misadventures in the marathon

(I just found this photo from Chicago marathon in '02, back when I had a need for speed as opposed to a need for just-finishing-the-race. I love it because check out my wave, I am managing to have a little jaunty twist to my hand, ha!)

On October 31, I’ll be toeing the line at the Marine Corps marathon in D.C. It will be my fifteenth, but don’t let my experience fool you into thinking I know what I’m doing. Learn from my missteps if you have 26.2 penned into your race calendar this month:

DO your long runs. True story: While riding on the shuttle bus to the start line of the Austin marathon in 2005, I realized something startling: I hadn’t run more than, oh, 10 miles in years. I had done my speedwork and hills, but between illness and travel, my long runs got swept aside. “Well, this should be interesting!” I laughed as the bus kept rolling for what seemed like forever. During the race, I managed to hold on for 13 miles before my pace slowed from 7:30-minute-miles to well over 11-minute-miles toward the finish line.
Lesson learned: muscle memory only gets you so far. Do the long runs.

DON'T let lack of shoes fluster you. When unpacking for the 2001 Gorge half-marathon in Hood River (it’s only a half, but go with it), I noticed something conspicuously missing: shoes. Not to be rattled, I waltzed into the nearest superstore, plunked down fifteen dollars, and—as my friends made bets on whether the shoes would last the distance—I ran my best time in a half-marathon yet. Or at least I think it’s my best time, I always forget to keep track.
Lesson learned: never let them see you sweat.

DO test your gear before the race. At my last marathon (Grandma’s marathon two years ago), I was excited to try the new Nike Plus system. Once the marathon started, I pushed a button and set off on my merry way. And pushed a button again. Wait, was I supposed to push it for three seconds now or just one second, and which button again? And if it's flashing, is that a good thing? I spent the first mile trying to figure it out. Lesson learned: read the fine print before your run.

DON'T be afraid to hug the trees. During the Avenue of the Giants marathon in '07, my Unlucky 13th, I was hurting big-time by mile 15. Just when I was starting to feel sorry for myself, I turned my attention to my surroundings. That’s when the Redwood trees lining the race course became my silent supporters. They served as a sturdy calf-stretching post, they shaded my route, and their branches waved me on (cut me some slack, I was feeling delirious by then). I usually prefer crowd-lined routes—and cowbell, lots of cowbell—but there was something peaceful about those trees watching me limp along.
Lesson learned: take comfort wherever you can get it.

DO remember to dance through aid stations, high-five the supporters, joke with your fellow runners, thank the volunteers.
Lesson learned: Having fun during a marathon is a sign of success.

misadventures at relay races

(Taken at the finish line of my first Hood to Coast back in '98 before I moved here, that's me in the background with a relieved expression on my face!)

There's something about relay races that spark drama. Stuff six people into a minivan for 24 hours, add a lack of sleep plus endorphins, stir, and everyone usually ends up a little loopy by the finish line. This month, I’m heading to New Hampshire to run the Reach the Beach relay, where what I lack in speed, I hope to make up for in entertainment value. It’s what I do. If you have a relay on your race schedule soon, heed my words of wisdom first, learned from my last Hood to Coast experience:


Don't wear new shoes the night before. Pre-race, I took my boyfriend, Eric, (a Hood to Coast first-timer) on a blister-prevention shopping spree as he prepared for his race, including bandages and special blister-proof socks. For him. I didn't bother buying anything for myself -- I had made it through 15 blister-free marathons, so I figured I would cruise through H2C without a prob. That, however, was before I decided to wear -- and walk a couple miles in -- new shoes to a pre-race dinner. High-heeled shoes. The next morning, two huge blisters adorned my pinky toes. A quick rummage through my bathroom revealed that I didn't even own a bandage. Luckily, I found a medical tent along the course (they were impressed I had amassed huge blisters before I ran).
Lesson: BYOB (buy your own bandages).


Do let your food digest. The hardest part of relays is that delicate balance of food-and-water intake combined with running three times in a 24-hour period. When we stopped for pizza before our first run, I was alternately stuffing my face and looking at my watch. Math isn't my strong suit. A mere two hours later, as I waited to start running, the pizza sat in my stomach like a rock.
Lesson: When in doubt, skip that third slice.

Don't fall. The relay bracelet snapped in place, I took off down the six-mile course, concentrating on getting my legs into a comfortable rhythm. The next part is hazy: Somehow, during the very first mile of my very first leg, I twisted my left ankle and landed on my right elbow and right knee, and ended up sprawled on the road for all to see -- including all 11 team members in the team vans.
Lesson: If you have to face-plant, at least have the dignity to wait until after your van has passed by.

Do keep your lunch. After my first leg, my ankle started hurting. I iced with the best of them, popped some pills and crossed my fingers. Luckily, adrenaline was on my side, and I felt no pain while running my second leg. Afterward was a different story. Driving to a rest area, I started battling nausea. One minute I was chatting in the van amiably. The next, I lurched out of the van wordlessly and was soon on my hands and knees in an open field losing my midnight snack. When I climbed back into the van, they were silent. My teammate Ben finally spoke up. "Want a mint?"


Lesson: More ibuprofen isn't better. Pace yourself.

misadventures in whitewater

I should have paid better attention at the rental desk. Armed with paddles and inflatable kayaks, my boyfriend Eric and I hurriedly signed our lives away as the store owner mumbled something about “scouting the rapids at Boxcar.” Slight prob: When you’re on the water, you often don’t realize a rapid is coming until it’s too late. So the next time you take a trip down what I now like to call "the deadly Deschutes," (hey, at least it's for a reason--there were record drownings the year we went!) take my advice:


DON’T go solo if you’re a whitewater novice. My whitewater excursions thus far had tallied a total of two—and both times, I was in a guided raft. But when Eric and I decided to raft the Deschutes on a hot July day, we thought it would be more fun to each get our own inflatable kayak than be packed in with strangers. Bad idea.
Lesson learned: There’s a huge difference between navigating the rapids in a big boat with an experienced guide versus your own tippy little vessel.

DO pay attention to rubberneckers. After getting into the river’s rhythm, we entered our first big rapid, Boxcar. I had just enough time to wonder “what is everyone looking at?” before realizing that the people gathered on the nearby rocks were there to witness rapids mayhem. I was about to be the main attraction, as I quickly overturned dramatically. Between the shock of the cold water and the panic of being dumped in whitewater for my first time, I was in short supply of breath—and common sense. In short, I freaked. I flailed my arms. I tried to grab rocks that whizzed by. “I! Really! Don’t! Like! This!” I announced to my spectators.
Lesson learned: When an audience has formed on the rocks, that’s your cue to scout things out before you hit the rapids.

DON’T become a yard sale. Since we hadn’t anticipated being dumped into the water, we cluelessly didn’t think to secure our belongings with a rope. After we lost my hat and Eric’s shoe, we battened down the hatches.
Lesson learned: Be prepared to offer up anything to the water gods that aren’t firmly attached to your person. And bring a knife while you’re at it in case you get caught in the rope.

DO stop while you’re ahead. After dumping three times, and getting relatively used to it (I even managed a couple “woo hoo!”s with paddle raised), we came upon our biggest rapid yet, Oak Springs. One minute Eric was paddling along in front of me, and the next I just saw the bottom of his boat before he disappeared altogether (turns out, there was about a 6-foot drop). Eric managed to sail over the rapids intact, but was now frantically trying to find me, hoping I hadn’t followed him. Instead, I had taken his disappearing act as a cue to pull to shore, and was safely talking to water rescue guys with ropes, as one fellow calmly explained that this rapid creates a hole that sucks people underneath the water. Oh, he also let me know that this was a special day, because rescue teams were upriver trying to recover the body of that girl who drowned last week. Alrighty then. After that, every small ripple looked like a hole existing only to pin me beneath the waves. It was time to hang up my paddle.
Lesson learned: Don’t talk to guys with ropes if you want to enter the water again.

misadventures in adventure racing

[This picture was taken in Maui, where our group was ready to bomb down the side of the 10,000-foot volcano...happy to report NO tears shed on this trip!]

In my first mountain-biking race, I got miserably lost. My second racing attempt was as part of Team Lamprey, a three-person adventure-racing team. There, I learned the hard way that what goes up, well, keeps going up…and up…here, the do’s and don’ts of adventure-racing.

DO choose your battles. It had gotten to the point of no return. It happens in every race, whether it’s a 5K or 5-hour adventure race: tears. Happy, sad, angry, frustrated, euphoric—and usually a combination thereof—it doesn’t matter why, I can usually find any excuse to tear up. My point in this particular race was, after inching up and up and up on one of those subtle “is it just my imagination, or are we going uphill?” fire-lane road, we navigated a wrong turn, and had to backtrack—straight up again. Now, I’d kept a stiff upper lip for hours of hiking through brush and kayaking, but every girl has her breaking point. After we returned to the fire lane of hell, I knew I’d have to make a tough decision: cry or cycle? I couldn’t do both. Think about it—when you’re already struggling to breathe, adding some sniffling to the mix is not what you need.
Lesson learned: In the sob-or-cycle battle, something simply has to give. Cycle now, cry later.

DON’T memorize the course: Sometimes, it helps to be clueless about your course, because if I had really known what I was in for (which was a nifty 2,000-foot mountain-bike climb), I wouldn’t have been able to stop the tear-shedding. In the end, you see, it’s really better for everyone if you don’t dwell on petty little to-do items like how much further is it holymotherofpearl I can’t go on like this for the love of God. Instead, it’s a good time to practice your Zen and Be Here Now rather than “when am I going to get this over with”.
Lesson Learned: Channel your inner Buddha when facing an insane-in the-membrane race course.

DO pick your teammates wisely. Team Lamprey consisted of two buddies in the form of Pete and Kev. They were a perfect combo—Pete always appeared magically at my side when I was struggling but didn’t make it seem like he was doing it on purpose, whereas Kev plowed ahead and set the pace so we wouldn’t slack. Kev is the type of guy who never lets anyone see him sweat (I’ve told him before that I’m not entirely sure he’s human), so imagine my surprise to hear in the distance, up one more turn as Pete and I snaked our way up the mountain…. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” Yesss, every man has his breaking point, and the course had found his.
Lesson learned: If you survived a course hard enough for typically tight-lipped dudes to feel the pain, you’ve earned bragging rights.

misadventures in mountain bike racing

Mountain biking is a sport I took to immediately. The combo of strength, adventure, and balance—hey, those years of practicing mediocre balance-beam routines actually worked!—was right up my alley.
In the 14 years since, it’s all been downhill. Take my first mountain-biking race, which I entered during my first Portland summer in 2001. Fresh from NYC, it was a way to christen myself as the outdoorsy chick I wanted to be. Armed with my new green Gary Fischer, I entered an off-road duathlon…and emerged relatively unscathed but with lessons learned:
DO follow the right course. All I know: One minute I was whizzing along, happy as a clam in mid-pack position. The next minute, I was beginning to wonder why have I not seen anyone in a long, long time? My fatal flaw: I had taken a wrong turn, and—still following course ribbons—was now somehow following the 5-mile run course (don’t ask).
Lesson learned: “Follow the crowd” racing technique doesn’t work in mountain biking races, no matter how much of a midpacker you are.
DON’T act like anything is wrong. I continue whizzing down this hill, clueless to my plight, when I come across a small water crossing. I splash my bike in and jump into the waist-height water. When I start pulling myself up the muddy slope on the other side, with the help of blackberry bushes (thank you, mountain-biking gloves!), I notice I’m not alone. “Are you still…racing?” asks a man camping nearby who is now peering down at me, while his child looks bug-eyed at the muddy monster crawling in the dirt. “We thought the race was already over!” “Nope!” I calmly reply, hopping back in the saddle with a wave and pedaling off.
Lesson learned: When you have absolutely no clue what you’re doing but you have witnesses, act cool as a cuke.
DO aim to entertain. After a panicky period known as “overthinking” my direction, I heard human voices. It was my friend Ryan cleaning up the course…one sight of me and he stopped in his tracks. “Hey, I wondered where you were—what are you doing out here?” I proceed to have a meltdown, while he calmly points behind me. Turns out, the finish line was just one mile down a fire lane.
Lesson learned: Befriend the people cleaning up the course so when you throw a mid-forest tantrum at least you’re among friends.
When I finally roll in, three hours after I began, the awards ceremony is over, and everyone is gathered for a barbecue. As a beer appears in my right hand, a towel in my left, I realize this: It may not have been the grand outdoors entrance I’d imagined, but I’d rather have a good misadventure than do well in a race. I mean, where’s the fun in following the crowd, anyway?

misadventures in triathlon

I’ve never been what one would call a water person (unlike my dog Luey, pictured here). I was the type of kid who was afraid to take a bath after watching Jaws (yes, you may cackle openly at this fun fact, I don’t mind). Needless to say, then, triathlon just isn’t my thing, because you have to do that S word: swimming. But that hasn’t stopped me from trying some tris, and—because most adventures with me end in misadventure—getting in over my head. So if you’re not a swimming superstar, and you’re thinking of testing the waters with your first triathlon soon, learn from my mistakes before taking the plunge yourself.

DON’T stay in the pool. Training for my first triathlon in 1996, I dutifully dipped my toes into a lap pool several times a week. I trailed along behind a master’s swim team practice. I got form advice. I was dedicated. All of that training went out the window, though, when I first put my goggled face in the river water on race day. And discovered to my horror that I couldn’t see an inch in front of my face.
Lesson learned: Lap pools and murky brown rivers are very different creatures.
DO take your time. The starting gun went off, and I dashed into the water with all my fellow age-groupers. Which is really stupid, if you think about it. I mean, all that sprinting for 10 seconds did for me was make me out of breath—as soon as we started swimming, everyone promptly passed me anyway.
Lesson learned: Sprinting and then swimming is not a smart combo.
DON’T ignore the course. While desperately trying to a. catch my breath and b. not put my face in the water, I arrived at a brilliant solution: the backstroke! I flipped over, calm as a cuke, and started swimming on my back. I was in my own element when out of the corner of my eye I saw a kayak bobbing next to me. “You’re going the wrong way!” the race marshal pointed downstream at all my fellow yellow-capped swimmers, who were most definitely going a different direction than I was. (I was the lone swimmer who was attempting to cross the river rather than swim the length of it, you see.)
Lesson learned: The backstroke is an excellent cure for pesky problems such as breathing and seeing, but you still need to watch where you’re going.
As my fellow yellow cappers got further and further ahead of me, and pink caps from the wave behind us started coming in strong, I got a newfound determination. Operation Get Me the Hell Out of This Water. With a combination of doggie paddling and breast-stroking (both superior forms to see, catch your breath, and see where you’re going), I managed to finish the ½-mile swim.
I’d like to say that I learned from my mistakes and got smarter, faster, and braver in future triathlons, but I didn’t. In fact, I regressed. My next tri was held in Central Park (where the swim portion was in an outdoor pool that was so shallow, you could run the swim portion, much to my spectating sister’s amusement). My third, and last, was held indoors at my NYC gym. I hung up my goggles shortly thereafter, and haven’t set foot in a lap pool since. Sometimes, it’s best to stick with what you know—and for me, that means any sport where land is firmly underneath my feet.

misadventures in book publicity

Yes, I'm so green that I take pictures of the Green Room...this is from WGN studios in Chicago. I'm a total nerd...but ISN'T IT COOL??!!

It's fitting that on the last night of 2009, I had a nightmare about book publicity. In my dream, I was running late to an interview, and I didn't even know what station I was supposed to go to, or for that matter, whether it was radio or TV. When I woke up, I laughed (after reassuring myself that I wasn't late to anything except sitting down and writing this blog, which has taken me over two months to finish--I blame book exhaustion). The reason it's fitting is 2009 will go down in history as The Year of Book Publicity Misadventures. Four bookstore readings, three radio interviews, two TV segments, and more than one meltdown later, I come prepared with advice. So if you have a book on the horizon in this decade, heed my words before you pitch yours...


DO get there on time. For some reason, the big headliner of many a nightmare for me (see above) has been that pesky punctuality thing. I have good reasons for keeping one eyeball firmly on the watch. Of the three in-person interviews I had for this book "tour", only one of them came fret-free: My Portland TV interview, to which I was calm as a cuke as Sue the Subaru guided my way through the early-morning darkness to the station only a few miles away. Nothin' to it. My Portland radio interview wasn't as smooth sailing. My first glimpse of a problem was when I reassured myself "I'll figure out how to get there" because I had been there before. Bad idea. Bad, BAD idea. Because this radio station happens to be located in the evil empire known as South Waterfront. Evil not for the neighborhood itself--it's pretty cool, actually--but the fact that you cannot get to it via normal channels. Instead, you must immediately take a hard right after the bridge exit, jog to the left, do a U-Turn and then a figure-eight across four lanes of traffic--or something of that sort. I jest slightly, of course. But suffice it to say, I did many of these driving configurations while remaining frustratingly far from the station. And because the neighborhood insists on being so evil, if you miss the exit it's not like a "I'll just park and walk" situation, because there's a handy four-lane highway separating where you are and where you want to go (a highway I actually eyeballed for hightailing it 'cross at one juncture, until I saw that it's cut into a hill and there's really no way to plonk yourself miraculously on the other side, ack!). Put it this way: I left two hours early in order to drive 10 miles, and I arrived just in time. You ever see Chevy Chase in European Vacation when he's in that round-about in London? Yeah. (I'll leave you to imagine my mental state for that panic-filled hour). The following month, I managed to book a Chicago TV interview. Which would occur at 11 am. Upon looking at my flight times that morning from Denver, I realized that left me a grand tally of one hour from wheels down to "lights, camera, action". I promptly e-mailed my mathematician, Chicago-dwelling dad who practically pulled out a mathematical equation about how I would indeed get there on time (despite many reassuring e-mails pre-trip, he admitted to me that he was nervous all along, ha!). BUT, in a beautifully choreographed travel morning, it was to be. Between two notoriously snow-delayed cities (this was November, after all), my flight was right on time and my Denver trip was miraculously sandwiched between two huge snowstorms. Even my bag was patiently waiting for me at the terminal by the time I walked through O'Hare's long hallways to get to baggage claim (I mean, when does THAT ever happen?). I caught a cab immediately, and despite exactly one minute of Chicago traffic gridlock, I managed to waltz into the station early (okay, I wasn't exactly waltzing as I had three bags in tow, but work with me).
Lesson Learned: Sometimes, the time gods look upon you even when you're about to shit your pants.


DO turn things up to 11. It was my first in-studio radio interview on a popular afternoon drive-time show. I'd pictured lots of laughing and slyly nodding to each other and crazy stories. What I didn't factor in, however, was confusion and madness in all directions. Half the time (okay, I'm being generous with myself--actually, it's more like 75 percent if you're really getting exact about things) I didn't know what the hell was going on. To wit: While my headphones were mysteriously muffled, the radio hosts seemed to be listening to something. I looked to my left, as she doodled on a piece of paper, nodding. To my right, the other host was updating their Facebook page yet still seemed to be listening to something. After looking around, I decided to toy with this little thing called a "volume button." Just as I turned it up, I realized that yes indeedy, the hosts ARE listening to something, and they're called lis-ten-ers. I turn up the volume just as the caller ends her question and the host asks me what I think (luckily, she picks up on my clueless look and immediately asks me another open-ended question about the book). Other random tidbits circling in my brain throughout the entire interview included: whether we were "live" or not and therefore whether I was allowed to chat with the hosts, whether I was supposed to talk to the callers, and how long I should jabber on for when I was actually asked a direct question. After that, I decided to channel my inner Derek Smalls (of Spinal Tap), who decided his role in the band was as a "preserved moose" (i.e., don't speak unless spoken to). Let's just say it was a good thing it was radio, otherwise my furrowed brow would have been a problem-o.
Lesson learned: When you have no earthly clue what in tarnation is going on, just stay put and shut up.


DON'T equate tears with crying. I'm the first to burst into tears, I just don't tend to do it in front of a rapt audience. But during one of the bookstore events, a funny thing happened. One of the contributors had an allergy attack as she waited to read her essay. Since her essay was about a friend who had died, forgive me if I'm immediately thinking "sobbing" and not "pollen". I decide to do what's called "thinking on your feet," and even though she's due to read next I swap the order so she'll read last, all the better for her to dry her tears, I think. Only thing is, by the time she actually reads her essay, I'm quite verklempt myself. Because I know what her essay is about, and I'm putting myself in her shoes--mourning her friend who died. "Want a tissue?" another contributor, Anna, asked, as we're all lined up in front of the group and I'm clearly not holding it together. Luckily, I was told of many other tears in the audience later on, but at the time all I could focus on was steadying my flow and managing to get back up behind the podium to thank everyone. Imagine my slight sheepishness, then, to discover that she just had allergies! P.S.: For the record, so did I. There's a funny thing about bookstores that always triggers it, you see, it must be the book pollen...
Lesson learned: ask about the source of others' tears before asking for your own tissues.

DO remember your lines. The thing about not having "handlers" is that you are just kinda thrown into these interviews. And I'm two-for-two in the "throw Megan for a loop right before live TV" department. Yep, the exact occurrence is about 10.356 seconds before going live--right when they actually tell you what you'll be asked. The first time, I about choked (and when I read on host's cue card, I did the old "uh, can we can this question instead?" technique). The next time, the host rattled off her questions right beforehand, and I just nodded and smiled. And then I frantically brainstormed answers until we went live.
Lesson learned: when you're asked a question, remember--and TRUST!--that you have it in your brain. And if all else fails, wing it, because no one knows the difference!

DO laugh at yourself. Even if your book is enjoying a gentle free-fall on Amazon, even when a friend tells you that you seemed nervous on camera, even when another "friend" gives you a three-star review (out of five, people! I mean, that's like someone saying "I give you a C!"), relax. Because there's plenty on the flip side: fabulous contributors, a fantastic photographer-friend who came through with a bio pic and event shots, and everyone on Facebook who has NOT de-friended you through this whole me-me-me madness. Above all, be glad you're not a literary bigwig who has to be on the book-tour trail for months on end. On the other hand, said bigwigs do tend to have "people" which might be nice. Baby steps, baby steps...
Lesson learned: No matter what you do, there will be critics. Just perfect your best smile-and-wave even if you're slightly miffed inside. Pretend you're above it and you will be.