Race report: Du Tri Season Opener

You know I had my misgivings (to put it mildly) about this race. So you can imagine my immense relief as I turned the corner and spied the finish line in the distance. Laser-focused on the inflated archway, I heard a familiar voice: "GO MOM!"

I looked ahead to the left of the chutes and there was my husband and three kids. I had no idea they were going to come and yet, there they were cheering me on, waving signs, hooting and hollering. I had run 2 miles in the rain, biked 10 miles in a downpour and was about to finish the hardest, hilliest 3.1 I'd ever done.

Sweet relief was 50 yards away, and there was my family. Oh my God. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I...well, let's go back a bit and we'll get to the thrilling conclusion below.

Flash back about 20 hours and Sandy and I pull into the registration area to pick up our packets. We got them and Sandy tested the water as she was going to do the tri, while I was doing the duathlon.

Massachusetts open water in early May

When we registered in January, I opted for the duathlon because I wouldn't be medically cleared to swim until at least February. I was nervous that would not give me enough time to feel confident about what is typically most people's biggest concern in a tri. I've been swimming since early April and, ironically, I feel quite good about my swimming - much better than my prowess on the bike. Go figure. Regardless, I didn't need one more thing to worry about with this race, so I was happy not to have to think about the open water, a wetsuit, getting hit in the head by other swimmers, etc.

As we drove away, we drove parts of the race course. It was hilly - comprising a decent chunk of a state park - and we knew that going in. Given both of us were not, let's say, the most confident gear shifters, we were concerned about how we'd handle the hills, but, hey, it was too late to really worry about that now.

Sandy and I went for a race-eve dinner and talked through what we needed to do to prep, stuff to do - or not - on race day. This conversation was mostly me asking questions and Sandy observing, repeatedly, "You didn't read the race packet, did you?" I did not. The 16-page document scared me shitless, to be frank. I'm used to running, where you get an email from race organizers a few days before the event: "Please pick up your packet the day before. There are water stops at Miles 1 and 2. Beer and pizza after." This tri race packet was frightening - rules, regs and all matter of stuff that freaked me out and made me feel like I was in over my head.

Sandy talked me through most of the "Don't forgets" and "Remember this-es" and we parted ways to go pack and hopefully sleep a bit.

I went home and packed my gym bag with a change of clothes for post-race; my running metronome (no headphones or music allowed); race watch; baseball hat; prescription sunglasses; one cycling shoe (more on this later); helmet; phone; cycling shorts; wallet; RoadID; a long-sleeve tech shirt in case it gets cold; a sweatshirt; a trash bag; and a water bottle.

One of the cool things about a multi-sport event is you can bring a bag of stuff (most of which you need) and leave it at the start, in your spot with your bike. Compared to running, where you leave everything locked in your trunk and only carry a car key and maybe your phone, this is a luxury.

I went out and put the bike rack on my husband's car, then inflated Rocinante's tires to 100 psi. Yes, I named the bike. The name makes sense, believe me. Race prep done.

A ridiculous amount of crap

I went to bed at 10, but truthfully started passing out on the couch around 9 pm. I set my alarm for 6 am and slept like the dead. I woke up feeling pretty good, save for usual pre-big-race nerves. I ate a small breakfast, again, pre-race nerves, and sat and read the newspaper.

I love first thing in the morning - no one is up but me. Even though it's early, I can eat my breakfast in peace, read the newspaper and start my day quietly. As I sat and read, I heard, "Plink...plink." Crap, rain hitting the pellet stove chimney. It's raining, ah, crud. I knew rain was in the forecast, but I was hoping it would hold off. The race is 30 minutes from my house, maybe it's not raining there.

Then I wondered, why am I doing this on Mother's Day? My day! Now, I think Mother's Day is a crock designed to sell cards, flowers and the like, so it's not that I expect a big production. However, why do I set out to do these hard things, and why did I choose one on Mother's Day?

Unable to find a definitive answer, I tidied up, grabbed my bag and quietly slipped out of the silent house, ready to get on with this foolishness.

As I entered the state park, where the race began and ended, I passed by full parking lot after full parking lot. Then I noticed athletes biking to the start/transition areas with their bags on their backs. This concerned me on two levels: First, I was apparently late enough where I was in No Man's Land parking. Second, I'd have to hump my crap and my bike to the start. Everyone was biking with special tri bags sitting on their backs like a big backpack. I can barely balance myself on the bike, how would I fare biking uphill (yeah, did I mention you had to go uphill to get to the start?) with a heavy duffle bag hanging off to one side? Not well, I can tell you.

I parked where I was told and called Sandy: "Um, I have to bike to the start?" This may have been in the race packet, I guess I should have read it afterall. If I knew I had to haul to the start, I would have condensed and brought a backpack.

Oh, and by now, it was lightly raining. Awesome. Happy Mother's Day. I was about to lose my shit, but I took a few deep breaths and did what I have found works best: See what others are doing. Yes, some people were biking to the start, but others were walking their bikes and bags in the opposite direction. OK, I can do that.

I got Rocinante off the rack, slung my bag over my shoulder and started what was a 15-minute walk - in the rain - to the start/transition area. Once in, a put my race number on my shirt, the bike and my helmet. Then I ran into my college roommate, Wayde, who happened to be volunteering. His job was to mark runners' bodies with their numbers. 546 went on both biceps and my right hand as I asked, "Is this to ID me if I go off into the woods?" He didn't answer. I found that unnerving.

"How old are you on your next birthday, 43?" he asked.

I nodded. 43 D (for duathlon) went on my right calf. If you have a thing about revealing your age, do not enter a multisport event.

All inked up, numbers on, I was then allowed to enter the transition area, rack Rocinante and get ready. As I walked in, Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" played over the PA: "Everything's gonna be all right/Everything's gonna be allright". Let's hope so, Bob. Sandy did give me the hot tip to bring a trash bag, because rain was expected. Amazingly, I remembered and tossed my duffle bag into the trash bag to keep my gear dry because it was now steadily raining.

Roc, ready to roll

With about 5 minutes to spare before we were to be kicked out of the transition area (where you leave your bike and bag of crap), I found Sandy and we good luck'd each other. I also ran into my friend, Lisa, who has done the race several times and was the person to put the bug in my ear on this one. She was relentlessly positive and supportive: "Go slow. Race your race. You got this." If you say so...

Everyone stood, got pre-race instructions (sharp turn warnings, road condition warnings; steep hill warnings, truly all warnings), had a moment of silence for the Marathon victims and then listened to the National Anthem. Before big races (the half-marathons, usually) I always tear up at the Anthem. I'm not sure why, maybe it's the excitement that this event I worked hard for is finally here. Maybe it's that I actually showed up. Regardless, I took the tearing up as a good sign. This was going to be OK.

Organizers shuttled the duathletes to the start and we were off for a 2-mile out and back. The triathletes would go off, be organized and start the swim later. About 100 yards after the start, I heard, "Go Melissa!" Terry, a friend of mine and Sandy's, was standing in the rain cheering me on. I was so grateful to see her, given I didn't have a cheering section. What a great treat.

Driven by the steady beats of the metronome, I ran the out and back. It was hilly. Awesome. But when I got into the transition area to prepare to cycle, I looked at my watch and was surprised I ran much faster than I have all year. I didn't feel like I was pushing or trying to "race" others, so that was a nice surprise.

I hit the transition area and changed my shoe. Yes, shoe, singular. So far, I only clip in on the left side. I like the clip because it creates a good, solid pedal stroke but I can't clip in on both feet yet as I'm still worried about tipping over if I forget to clip out before stopping or panic, etc. On my last ride, I clipped in on the left, which worked well. My right, dominant foot was still free, and if I felt I had to stop, I could just pull it off the pedal without worrying about twisting, unclipping and then planting my foot.

Given this was my first race, I thought of cycling in my running shoes and not clipping in at all, but given the rain and the lack of cages on my pedals, I was worried my shoes may slip off the pedals, which are built for clips, not sneakers. So clip in I did.

By the time I got to transition, it started to pour. Driving rain. My clothes were soaked, my socks and shoes were soaked. Everything was sopping wet. I switched my left running shoe for my cycling shoe, dropped my metronome in the duffel bag, toweled off my seat, handlebars and brakes, and then shoved everything back in the trash bag. I just wanted to get the cycling over with. I fastened my helmet, walked the bike to the Bike Out area and when directed, mounted and started the cycling leg...up another hill. WTF is with this course?

I made sure I was in a low gear and started up the hill. I immediately had one problem: my sunglasses were very hard to see through, splattered with raindrops. First, it was overcast and the tint made everything darker, and second the lenses were continually splattered with raindrops, yet I had to wear them as they are prescription and I am severely nearsighted. I can run without them (as I don't run that fast), but biking without prescription sunglasses would be suicide. I tried nudging them down my nose and peering over them, but that was more distracting. Oh, yeah, and I'm doing this all going uphill in an effing rainstorm - in heavy bike traffic.

I took it slow and steady and stayed to the left, allowing faster cyclists - really, every other cyclist - to pass me. I wish I counted how many times I heard, "On your left" during the 10 miles. Had to be 50+. But I'd just nod my head to let them know I heard them and would not wobble into their path.

I made it up the initial hill and assessed my situation. This was my first cycling race. Through essentially a forest. In a downpour. With limited visibility. I would take this very slow. So I did. The rain was unrelenting. My head was soaked through the gaps in my helmet and my feet and socks were drenched. At one pedal position, it was raining directly into my cycling shoe. It felt like someone was pouring a cup on water in my shoe. Horrid.

Soaked shoes drying post-race.

Throughout the 10 miles I watched cyclist after cyclist pass me, and I'd see how old they were by their calves. 63? WTG, girl, you look fantastic. I checked out people's calves, wow, they looked like they were carved out of marble.

One of my concerns going into the race was surviving hills. Still getting used to the bike, I sometimes hit hills in the wrong gear and pay for it. Maybe once a ride I have to dismount and do the walk of shame up the hill if I'm in the wrong gear and can't recover in time. I didn't want to do that during this race, so I paid special attention to the gears and ensuring I hit hills in the right one. But at the same time, I had to concentrate on the riders around me, most of whom were zooming by in close range. There was a lot of processing going on, but I can proudly say that even with all those hills I rode each one, no walking.

From Miles 1-2 there is a very large climb, one I heard of and read about before the race. It was too rainy to even try to read the computer on the handlebars that gives time, distance and speed to gauge when it was coming. But I knew we were in for it when I heard a cyclist off to my left say in a low voice, "Oh, here it comes..." Still, just took it in a low gear and took my time.

Pretty soon we were up and over the hill and heading onto a major route - with traffic, as in cars, trucks, etc. Still in a downpour. Hooray. I spied Wayde where he said he would be, at the bottom of a hill, flagging us to turn right. I yelled at him, "THIS SUCKS!" I heard him laugh as I took the turn. After the race he noted with a laugh, "You looked scared shitless."

I was, the degree of difficulty on this race was off the charts for me. It was hilly. There was a lot of bike traffic. It was pouring nonstop. And now we were heading for open roads with vehicular traffic. All I could think of is, "Next Mother's Day I will be at a spa."

But for now, I was navigating speeding cars, trucks and bikes on my left. It was pouring, my clothes were soaked and my wet brakes made a creepy squeak as they tried to grip wet tires off a wet road. But I soldiered on.

Soon I saw the Mile 5 sign and thought, "Halfway done. Survive this and you've got it made." It was at this point I realized I never changed into my cycling shorts. I was wearing compression running knickers and I figured I'd just slip the cycling shorts over for an extra degree of padding. In my concern about the cycling segment and the rain, I apparently forgot. I also forgot to change shirts. I had that long-sleeved - and dry - tech T in my bag that would have come in extremely handy as I was now wet and cold.

Around Mile 6 I spied a nice, high curb, one I could coast up to and stop, resting my right foot on the curb without having to dismount. I did just that so I could get some water. Between navigating bike and car traffic and the weather, the thought of trying to get my water bottle out of the cage, drink from it, then get it back in the cage - all while riding - seemed like a recipe for disaster. Five seconds after I pulled over to the curb, I heard a cyclist behind me, "Are you OK?" "Yeah, can't drink and ride, thanks," I assured her. I have to say, the other athletes were really supportive. With personalized bibs, spectators or staff would shout, "Good job, Melissa!" or "You got this 546!" Whether offering support up a hill or just checking to see if you were OK, the athletes and the race staff were great.

Before the race they warned us of a steep decent around Mile 7.5. I thought of that and realized, "Wait, if there's a steep descent that means there's a steep ascent." And it was. Once up and down that hill, I figured the worst of the hills were over. I was wrong. The 2-mile out and back in the first run segment was the end of the bike course, so up, up, up the hill we went near the end.

Alongside the road was a homemade sign: "CRUSH THIS HILL." Here's a hint: If you ever see a sign like this, it means the hill absolutely sucks. Which is did. But as I made the final turn at the top of the hill and the descent into the dismount area, I saw runners starting the last 5K. Wait, the cycling is almost over. If I can live through this, I can run the 5K and then I am a duathlete.

With about a mile left in the bike, I saw Terry again. "Let's go, Melissa!" she yelled. I replied, "Tell Keith I'm alive." Terry knows my husband and I figured she could offer an update on Facebook to him.

The road to the dismount area was downhill (of course). I pumped my brakes to slow down gradually and about 25 yards out thought one thing: UNCLIP YOUR LEFT FOOT. UNCLIP YOUR LEFT FOOT. I would be damned if I survived that hellish cycling segment only to tip over at dismount. I unclipped in time, but then my shoe had little purchase on the left pedal. But I really didn't need it as I wasn't pedaling, just coasting to dismount. I slowed to a stop as directed by a race official.

I put my left foot down on the ground and tilted the bike left, then gently, slowly swung my right leg over. I started to walk the bike back to transition and my legs didn't seem to want to work. They were stiff from cycling for 50 or so minutes and my quads felt like cement. How could I run?

At this point, I kinda didn't care. I survived the bike. Hell, I'd walk the 3.1 miles if I had to. Nothing was stopping me now. I racked the bike again, changed out of a soaking wet cleat into a damp running shoe, removed my helmet and walked over to the Run Out area. I ran out when directed and we were heading...up another hill. My quads felt terrible, so I walked a bit, ran a bit, walked a bit until they loosened up.

About a mile into the 5K I realized I forgot my metronome. Crap. Will have to keep pace in my head. I won't lie, the 5K portion was hard coming off the bike. My legs were tired, my quads were stiff and all I wanted was to be done. Plus, I developed a bloody blister on my right heel. I've never blistered in my 3 years of running, I think the wet socks and wet shoes did me in. And the course was still hilly. I was about 2 miles in and stopped to a walk to give myself a breather, a woman passed me and good naturedly said, "Hey, 546! No stopping now, you only have 1 mile left, let's go!" So I did, slowly shuffling, but running.

The last mile of the 5K mirrored the first mile of the first run leg, just in reverse. I knew we were close. I could hear the race announcers rattling off finishers as they crossed the timing pads. Soon we were at Mile 3 and I could see the finish line arch in the distance. We just had to pass through this short, wooded pathway, then the chutes were in the distance.

I came through the woods with one vision: the chutes. It's at this point of every race that you realize you are essentially done. You did it. You set out to do something and you did. All you need to do is look fierce for your finish line picture and cross the timing pads.

With this on my mind, I emerged from the woods and heard: "GO MOM!" Through my tired, wet fog I realized I knew that voice. I looked for the source and saw my husband and three children, all holding signs and hollering with joy. I have never been that surprised in my life.

See, my family rarely comes to see me race and I am fine with that. Races are early in the morning, usually a decent drive and to get three little kids up, fed and dressed in time is a lot of work. Plus, when they get on the site, it's boring if you're not racing. I never wanted to stick my husband with that. They did come to see me race at Gillette Stadium last year and it was great. That was enough for me.

Keith had asked me earlier in the week if I wanted them to come watch and I said no. I was apprehensive about this race and I didn't want to stress of knowing my family was there and waiting. Plus, it was early and I'd be mostly likely out on the course for 2 hours. They'd be bored, whiny, etc. And today it was raining. I couldn't ask them to wait in the rain.

But there they were. As I passed them, I heard Keith say to the kids, "Go!" and my 7-year-old daughter and 5-year-old son jumped the chute and ran to the end with me. I was choked up, shocked, tired, wet and on the verge of tears all at once. I can't imagine what the finish line picture will look like. My face should be priceless. I came over the pads and grabbed a water. A volunteered congratulated me and asked for the timing chip around my left ankle. I started to bend to get it and she said, kindly, "No, let me do it."

I walked around the chutes and found Keith and the kids and started to cry. Happy Mother's Day, indeed.

Sandy and I post-race. We almost look like we know what we're doing.

Post-race. Everything's wet.

Race Report: Tufts 10K For Women

I've been waiting to post this race report for a year.

That sounds a touch dramatic, but it is true, nonetheless.

I started running in January 2011. All I wanted to do was run a 5K. I finally did it, and then I wanted to run another one. Cut to June and I wanted a challenge, a goal for the summer. The idea of the Tufts 10K came into my head after I saw an ad on CoolRunning.com.

Six miles? I can't run 6.2 miles. It's so far, so much. But I went for it. If you read through last summer's posts, you'll see dozens devoted to my training for this race.

Before I began training, the longest I ever ran was 3.1 miles. But soon came 4. Then 5. By the end of training, I was up to 8. Eight miles! I ran 8 miles? That lead to other thoughts, which would be realized sooner than later.

I trained for 15 weeks (way too long, really) for this race, only to sprain my ankle three days before the race, walking through the parking lot of an apple orchard.

I was mad. Incredibly disappointed. Pissed off, you name it. I had to drop out of the race, which left me as gutted as I've ever been for something relatively minor. Reading through those profanity-laced posts a year later, the emotions are still so raw, so real.

Anyway, what's done was done and I was left with one vow: I will be running this race next year.

Jump to, "next year," when I found myself a two-time half-marathoner. All of a sudden, 6.2 miles wasn't the dramatic, amazing accomplishment it would have been a year ago. These days, a 10K is a short Sunday run. However, that didn't mean it wasn't significant, nor that it wasn't worth avenging, so I did. I wanted closure, plus, although I've raced dozens of times, I've never run an official 10K race.

Luckily, my domestic running life partner, Sandy, was all-in as well, so we headed into Boston on a blazingly beautiful Columbus Day to run through the streets of Boston and Cambridge.

The Tufts 10K for Women is a mammoth race. There were 8,000 runners and walkers, the largest field in which I have ever raced.

We gathered at the Public Garden, got our bibs and then hung out, meandering until about 10 minutes before the gun. In our meandering, I ran into my friend, Dani, who's a fellow Weight Watchers leader, runner and all-around inspirational person. Check out her blog!

Soon it was time to get in our respective starting areas, by pace time. Big problem: There were so many runners, there literally was no room to squeeze in. I've been in crowded fields before, but nothing like this.

Shooting from the sidewalk on Charles Street, looking toward the starting line (which was actually around the corner) on Beacon Street.

Looking toward the back of the pack (my people!) on Charles Street.

So, I waited for the race to start, standing behind the rope on the curb. When the crowd thinned enough to jump in, I was off.

This would be an interesting race because it was the first big race I'd run without music. Previously, the thought of running without music was horrifying. My legs will stop! I'll just want to walk. I can't do it. I need it.

Last summer, during a 5K my Nano crapped out and I freaked. This year, I was ready to run without as I have been training with a metronome. It's part of the ChiRunning approach that I've adopted (and love) and I find I run better without music, matching my footstrike to a pace of 170 BPM. I still run with music once a week because I do like it. But, for better form and pace purposes, it's no headphones, no music. And, you know what? I don't mind it a bit.

My only regret about the metronome is I sound like a ticking time bomb. I felt bad for anyone around me that didn't have music and had to listen to my beep-beep-beeping throughout the race.

Anyway, we were off heading through Back Bay toward Memorial Drive and Cambridge on one gorgeous day. The weather was perfect for running and the scenery was gorgeous. I half wished I stopped here and there and took pictures of the striking Boston skyline, but I really wanted to run this one hard.

When we turned onto Memorial Drive, I wondered if I would see one of my dearest friends - and a great runner - Jeremy. He lives just a few miles from the course and I figured I would spot him, and I did.

I shouted his name and gave him the double finger guns as I ran by at, if I recall correctly, somewhere between Miles 2 and 3. That's the picture at the top of this post and the best running picture I've ever had the privilege to be in. As you know, I normally look like I'm bring assassinated.

Anyway, I felt great and was running really well. My splits were around 10:50 to 11:00 a mile - very, very fast for me. Yay, metronome!

The course was flat and fast, and as I ran I thought a lot about the past year of running. How all I ever wanted was just one 5K and how that pipe dream turned into an activity I really, truly love. How I look forward to my 6:30 am runs. How I like studying and improving my form so I can keep running healthy.

I thought about where I was when I started running and where I am now. It seemed too fantastic, too good to be true, but it was. For real.

Sooner than I thought, I was past 5 miles and winding back into Boston, heading to the finish line on Charles Street. The clouds had dispersed, the sun was out and it was getting hot. I was ready to put a bow on this one.

I do want to take a second and thank race spectators. They are simply the greatest people because they are strangers who clap, cheer and tell you you're awesome when you need it most. I passed the 6-mile mark and I knew the finish was just around the corner. Since I wasn't listening to music, I could hear every spectator's shouts and cheers, and I heard my favorite spectator comment ever. I've heard it at many races and it thrills me every time:

"You're almost there! The finish is right around the corner!"

Before the race, I was hoping to come in a 1:15. About halfway through the race, my splits were so good, I thought 1:10 would be a possibility. At Mile 5 I switched gears and at Mile 6, I went into my fastest stride.

I glanced at my watch. It didn't look like 1:10 was going to happen, but I decided to keep pushing anyway, why not? Never give up.

I crossed the timing pads and stopped my watch. 1:10:02. Pretty close, nicely done.

I walked through the chute, grabbed as much water as I could carry and set off to find Sandy, who came in about 5 minutes before me.

We headed home, tired but mission accomplished. I may not have had the triumphant ending I envisioned last year, but you know what? In the end, it all turned out pretty damn great, anyway. I went from a person who dreamed big and did little to someone who dreamed big and realized her goals.

A couple of hours after I got home, Sandy posted on my wall on Facebook. The official times were up. Mine - 1:09:59.

Never give up, indeed.

Race Report: Worcester Firefighters 6K

Well, I'm never running this one again.

I don't recall smoking crack last night, but I did post the following on this blog's Facebook page:

Good News: Crafted a kick-ass playlist for the race tomorrow. Bad News: It's 50-something minutes' worth of music. Aiming to need only about 35 mins for 6K, which would be my fastest race ever (9:30 avg mile). Time for ruthless editing.

So, even though I don't remember a crack pipe, hallucinogens must have been involved somehow if I thought I could PR this race in this heat.

I read this a while ago from Gibson's Daily Running Post, and I should have heeded it the moment I thought about PRing this race:

"Nobody can tell you how to set a personal best. But here’s how NOT to: run with the idea of setting one. You cannot order up a personal best as if it were a turkey on rye. It's not a conscious act. A personal best is a kind of gift bestowed upon you. You’re not sure where it came from or how. It's very hard to achieve a personal best after you've run for a while and brought your times down. It takes training and hard work. But remarkably, those who achieve personal bests all say the same thing: how easy it felt. They weren't straining, they weren't pushing; it just seemed to come to them. If you run with the idea that you're just going to enjoy yourself, that you're going to relax and have a good time, that whatever happens, happens - well, those are the days when personal bests occur." -Kevin Nelson

After my experience today, I would say this is very true.

So, what the hell happened?

Well, I was all keyed up to run fast today because it was my shortest race since the Celtic 5K in March. At that race, I was coming off a significant back injury, so it was a case of Run To Finish. My next race was the half-marathon in May. Also, now coming off a foot injury, Run To Finish. Although, since it was my first half-marathon, it was technically a PR for that distance.

My last race was a 5-miler in Boston, the week after the half. Since I was just coming off the half, I deliberately took it easy. Run To Finish.

I was really looking forward to the Worcester Firefighters Memorial because it was short (6K). I was in good running shape and uninjured. I felt I was set up for success.

My one concern about this race was the fact it had a 1 pm start time. In June. No idea why so late, I wish I knew, but it always starts at 1 pm. I should have heeded that concern. Most races start early, 8 or 9 am, because it's cooler and you don't impact traffic as much early in the morning.

Anyway, got to the race about an hour beforehand and met up with Sandy, my domestic running life partner. We ran into other friends who were also running, took some pics and then headed off to Sandy's favorite part of any race staging area, the Port A Potties.

The Port A Potty line was long, so by the time our business was concluded, we had to hustle to the start. I grabbed a water on the way and downed about 12 oz before I chucked it and headed mid-pack to get ready.

After releasing memorial balloons into the clear, blue, blazing sky, the National Anthem and Amazing Grace courtesy of a bagpiper, we were off.

About a half-mile in I realized two things: It was crazy hot and I should have worn my compression shorts under my running skirt.

We soon passed a bank clock/thermometer and it read 80 degrees. I believed it. There was barely a cloud in the sky and the sun was blinding, hammering off the asphalt. There was zero shade and no breeze. Hot Child In The City, indeed.

I started the race hoping to pace around a 10-minute mile for the first 1-2 miles, then pick it up for the last 1.6. Pfft. By the 1-mile mark, I abandoned that plan and decided to switch to Run To Finish. It was just too hot with no relief.

To make matters worse, my allergies were kicking up something fierce. My head and throat were congested, making deep breathing more difficult. I was having breathing problems, something I've never experienced before when racing.

I took this rather seriously, and actually stopped to walk for 30-60 seconds a few times. By the time I passed the 3-mile mark, I saw ambulances taking off. Apparently, some runners actually needed medical transport. Yikes.

I was psyched when I hit 3 miles because it meant this cursed race was almost over. I was pissed at this race. It was short, I should have been faster and it should have been easier. In the half-marathon, I didn't feel half as crappy at Mile 13 as I did right now. I was pissed at this weather. Too damn hot. I was pissed at the organizers for a 1 pm start.

But, hey, at least it's almost over. There are the chutes. There's the finish line, not 300 yards straight ahead. Thank God.

Wait, why are all the runners taking a right? Why is everyone turning right? The finish line is straight ahead! And then I saw the pylon. And the race official pointing right. Crap, we needed to do a short out and back before heading toward the finish. Guh. I hate this race.

On the out-and-back I spied my friend, Rebecca (she's #357 in the pink, group photo). It was her first 5K and I was psyched to see her. I caught up, tapped her on the shoulder and said, Let's finish this thing.

While I felt like dump, she was spry and was actually fiddling with her iPhone to choose a good song to finish to. Atta girl.

We finished the out and back and took a right to head - finally - toward the finish. Over the timing pads and, thank the Lord, it was over.

I grabbed two waters and headed toward my predetermined meeting spot with Sandy. I spotted her on the way, grabbed two more waters, and we parked it in the merciful shade to talk shop.

So, as frustrating as this race was (45:22 finish/12:24 pace), there were a few bright spots:

• Always fun to run with friends - before, during or after.

• Given this was a race to remember six Worcester firefighters who died in a 1999 fire, it was sobering to watch several firefighters run or walk the race in full firefighter gear. I was hot. They were hotter.

• About 2.5 miles in, the shark mascot for the local AHL hockey team roller-bladed by me in full furry getup. Gotta say, I wanted to trip him.

• I was about 2 minutes into the race when another runner tapped me on the shoulder: "I have that skirt! I bought it for a July 4 race! It looks great!" Note: This is the second time a runner stopped me during a race to talk about the skirt. I will get on a whole post about this magnetic running apparel soon.

• Just after the 1 mile mark, we ran by one Worcester firehouse. The firefighters were roadside with hoses, arching water into the air and down onto very grateful runners.

So, this one's in the rear view mirror. Thank you, Lord. Next up: The Harvard Pilgrim Finish At The 50, which ends on the field at Gillette Stadium. Yeehaw.

Race Report: Boston's Run To Remember

Oh, hell, yes.

Boston's Run To Remember was one magical race, for many reasons. No. 1 being I actually liked a race picture enough to buy it. That has never happened before.

As you know, I have a history of collecting race proofs in which I look like I am being assassinated. But this one, dare I say, I love it. Why?

I look strong and swift. I am wearing knee socks and an American flag running skirt. I look like I know what I am doing. I look like a runner. I told you: magic.

But so much more was extraordinary aside from the race photo. Which, to review, was hot stuff.

So, let's get into this because this post is tragically overdue.

I had signed up for this race in December. I was born in Boston and spent the first 18 years of my life growing up 7 miles south of the Athens of America. I spent a goodly part of my life in and around the city, so I could not pass up the opportunity to run through some of its most famous neighborhoods without the danger of getting flattened by a vehicle.

I remember seeing the ads for this race last year, thinking, "I'm not ready to run 5 miles. Not yet." I had just conquered my first 5K and running 5 miles seemed so far away, so arduous. I distinctly remember thinking, Maybe next year.

Cut to December, when I was setting my sights on a half-marathon in 2012. Five miles? I got that. On the race calendar it went.

Last weekend's half-marathon cropped up within the past month. Normally, I would not race two big races (mileage-wise) in back to back weeks. But I'm a believer in things happen for a reason, so I figured I'd see how the half went and worry about the 5-miler later.

The half went fine. I took three days off from running, ran an easy 25 minutes on Thursday, and after that figured I would be fine for the 5-miler three days later.

I decided to give it a go, but take it easy. I would forget about pace, forget about running, essentially, and taking a page from Sheryl's book, race and take a lot of fun pictures on a very picturesque course.

See, in the past - and sometimes today - when faced with a challenge or roadblock. I still automatically think, "I can't."

"I can't race that distance."

"I can't race back to back."

Well, really, screw "I can't." My days of "I can't" are over. If I take a few minutes and think it through, I realize more often than not, "I can." Sure, if my legs or foot were bothering me, I would sit out.

After initially thinking, "I can't," I thought it through, took a health inventory, assessed my Thursday run and decided not only "I can" but also "I will."

I was so excited for this race for several reasons, primarily because I would get to race in town. Funny, growing up just outside the city, that's what I - and everyone I knew - called Boston, "town." Force of habit, I still do.

Talking with my Dad before the race, the conversation went like this:

"Where's your race this weekend?"

"In town."

As a public service aside, two requests from a native: Don't ever call it "Beantown." Only tourists call it that. Two, don't ask us where we pahked ah cahs. Don't try the accent, you can't do it (see Costner, Kevin, et. al.) unless you were born with it (see Affleck & Damon). But, by all means, feel free to walk around wearing a tri-cornered hat. They really are fun.

Anyway, I was thrilled to race in town, and two friends were going to be there, too, so I'd get to meet up with them for at least a little bit.

When I sign up for races, I pretty much look at three things:

Distance.

Date.

Shirt/medal/goodies.

That's all I basically concern myself with when it comes to deciding to register. I need to add "start time" to that list.

About a week before any race, you get an email from the organizers, basically saying, "Hey, remember the race you registered for? Here are the details again, if you didn't pay attention when you registered, Melissa, and everyone else."

When I get the email, then I start to concern myself with commuting, parking, bib pickup, logistics, etc. I got the Run To Remember email Monday and spied the start time. 7:15 am. Start time. Oh, crap.

I live an hour west of Boston and I usually like to get to a race an hour before the start. That means getting to the race by 6:15 am, leaving my house at, good God, 5:15 am. Which means getting up around - help me Jesus - 4:15 am to eat breakfast, wake up, get dressed, regain consciousness, etc.

This better be one damn fine race.

So, Saturday night I got all my junk together and set my alarm, which promptly went off at 4 am Sunday. I was surprisingly spry, ate breakfast and headed to Cambridge to pick up my dear friend and running idol, Jeremy, who was also entered.

At any point up until now, did I think I would be driving east, in the dark, at 4:45 am wearing an American flag running skirt and knee socks? I did not. But I got a pretty sunrise around Framingham.

Sometimes, I actually stop and think, Who is this person? (This recap is very long anyway, but I owe and will give that skirt an entire post of its own, believe me.)

I picked Jeremy up at 5:45 am and we headed over to the World Trade Center area in South Boston. We parked on Summer Street and took about a 10-minute walk over to the WTC, which was a good warmup.

I knew this was a big race, and I like big races. They're exciting, fun and (usually) well-organized. However, this race was b-i-g. Previously, the largest race I've ever run was the Caremark 5K in Providence, about 5,000 runners, last September.

Just before the race, we heard this one had topped 9,000 runners - 6,500 running the half-marathon course and 2,500 doing the 5-miler. I believe it, because the minute we hit the expo center, I felt like we were completely swallowed up. Bodies everywhere.

We found bag check, then split up. Jeremy had friends he wanted to check in with and I needed a port-a-potty. I wish I got a shot of the line of port-a-potties because there had to be 50. A line as long as you could see (Sandy, I thought of you fondly). I concluded business and set off to find my friend, Dani.

There's a lot of silly crap when it comes to social media, but there's a lot of awesome stuff, too, and one of those things is finding wonderful new friends.

I met Dani through Twitter. She's a Weight Watchers Lifetime member, leader and runner. Hmmmm, sounds familiar. Check out her blog, it's ridiculously inspirational, she's totally wonderful and super fast.

She also lives in Boston, so the opportunity to meet up with her at a race was awesome when I found out we were both doing the Run To Remember.

Dani is one of the #wwmafia who all check in with each other daily via Twitter. We're based all around the country, but we've all got each other's backs in 140 characters or less.

The crowd was so thick with people we had to text and finally call to find one another, but we did. Our time together was all too short, but we demanded photos (don't we look peppy for 6:50 am?) and made plans to get together and share a meal soon.

Dani headed off to the jack rabbit runners and I went to the back. Since I was just going to run and have fun, I decided to run holding my point-and-shoot for the whole race. I would waste too much time otherwise digging it out of my belt or the super-cool pocket on my skirt every 200 yards.

The half-marathoners went off about 20 minutes before we 5-milers, then we lined up and watched a State Police helicopter make the rounds against the skyline and over our heads.

Seriously, it was a gorgeous day.

And we're off!

The arch of the Boston Harbor Hotel at Rowe's Wharf.

I realized something about a half-mile in: It's hard to run and take pictures. If I saw something I wanted to shoot, I had to run off to the side of the road, ensure I wasn't in anyone's way (either on the way to the side of the road or at the side of the road), get a shot I liked and then take off again. Easier said than done.

Running atop what used to be the Central Artery, which is now the Rose Kennedy Greenway, with the Custom House in the distance.

I gotta say running on the Greenway was very cool. As a person who traveled the artery hundreds of times in a car, it was amazing to run through what now is a park.

Funny story: After the race, Jeremy and I were walking near the finish as the half-marathoners were coming in. The announcer, as is the norm at races, was announcing finishers, by looking at their bibs and matching it with their names. We're walking by and we hear, "And here's another finisher, Rose Kennedy!" I yell, "WOW!" and we both start laughing because not only has old Rose has been dead for a decade or so, but also when she was alive she was the frailest-looking person on Earth.

More Greenway.

Running through the Financial District, toward the Old State House.

Hanging a right on Congress Street, Fanueil Hall on the right (out of frame), The World's Ugliest City Hall on the upper left.

Entrance to Faneuil Hall, bordering Congress Street.

La-de-da, running through Beacon Hill (Charles Street).

Even the Post Office is pretty.

You go, girl. No significance to this picture, other than I am juvenile and I thought it was funny.

Your typical Beacon Hill side street. Not so much in most other parts of the city.

Where everybody knows your name.

Pretty brownstones neighboring the Public Garden, of which I did not get a good picture.

Outskirts of the Theatre District. I love how they renovated the Paramount facade. The Opera House is next door.

RIP, Filene's.

Downtown Crossing, decked out for Memorial Day.

Old South Meeting House.

My life in a nutshell.

So, at this point, we're heading toward South Station and I realize, the race is almost over. If there was a 4-Mile marker, and I'm sure there was, I missed it amidst all my Ansel Adamsing.

The funny thing is, this race seemed to go very fast, even though I was lolly-gagging my way through it.

I looked at my watch and saw we had about a half-mile to go. I was surprised. It's over already? I suppose if you race for 2:45 the previous week, an hour seems like a brief interlude. I put my camera away and thought, "I want to really run." Enough picture-taking and touristing, jam this last half.

So, I did. But, first, I actually fixed my hair, readjusted my Sweaty Band, which was very sweaty at this point. Hey, there be photographers and spectators ahead. I was wearing an American flag skirt. I had to look like I knew what I was doing.

"Shipping Up To Boston" came up on my playlist, which was the perfect tune to launch me at race pace toward the end.

We hung a right onto Seaport Blvd., with the Boston Children's Museum and the Hood Milk Bottle across Fort Point Channel to the right.

Almost near the finish I spied Jeremy off to my left, cheering me on to the finish. And I was happy to finish. I felt great, but it was hot and I was toasty.

After crossing the finish and reclaiming our bags, Jeremy and I compared notes, hung out for a bit and then headed back to the car. As I walked over Seaport Blvd. I got some nice shots of the half-marathon finishers coming in (the finish line was out of frame, below and behind me).

Overall, this was one of my favorite races. My pace was crap, but I had a lot of fun. I got to run safely through a city I love and, I realized, I ran a 5-mile race and it seemed like a walk (or run) in the park. Wow.

In which I am a half-marathoner

This is a long post, so make sure you're properly hydrated...

I look pretty damn happy, but to be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to end up with a smile on my face and a medal on my chest.

I was supposed to run my first half-marathon on May 6 with my domestic runner life partner, Sandy. But the training led me to develop a neuroma under the ball of my right foot. I visited an orthopedist in April and got a cortisone shot, but I had to take a week off from running in prime training time.

Thanks to my back injury of late 2011, my training plan was already razor-thin. I couldn't afford to miss a week and even the cortisone shot was not helping entirely. I made the tough call to bow out for fear it would lead to further knee trouble. See, my right knee was starting to compensate for the neuroma and I was having knee pain while running longer distances - something that had never happened before.

I didn't want a pyhrric victory: Finishing the half at the expense of seriously injuring my knee.

So while I closed that door, thus opened a window. I happened to luck into a free entry into the Blackstone Valley Cherry Tree Running Festival. They had a half. If I registered and didn't think I could do it come race day, it's not like I would be out any money.

Cut to yesterday, race day eve, time to make the call. How did I feel? I went to the chiropractor Thursday for an adjustment, so my back was as good as it was going to get. In terms of aches and pains, my back is currently the least of my worries.

I'd been running three times a week with the neuroma and it was doable, it only bothered me when I ran. It still was annoying and occasionally painful, but I noticed it on longer runs (5+ miles) it would flare up and then subside.

So back-OK, neuroma-OK. A new concern was my hamstrings. The last couple of 8+ runs they had, from nowhere, tightened up quite a bit. On a 10-miler in late April, they were really tough for the last two miles. But I knew a run-walk schedule would loosen them during the race if they got bad. OK, there.

But yesterday, I was most worried about my knees. Both were achey, and yesterday was a rest day. I had bootcamp the day before, and while there was a lot of hopping and jumping, I didn't think they should feel like they did. I ran last on Thursday, but it was just 2 slow miles, that shouldn't have angered them.

What to do? The one thing I really worry about are my knees. Screw your knees up and you're out of running - if not all exercise - for a goodly amount of time. And I need exercise for my mental health and weight maintenance.

While my knees were achey, they'd hadn't been acting up on runs, so perhaps it was the bootcamping on Friday. Let's give this a go.

I packed as if I were going away for weeks, so much junk:

SPIbelt filled with a baggie of Uncle Sam cereal for mid-race carbs.

Salt packets in case I started cramping (it was going to be hot).

Nano & Garmin charging, headphones in run bag.

Road ID.

Sweaty Band. Made a big decision: no baseball cap. Again, it was going to be hot.

Change of clothes and flip flops for post race cool-down.

Bowl of Uncle Sam cereal & chia seeds to carb-up when I arrive (about an hour before the start time).

Small container of almond milk to pour in the above.

Water to drink on the way down.

Prescription-strength ibuprofen. I decided to pop 600mg before the race to help with the whole knee thing. I brought along another just in case things got hairy mid-race.

Arctic Ease wraps (stored in my daughter's old Hello Kitty lunch box with blue ice) to wrap and ice my knees as I drove home.

Seriously, what a load of crap. Soldiers go to war with less. But it was all necessary. I set up alarm for 5 am and hit the hay.

Woke up at 5 am, ate a NuGo bar (my absolute favorite) and a Diet Coke, then set about getting dressed. I went with a Road Runner short-sleeve white wicking shirt (again, hot), a new pair of Thorlos (which I always run in) and a new pair of 2XU compression tights. I debated compression shorts vs full tights and decided I needed all the help I could get. Plus, the 2XUs are crazy light, so it's not like I would be super hot in them.

And away we go. It was a gorgeous late spring morning. Sunny, blue skies. I found my way down to the race with relative ease, headed over to registration, picked up my bib and returned to the car to eat my Uncle Sam, pop my ibuprofen and toss up a final status update on Facebook in case I met my demise on the course.

At 7:30 am, I headed over to the port-a-potties for a pitstop (and a nod to Sandy, queen of the pre-race port-a-potties) before warming up and lining up. After stretching and light cardio warmups, I headed for the 12-minute-milers portion of the pack, cued up and paused my playlist, and waited for the National Anthem.

I put my hand over my heart for the Anthem. I could feel my heart beating like crazy. I was nervous, and I hadn't been nervous for a race in a long time.

Anthem over, the mayor of Pawtucket gave the "Runners at your marks" cue (or, "Runnahs at ya mahks"), then hit the air horn.

I passed over the timing pads, hit start on the Garmin and shuffle on my playlist. Here we go.

The race was relatively small, maybe several hundred runners. Initially this gave me pause as I worried, "What if I was the last runner to finish?" To which I would answer, "You finished!"

In the first couple of miles I admonished myself to go slow and run my own race, and I took stock of my fellow pacers. I quickly categorized who's who by what they were wearing/doing. There's Compression Socks Guy. There's Weird Stride Woman. There's Guy Running In A Skirt (yeah, you read that right). There's Old Lady I Absolutely Cannot Finish Behind.

The first two miles I went out relatively fast, for me: 11-minute miles. I wanted to average 12-12:30, and I figured as I faded, I would. I kept telling myself: Get the numbers out of your head. Keep your core tight, everything else loose and just run. Just run loose.

Around Mile 4 I could feel the neuroma starting to kick in and by Mile 5, there was my right knee balking. Crap, too early for that. But I pushed through. It wasn't dangerous, stop-and-walk, you're-risking-major-injury pain, and I figured I would try to run through it and see if it subsides like it has been in training.

I decided to keep my eyes off my watch and just run from mile marker to mile marker, one mile at a time. Don't worry about time, just make it to the next mile marker. It was a strategy that worked, the miles seemed to be piling up relatively quickly and mentally I felt good.

Soon, I was at Mile 6, which I considered halfway. When it came to this race, I'd always think, It's just 6 miles out and back. I know it's really 6.55, but for some reason the extra .55 sounded daunting. Let's just pretend 6 is halfway.

The race was very well organized, with 11 water and Gatorade stops over the 13.1 miles. At every water stop I would grab two cups, get off to the side and walk until I finished them. I can't run and drink. Sure, it looks cool, but more water ends up on the ground or on my shirt than in my body. Plus, it wasn't like I was going to win the race, I could stop and walk for a minute.

At the halfway mark I grabbed more water and Gatorade and some Gu. I had never tried it before, but I figured, why not. I know why not, it's friggin' nasty. Turns out it was chocolate flavor, so it was like chocolate slime. Ewww, gahd, it was horrid. I pulled out my Uncle Sam cereal, grabbed a handful and walked until I was done chewing and drinking.

As I started running, I thought, Wow, I feel really fresh. It was getting hot, but I felt very good. Even the knee and neuroma were subsiding. Mentally I was spot on, not tired, not hot or flushed.

Another fortuitous event happened at 6 miles - we were finally on the Blackstone Valley bike path portion of the course. Up until that point we were winding through the City of Pawtucket and neighborhoods with no shade, the sun reflecting off the black asphalt and typical city-road terrain.

The bikepath was shaded, smooth and cool. This lasted until Mile 11, thank goodness. By Mile 8, I felt my hamstrings starting to tighten, so I made a decision to run-walk. I would walk for 1 minute, then run for 4. This method is advocated by running expert Jenny Hadfield, who notes that the walking won't adversely affect your time because it will help you run better, so you make it up.

Just those 1-minute walk breaks really helped. My hamstrings loosened and it let me really run 4 good minutes at a time. I kept track of my splits at each mile and she was right: My pace averages were better with the run-walk than they were with the straight run when my hamstrings started to give me trouble.

Soon I spied the marker for Mile 10 and looked at my watch. I'd been running for 2 hours. Wow, I had? I still felt really good (hamstrings nonwithstanding). I could do this. I was really going to finish this.

At Mile 11, it was good news, bad news. Bad news was we were off the bike path and back in the city. The good news: We only had 2 miles to go! I pushed myself on, You'll be done in less than 35 minutes!

And thank goodness, because it was hot. I passed an electronic thermometer on a business sign and it read 80. I believed it. But by Mile 12, I could have been running on hot coals and nothing would have stopped me. I was almost done.

I crossed a street and the cop stopping traffic said, "Only .65 left."

Wow. I did my last run-walk interval and thought, Screw it. I am running the last bit straight. I want my medal now.

Soon, there was the Mile 13 marker. I could see Pawtucket City Hall in the distance (the starting/finish line) and soon the blue chutes. This was it, the final tenth.

I turned the corner and started to give it whatever I had left. High on adrenaline, I still felt good and was about to realize my dream of finishing a half-marathon. I really couldn't believe it.

Now, funny thing. I put together a wonderful playlist last night (below, click to enlarge. It was too long for one screenshot).

It was like a Melissa's Greatest Hits, as I went through all my running playlists and picked out my favorites from each. I loaded on 2.7 hrs of music, more than I would need, and hit Shuffle when I started the race. I thought it would be fun to not know which song I would cross the finish line to, and I wondered throughout the race, What song will it be? As each song came on during the race, I'd think, Well, it won't be this one.

CHASE's "Get It On" finished just as I entered the chutes. I put on my best determined-runner face for the race photographers as I strode toward the finish line. I heard the race announcer call my name, "Here's another half-marathon finisher, Melissa Shaw!" The crowd at the chutes began to cheer. I wanted to cry, it was so amazing.

In the distance, I saw the official clock, the timing pads and beyond them a volunteer holding out my finisher's medal in the air. I crossed one pad, then another. I held out my hand and grabbed my medal. I lifted it in the air, over my head in a triumphant fist-pump and I heard the crowd off to the right yell, "Yeah! Way to go!"

I slowed to a walk, grabbed some water from another volunteer and realized: I have no idea what song I finished on.

Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to run another.

That would be the perfect ending to this post, but I can't leave you hanging on the post-race wrapup, eg, How do you feel?

Surprisingly, very good, which means my training was right on. Yeah, I'm stiff in the hamstrings if I sit for an extended period of time, but otherwise I feel great. I'm very surprised how fast the race seemed to go.

One of my concerns when training was it would feel like I was running forever, but it seemed to pass pretty quick. I didn't experience any mental fatigue. When I crossed the finish, I was happy to be done running, for sure, but I wasn't beat up or dead. I still felt good, which was wonderful because 13.1 miles was the longest I've ever run in time (2:46) and distance (previous longest run was 10 miles).

A year ago today, I fully ran my first 5K. It was a huge, monumental event for me. Now, here I was, just a year later strongly finishing a freaking half-marathon.

Last year at this time, my big goal was to finish a 3.1-mile race. I did it, and signed up for another. Then another. Then, I turned around and 3.1 didn't seem to hard. But, 4 miles? Could I run 4? So I did. Then 5 and 6.

I signed up and trained all summer for a 10K. While training for that I did an 8-mile run. I ran 8 miles! And, all of a sudden, 13.1 didn't seem impossible.

A half-marathon? 13.1 miles? Are you kidding?

Running is very similar to losing weight in many ways. You want to lose weight but it seems like you've got so much to lose, it will take so long. But you give it a try. You have some success. You try more. You lose a little more. You may have a setback here and there, but you keep trying. You push on.

You want to run. 3.1 miles seems so far. You're nervous, but you try. It's hard, it's awkward at first, but you try. You learn. You keep running, a little bit more every day.

The pounds lost add up, and all of a sudden you're doing it. You're really, truly doing it. Then comes that magic day when it hits you and you realize, I am going to do this. I am going to get to goal.

It's like turning that corner, seeing the chutes and realizing your dream is literally in sight.

Whether it's running or losing weight, what seem like small advances, slow progress or little successes, they add up. And they pay off. All of a sudden, you're the person you always wanted to be and you earn this: