Boylston Ten Miler

LSD.  That's 70's runners' talk for Long Slow Distance.

That was my objective, or one of them, anyway, when I headed up to Boylston last weekend to share Easter and my nephew's birthday with my brother and his family.   I had seen my brother the weekend before on my mom's birthday, and I had noticed his lean frame - he'd been running three times a week, he told me, proudly.   It's had a decidedly good effect on his midriff.  The push ups and pull ups have been a help too.  I told him then, that on my visit the following weekend, I needed to get in a 10 mile run.  No problem, he said, I'll map out a course for you.

So, after I arrived in Boylston on Friday night, with incense still in our clothes from the Good Friday service at All Saints Worcester, we sat down at the computer and he showed me the run he had designed for me on mapmyrun.com.  It was an easy loop around Boylston, it appeared, until he showed me the gradation on the map.  A little bit of hill there during the second half of the run.  But I like hills, have liked them since I started running cross country in college, and like running past people who don't like hills.  One of my best Boston Marathons was the race in 1993 in which I was passing people on what is known as Heartbreak Hill.  I'd run a very smart race that year, and actually felt strong on those hills.  I was proud of that race.

Saturday morning we headed out in the morning to do some shopping for Easter dinner, and Eric drove me on a good part of the run I was going to do later that afternoon.  It was a rolling run for most of the first five miles, with a nice big hill to reach mile 6.  The rest of the run he described, but we didn't drive, as I supposedly knew the terrain.   We did our errands, ate some lunch, and then I took a nap.  I'd done a short four miler (what I now know as a 4.6 miler, having mapped it on the mapmyrun website) the day before, and was a little bit tired.  But I did not want to put off this long run; it was going to be easier to have it over with, rather than wait another day to run it.  Sunday was going to be busy with Easter morning church service, and a big Easter dinner with fourteen people at the house, so the run was definitely going to happen on Saturday.

Eric was going to run part of the way with me, so we both put on shorts (I thought about wearing tights, but it was a borderline 54 degrees, and not that cold) and our running shoes and headed out the door just after 3.  I told my brother that it would be good for me to start slow and warm up with him - to be honest, though, he was doing a good steady pace as we got going, and it didn't feel that slow to start!  But I left him about a mile and a half into the run, and headed towards the rolling hills.

I left him on Route 70 and headed down Mill Road.  It was quite scenic, with a pond on the right of the road, and still blooming forsythia and daffodils along the way.  It was breezy though; I had decided to wear my running jacket and a baseball cap, and I was glad I did.  I'm not a runner that feels like she has to brave the cold!  Wearing warm clothes is a good thing.   I have painful memories of watching the young men and women of Columbia and the other Ivies at the Heptagonal Championships in late October last year - the day of the big snow in the Northeast - running through cold, freezing rain (the ladies) and then snow (the men) in their shorts and singlets.  One of the top Columbia men ended the race with hypothermia - I'm not sure what the coach was thinking when he let them go out and run 3 plus miles with those skimpy clothes.

But I digress.

I headed from Mill to Sewall Street, heading through miles 4 and 5.  I ran past the Worcester Rifle and Gun Club, and was serenaded with shots from the shooting range.  I was feeling pretty good.  Nothing was sore or hurting, like my 8 miler two weeks earlier.  On that run, twice around Central Park's inner loop, my glutes were sore a good part of the run, and other muscles complained too.  I didn't really want to repeat that!  But as I crossed the main road and headed up the hill to mile 6, everything was still feeling OK.

I was happy to have driven the first 6 miles earlier in the day, it made that first part of the run familiar, and somehow easy mentally.  It was the second half, the next four miles, that were a bit harder.  Somehow, when you don't know where you are, the distance always seems longer than it is.  But I was determined not to worry about it, and focused on my pace and my stride, carefully monitoring my legs as I ran up and down the rolling lane in the woods.  My core was particularly steady, I noted, the happy result of almost four years of Pilates.  I'm a big promoter of the practice, and think it has made me a better runner.  I run straighter, and more centered, with a strong set of abdominal muscles.

Approaching a crossroads, I paused briefly.  I wasn't sure whether to turn left, or keep going straight.  I didn't remember what Eric had said, or what the map looked like that we had reviewed the night before.  This is why I study maps countless times before I go running.  I have a very good sense of direction, but I also like to be certain, doubly certain, of where I am going.  When I am in an unfamiliar city, I will find a map and memorize names of streets and turns so that I won't get lost.  Not that it would be horrible to be lost, but I take great pride in knowing where I am, and it gives me a feeling of accomplishment.

I wasn't sure, so I went straight, past the country club and down another rolling hill.  (I was supposed to have taken the left.  I ended up adding a half mile to my run.)  This time, my calves were feeling the hill.  I've gone a good distance, I thought.  I certainly wasn't going for a strong pace at this point, my objective was to finish 10 miles, running.  I followed the road around for half a mile, and then came up to another crossroads.  At this point, I decided I was not on the mapped route, and needed to make some "on the run" decisions about direction.  I took a left at the crossroads; it felt like it was the direction I needed to be headed.  I climbed another rolling hill, and tried to tamper down the feeling that I was lost.  Not lost, I told myself; there weren't that many roads in this little town; I'd find my way back.

At the end of the road, I hit another road, and took a moment to stop and look around.  And then I saw the Route 70 sign, and knew where I was.  Big relief.  I ran down the hill, past the nature center where I've run in the past, and took the left at the T toward my brother's house.  As I was running up the last hill, my nephew drove by, on his way back from his tennis game, and waved.  It felt good to see him.

I was not going fast at all at this point, I just knew I had half a mile to go to reach Kendall Farm.  I ran to the top of the road - a steep hill leads to my brother's house - and walked for a minute.  Then as the house came into view, I saw my brother at the end of his driveway.  I started running down the hill, with my arms above my head.  Not the Boston Marathon, but the finish of my first 10 miler since 1993.  18 years is a long time, but my body remembered what to do.

26.2, here I come.