Tag Archives: half marathon

Announcing RaceBarefoot: Race reviews for the barefoot runner

In 2014 I returned to racing after a 2.5 year hiatus due to an incessant string of injuries. During this (too-)long period of rehab I ditched the shoes and retrained myself to run, discovering the joys and benefits of running barefoot. My first barefoot half marathon was an exhilarating personal victory and I of course was stricken with the race bug. I was eager to find my next race, but immediately became frustrated by the lack of race information geared towards barefoot runners. Beyond the usual considerations of race support, aid stations and number of porta-potties, barefoot running poses unique challenges, such as gravel, chipseal or extreme heat to name a few. To my dismay, as I researched the ideal course on which to attempt my first barefoot marathon, I found no reliable sources for such specific race details. My efforts to research barefoot-friendly races amounted to fruitless chats on social media and emails to race directors. With great frustration, most of my “How barefoot-friendly is Race X?” inquiries were met with resounding silence.

Out of this frustration was born the motivation to develop a race review resource targeted specifically at barefoot runners: a community for barefooters to share their race experiences–from heavenly smooth pavement to long stretches of challenging gravel to amusing commentary from the peanut gallery. A year after discovering this gaping hole in the barefoot running community, I’m thrilled to announce that RaceBarefoot.com is finally live!

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I invite you to visit the site, share your personal tales of barefoot race victories or disasters, and peruse your fellow runners’ reviews to help select your next barefoot race. We hope that, with the birth of RaceBarefoot.com, no barefoot runner will again have to face the “information abyss” as they research their next 5k, half marathon or ultra!

As the site is newly launched, it is still in beta form, so please feel free to contact us at racebarefoot@gmail.com if you notice any errors or oddities!

Infinite thanks to Lance Troxel for his impeccable design skills and to Russell Reas–master developer–for devoting innumerable weekends to transform my vision into reality.

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The Vancouver Half, a victorious defeat

When life gives you lemons … suck it up. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Well, at the Scotiabank Vancouver Half Marathon last weekend – my second barefoot half – I sucked it up and it was sour.

The saga began a few weeks prior, when I was spontaneously struck with debilitating chest pain. It gripped me intensely, leaving me barely able to breath and fearing a heart attack. An X-ray showed a healthy heart, lungs and ribcage, yet the pain persisted for weeks. Massage, active release and chiropractic adjustments brought some temporary relief, and although I’ll never know for sure, I now suspect it was a strained pec or intercostal muscle. Many days, running was impossible. On good days I could eke out a short, slow, uncomfortable trot. To make matters worse, the stress and tension in my chest and back trickled down to knock the rest of my body out of wack. My opposite leg felt weak and limp, as if it were dragging powerless behind me … as if it belonged to someone else, completely out of my neuromuscular control. As race day neared, I began to abandon my hopes of running at all, mentally preparing for a restful vacation exploring a new city.

Come race morning, I convinced myself anything was possible and knew I would regret not at least trying. The gun went off and to my great surprise, my chest quickly loosened up and my breathing was fluid. My right leg, on the other hand, forgot how to move. For the first seven miles, it took every ounce of mental focus to coerce my muscles into lifting and propelling forward my dead leg. The sun blazed as the pack of runners hugged every smidgen of shade to escape the 80 degree heat. My battle to maintain a semblance of a functional stride intensified as I pranced precariously over nasty stretches of gravel. Eight miles in, a tiny stone sent a zinger through my toe and I pulled to the side for several minutes waiting for the ache to subside. I fought the discouraged voices rationalizing an early finish and pushed ahead. The toe pain gradually dissipated and I even enjoyed a brief surge of strength and fluidity.

But by that point, it was too late and the damage from my wonky gait coupled with the hot, rough and canted roads, had been done. My right heel began to burn and I felt an escalating squish as my bare foot struck the pavement with each step. I refused to inspect my foot and acknowledge that a monstrous blood blister had developed, with four miles still remaining. I refused to focus on the distance ahead, allowing myself to think only of the present moment. “Just take one more step. One step is nothing. Then, just take one more.” I convinced myself that the pain was illusory – that it only existed if I gave it life – and somehow, this denial empowered me through, single squishy step by squishy step. As I sprinted to the finish, a huge smile was plastered on my face and a flood of endorphins masked the havoc I had wreaked on my body. And just like Cinderella at midnight, as I crossed the finish line and broke that invisible endorphin wall, my ecstatic sprint transformed into an awkward hobble over to the medical tent.

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As I saw my finish time, I was surprisingly unfazed by learning I had raced my slowest half ever. Those 13.1 miles were more painful than any I had raced before, but they hurt far less than a DNF or worse – a DNS. Despite the physical pain and frustration, I genuinely enjoyed almost every moment. There is a reason runners return again and again to race, through heat, injury and fatigue … the energy of the running community, the intoxication of the journey, and the discoveries along the way entice us back as addictive rewards.

Several years ago this race would have devastated me. Indeed, by dwelling on insignificant matters of time and speed, racing can destroy a runner and quench the very passion that fuels us to run. But by embracing each experience as a novel opportunity for growth and self-discovery, we can only evolve into better runners – and better human beings. For me, the aggregate challenges of my years of running have reinforced one invaluable lesson. We runners are so much stronger, and our bodies capable of so much more, than we’re aware. Our power is only bounded by the limits of our mind and the integrity of our spirit. To paraphrase a particularly accomplished marathoner, my fastest days may be behind me, but my best running days lay ahead.

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Return to racing, bare and proud!

As I crossed the finish line of the San Diego Half Marathon this past Sunday, I choked back the tears as a powerful flood of emotion overcame me. Two years ago at this time, I was recovering from my second metatarsal stress fracture, just one of a series of severe injuries that kept me sidelined from racing – and nearly from running at all. Over the previous two years, I had tried – and failed – to treat my torn achilles, peroneal and extensor tendonitis, hip bursitis, metatarsal stress reaction and two fractures, by experimenting with every therapy in the books and every shoe available (seriously, you should have seen my shoe rack). My running accomplishments had rapidly diminished from regular marathons to hobbling a few painful miles at best. Each successive injury was followed by yet another, sending me faster into a downward spiral of intensifying hopelessness, as it appeared that my running days were nearing their end.

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Running rebirth

There was a deeper imbalance that was untreatable by rest, physical therapy or new shoes. It was time to hit the reset button and retrain myself to run … from scratch. When I vowed to give up shoes a year and a half ago (September 7, 2013 to be exact) I was terrified. This meant intentionally reducing my mileage to frustratingly low levels and risking more broken bones or worse (as the media promised, with headlines to the tune of “Barefoot Running Can Cause Injuries, Too” and “Barefoot Running Injuries: Doctors See Health Problems Ranging From Stress Fractures To Pulled Calf Muscles“). Although I had been dabbling in running barefoot for a year or so prior, I had approached it as a casual occasional training tool to improve my form, not to mention have a little childlike fun on the side! It seemed unsustainable for the distances and regularity I had been logging and longed to return to. Yet, as every conventional option had failed me, the novelty and craziness of barefoot running offered just the glimmer of hope I needed.

As I progressed through my barefoot journey, the initial apprehension quickly wore off. The requisite patience was offset both by the thrill of running painlessly and freely, as well as by the small, victorious milestones along the way. I vividly remember the satisfaction of completing my first barefoot mile, the giddiness after my first 5-miler and the astonishment after finishing my first 10-miler. The experiment was working!

Racing: The missing piece

Yet, although I had overcome the chronic injuries and – most importantly – had regained my love for running, there was still a missing piece to my inner runner. Due to the incessant injuries, followed by the gradual transition to barefoot running, I hadn’t seriously raced since my last marathon over three years ago. I knew from others’ experiences that returning to full performance (in terms of distance and speed) after switching from shod to barefoot running can take years – around a decade by some estimates. While I dreamed of returning to racing, I was admittedly terrified. Foremost, my barefoot training required a new level of control and precaution, forcing me to limit my terrain mostly to smooth pavement and concrete, and to abandon speed and distance goals. But further, racing for me has always been a chance to explore and test my physical and mental limits. Barefoot racing was uncharted territory and I feared the disappointment if I were to fail that test.

Soon, this race anxiety was overpowered by annoyance with the anxiety, and fed up with my complacency, I took the plunge. My body may never be “perfectly” barefoot-race-ready, but my mind was itching to race. With more excitement than perhaps for any past race, I spontaneously registered for the San Diego Half Marathon, just a couple weeks out. I had been warned by a fellow barefoot runner of some rough spots, but refused to check out the course in advance. Ignorance can indeed be bliss. I was anxious enough, and preferred to bask in blind eagerness than further worry myself.

Taper despair

To my despair, a week from race day as I began to taper, I developed an odd forefoot issue: tight, burning metatarsal heads and painful, tingly first and second toes (I suspect this was related to clumsily wacking my foot on a curb weeks prior, but we’ll never know). The two days before the race, the ‘injury’ peaked and I was hobbling in pain. The mental battle raged, as I weighed the risks and benefits of showing up at the starting line – a painful, miserable, slow run, versus intense disappointment and regret.

Race morning, my foot still ached. But I had to try. The buzz at the starting line reaffirmed my decision, as the shared anticipation amongst the running community flooded me with excitement.

Mile 1: My big toe ached. “Already? Ugh. Why I am I here again?” By mile 2 the pain was gone.

Mile 3: A rough stretch of nasty road. What would have typically ripped up my feet now barely fazed me as I focused intently on light, relaxed form.

Mile 5: Drained and anxious. My foot had been acting up around mile 4-5 in my training runs, and I anticipated the end of my race was near. “This race was such an idiotic decision. I’m injured and tired … there’s just no way this will end well. I’ll most certainly end up more severely hurt, and for what? To prove that I can race barefoot?” But the energy of the runners and spectators propelled me forward, and the constant stream of “Barefoot … thats awesome!” and “Look, she’s barefoot!” reminded me that not only could I do it, I was doing it.

Mile 6.5: Half way already? The foot still felt fine.

Mile 9: After an ugly stretch of not-so-well maintained pavement crossing the 5 freeway, “the hill” appeared. As the 300-foot ascent began and runners around me began to walk, I savored the smooth concrete under my feet as I climbed steadily. But as I peaked to flat ground, I felt a painful ‘pebble’ under my big toe. After a couple of minutes I pulled aside to wipe it away, but there was no pebble. My already finicky flexor tendon had apparently been irritated by the hill, but with only 3 miles to go, I had to push through.

Mile 11: The course weaved through my neighborhood, and as I passed by the cheering onlookers at my typical weekend coffee spot, the pride hit me. I could have been one of those spectators myself, sipping my tea with regret. But not today.

To the finish: Perhaps the most frustrating stretch of the race was the downhill finish. I felt exceptionally strong, but had put on some slight breaks to avoid tearing up the quads, calves and of course, feet.

13.1: I crossed the finish line with deeper gratitude than at perhaps any other race. Compared to my shod days, I hadn’t run particularly fast, and the distance was nothing remarkable, but I had broken another type of PR. After years of being sidelined by injury, I was back in the game. That missing piece to my inner runner was finally found. I was no longer transitioning to barefoot running … I was there. I was a real runner once again … strong, healthy and basking in the post-race passion of the running community that I so missed.

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