spent the first 20-so miles of the ride in relatively familiar territory. It was a picture-perfect day with bright-blue skies. I tried to enjoy it as much as I could, but in reality my mind was focused on that monster ahead. Eventually, I knew, we'd reach the bottom of Mile Hill.

And it was up to me to reach the top.

We rounded the corner that brought us to the base of the hill and we were off. Or up.

The climb started almost immediately. I knew it would be slow, steady grind. I found my groove (a very slow groove, mind you) and kept cranking. The cool breeze that I'd felt for the first shady part of our route had immediately disappeared. The sun shone down on me hard.

I pushed and pushed. I could feel the force of the bike and gravity - or whatever it is, exactly, that makes going up a hill do darn hard - working against me. That force clearly wanted me at the bottom of the hill.

I fought and pushed. And realized that, hey, this isn't quite as bad as I was expecting it to be. Don't get me wrong. It was hard. My leg muscles were working overtime and I was practically moving in slow motion. (At moments like these, I often wonder how slow you can actually go on a bike and remain upright.)

TC rode beside me, encouraging me all the way. He did all the talking. I remained essentially silent (at one point I muttered something about feeling as if I was going to catch on fire) as he navigated me up the hill.

Finally, I crested. Totally and completely out of breath, sweat pouring off me - and smiling. I couldn't help but feel relief and pride at the top. I'd done it. I'd knocked another "question mark" off my list. Oh, and I hadn't even needed to click down into my Granny Gear.

TC held out his hand for a high-five. I lightly - ever-so-lightly - tapped his hand in celebration. I realized just how wobbly I still was from climbing the hill and my bike unexpectedly veered to the right, nearly onto the gravel shoulder. A gravel shoulder and my skinny road bike tire - combined with my shaky post-hill balance - would have resulted in disaster.

Luckily, I remained upright and we began our decent. A quick stop for a water refill at a local store and we were off for Climb Two, a less-steep but still-long climb that was a good test for my tired legs.

Once at the top, we enjoyed the last dozen miles of fast descent on new pavement. My speedometer ticked up to 34 mph. I'm sure TC's was much higher. We'd agreed to meet at the stop sign a few miles down the hill, and he was almost instantly out of my line of sight.

By then, the temps had skyrocketed. As we made our way through the city, where it always seems warmer, it was nearly unbearable.

We entered our parking lot with 50.1 miles on the books. And a great confidence-boosting ride before my next big challenge. Next stop, Tahoe.

After a few relaxing days in Napa, of course...

Runner's Remorse

Something's ailing me. It's not a pain in my foot or sore legs. It's something a less, well, medical.

I'm suffering from a bout of Runner's Remorse.

The symptoms first started last Wednesday when a few colleagues asked me whether I planned on running the Cigna/Elliot Corporate Road Race, a local 5K. It's not just "a" 5K. With the number of runners (and walkers) totaling somewhere around 6,000, it's perhaps "the" 5K for the state.

Up until that point, I'd completely written off the Cigna race. Don't get me wrong, I've heard great things about this race and organizers certainly does a good job at attracting at massive number of runners and encouraging non-runners to work toward a participate in an athletic event.

But it also has a few features that I, personally, don't like, namely an after-work start, a 3.1-mile distance and the aforementioned massive number of runners.

I'm not a big evening runner - not in the summer, at least, when I find that the temps never dip down quite enough to provide a comfortable run. As I noted after the Bill Kelly 10K last month, after-work races provide an extra challenge for me to properly hydrate and fuel.

Then there's the distance. A 5K just isn't my thing. Think of that whole tortoise and hare scenario. I pride myself on the long, steady run. I can settle into double-digit miles quite easy, but throw me into a 5K and I'm completely out of my element.

I've often said that I don't like the first couple miles of a run - any run. In the case of a 5K, that's practically all of it.

And lastly, the crowds. I've run big races, bigger than Cigna, and loved them. But I have a hard time gearing myself up, mentally, to run a race that will last shorter than the time it takes me to change into my running clothes, park and get to the starting line.

So, the decision not to run was seemingly a simple one. That is, until that Runner's Remorse started creeping up on me.

On race day, I got asked no fewer than a dozen times whether I was running the event. It seemed as if everyone I encountered that day assumed I'd be signed up. One late-day email I sent to a committee member came with a quick reply: "Shouldn't you be at the starting line?"

As strange as it seems to me, people are starting to think of me as "a runner" and, as one person pointed out, I'm "kinda corporate" so presumably the Cigna race should have been right up my alley. (I'm still trying to figure out if being "kinda corporate" is meant as a compliment.)

The race questions and comments continued throughout the day, and it seemed as if everyone was running the race. Even my friend, who is eight-months pregnant, was participating as a walker.

Runner's Remorse really flared up on the night of the race. I started seeing Facebook posts with finishing times and photos. Smiling runners everywhere. A few of my friends were volunteering. My team coach even crossed the line as the third overall female.

With the constant stream in my social media news feed, along with the newspaper coverage and online comments the next morning, I felt as if I might have been the only person to skip the race.

I suddenly realized I was missing out on a big piece of New Hampshire running community. I'll have to remember that next year when registration time comes around.