tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69940225403015756032024-02-21T11:43:12.163-05:00Ravings of a RunnerA running book that helps motivate you to find your own runs to rave about. Every runner has great stories about their favorite spots, secret training methods, special moments - good and bad. Here a midpack runner shares all of his with you. If this book doesn't make you want to get up off the couch and do a workout - well at least it is still a good read.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-43610808263715678172023-08-08T15:09:00.000-04:002023-08-09T17:10:51.258-04:00Blue Ridge Relay - 208 miles of fun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVkNxkyxH0uOLVljswYKoG4ce9HkHkg1K3DhGaotC8Lut0GZVT-WxTu9DGiprYJ2tCLw5FOfNcvcmFv9ewH54zIeYiY33wZTVqjMABi0Vwmr9qlERpi1uAZw0HgXDFKkGjkq2qMy7n3A/s1600/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguVkNxkyxH0uOLVljswYKoG4ce9HkHkg1K3DhGaotC8Lut0GZVT-WxTu9DGiprYJ2tCLw5FOfNcvcmFv9ewH54zIeYiY33wZTVqjMABi0Vwmr9qlERpi1uAZw0HgXDFKkGjkq2qMy7n3A/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><i>I lean slightly backwards reaching for the slap bracelet that serves as the torch for our challenge. A hand extends towards me and the exchange has been made. Thirty-five minutes after the race has begun, it is my turn to run. I am gone only ten or fifteen seconds and suddenly, it is too late to offer up excuses as to why I am not prepared or to share my anxiety over the mountains that are called hills in the course profile. I am running at a measured pace, anticipating the 22 miles to come, recognizing that 2,500-4,500 feet of elevation lowers the number of oxygen molecules per breath and again that the hills are steeper and longer than anything I have trained on.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Looking around, I start to get my bearings. I feel the downhill pulling me and I let gravity help, but I keep one foot slightly on the brake. I cannot run too fast now and risk a slow death on another leg. Two runners ahead of me seem to be holding a steady distance from me and so I am obviously under control. I take a quick glance at my GPS and it clearly shows that I have just crossed .5 miles at a 6:30 pace – way too fast for me – faster than my 5K pace. I am obviously not under control and I pull back more. It is still downhill and I am full of adrenaline. For a couple of months, I have been anticipating this day and wondering what level of performance my body would give.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Leg Two overall and the first for me is rated as HARD and covers 7.5 miles. That is about the same distance as my daily run and the start time is about the same as usual, so I feel very comfortable. My plan is to enjoy this run on mountain roads and take in the great fall scenery and weather. My only real concern is leaving a little in the tank for my next run. </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>The runner ahead of me has made up his gap on the other of the two runners in my sight and they make the first turn as one, out of the park and onto an empty rural highway. I am several hundred yards back and I follow them when I get to the corner. I see my first directional sign, but I pay it little heed since it is obvious where we are headed. The race covers 208 miles and the routing includes big roads, back roads and gravel roads. A profile for each leg has been distributed and some people carry a laminated card with the directions for their portion. But most runners rely on trying to follow the small signs and, this early in the race, following other runners. That’s what I am doing. However I lose sight of the two runners that I am tracking as we head around a big swooping curve. Then I see a sign. Though it isn’t clear to me whether it is directing me to follow the left curve in the road ahead or to turn left off of the road onto a gravel road. The sign is placed about 20 feet before the turn and I am at the corner and turning before my brain processes the info. I go another 20 feet thinking about the possibility of being off course this early, running a few extra miles, and losing a huge chunk of time for the team. Where are they? I double back, using precious time, and take a look at the street sign. I recognize the name and continue on my way. It is a half of a mile later when a team vehicle passes me and confirms that I am on the right trail. Wow, that feels better.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>The temperature is nice and the mountain air refreshing. Dew glistens on the grass in the pastures and the sun starts peeking through the early fall foliage. This is a great day and place for a fun run or to be a tourist, but this is a race and I constantly evaluate and reevaluate my pace. Is it fast enough given the terrain? Is it too fast given what lies ahead? As mile three starts, not marked but on my GPS worn specifically for that reason, the downhill and flat terrain abruptly bids me farewell and I am greeted by one of those backwoods hills that are graded according to the climb rather than gradually to accommodate cars. There is no indication as to the length of the climb other than the few switchbacks I can see. As if a lumbering semi, I downshift into a lower gear: shortening my stride, leaning slightly forward, and reducing my speed. These hills attack you in two ways: muscularly and aerobically. Since this is my first run of the day, I feel that my fresh legs can power up this hill. In fact that is my problem. My limiting factor on these types of inclines is lactic acid brought on by running for too long at or near my maximum heart rate. I choose a faster pace than I can maintain and do well for a short period and then I feel my heart rate climbing. Generally, I slow down once, and then again, but it is all to no avail as I reach a tipping point and the weight of the hill and the waste in my bloodstream come crashing down and force me to stop. That is what I want to avoid here and I pull way back immediately and force myself to run at what seems a snail’s pace.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Time moves slowly and I wonder if I am allowing the gap between me and the other runners ahead to increase, and if a runner farther back has set his/her sights on me. Still I stay the course, climbing at a disciplined rate and it feels good. There is no pain. There is no shortage of air. I have found a pace that works and I start to push it just a little without crossing any thresholds. The hill goes on with the benefit of some nice views and a bucolic setting. The only noise out here is the thumping of my shoes, the splash of my drink, and the pounding of my heart. I feel strong and confident even as the hill lessens but continues to climb. I check my GPS for my distance and average pace. I am still ahead of projected at 5 miles when my teammates start screaming cheers and support as they finally pass by. I had expected them to pass me in the first mile, but they had made the navigational error, not me. They edge on ahead, leaving me with a smile as only other runners can. I dig in for more ups and downs, but aware that in 2.5 miles, I will be taking a break. That makes it easy to find a constant stride and my adrenaline is still providing extra energy.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>On most of the straight-aways, I still see one of the runners at almost the same distance ahead of me. The other has moved on farther ahead and dropped the two of us. I keep looking at my GPS and thinking that I have run stronger and faster than expected, and yet I am losing ground. The only conclusion is that there are some good runners in this race and we had better bring our A game to avoid bringing up the rear.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>My two goals for the Relay are to run strong on my legs and to have fun with the group. This relay consists of 36 legs and our team has the maximum 12 members, each running 3 legs always in order. My legs will be 2, 14 and 26. The same runner will always be ahead of me and another runner will always take my handoff. The runner that waits only knows that it is his/her turn once the preceding runner arrives, so it is important to have a good guess as to the runner’s pace in order to establish a window for the exchange. That depends on variables such as speed, elevation gained and loss, how tired the runner is and the heat of the day.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>As I reach mile 7.2, almost at the exchange zone, the road flattens and may even roll downward a bit. Or it could be my excitement pushing me hard those last few hundred yards. In any case, I pick up the pace and I feel like a locomotive rolling towards the finish. I yell out our team name to alert the waiting teammate. I hear a response and keep barreling towards the small crowd near the monitoring officials. As I come in, I see a few teammates and hear them lauding my run, but I don’t see the next runner. Then I learn that he isn’t ready and why and my immediate reaction is a big laugh and I realize that we will be combining effort with fun for the next 24 hours. I am totally relaxed as I have finished a fun run and reconfirm that we are here for fun.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>The next runner had been all prepared to make a quick relay handoff, but had discovered at the last moment that he had forgotten to attach his number to his shirt and had to go find it. Another teammate helped by pinning it on him without any puncture wounds. Then he was ready and grabbed the bracelet and headed off for a 5-mile run. He was reasonably new to running and most of us were new to relays, so with this excitement combined with the adrenaline already pumping and the lost time, he tore down the road like a jackrabbit. There is nothing like excitement.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Most of the running at a relay is done alone or in brief moments with a stranger from another team. The social side of the relay is the time spent not running, but hustling from one start to another and talking about the upcoming run or the one you just did. There is also quite a bit of camaraderie with other teams of similar pacing as you see the same faces over and over as each team awaits its runner. The topic of choice of course is running: legs, pace, weather, logistics, teammates.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Each leg is a different length and takes a different amount of time. The basic logistics of a twelve-member team is that the runners with the first six legs ride together and the runners with legs seven to twelve share another vehicle. At our relay, about 80% of the vehicles are white 15-passenger vans and are decorated with slogans and names and graffiti. The van and the teammates deliver the runner to the start and help coordinate the bracelet pass off with scouting, cheering and encouragement. But once that happens, it is time to move on down the road and let the next runner prepare for the next leg. So the other five runners pile into the van and head off down the same course as the runner, following the signs to the next exchange zone. The van passes runners all along the course and our members (and those of most teams) are positive and seek to offer encouragement to all runners. However, the real eruption of sound and support occurs when we pass our own teammate. It is a fleeting moment as we don’t stay there long – neither the rules nor most runners encourage shadowing. On down the road we go, with our speed constrained by the bumps, curves, avoidance of runners and our unfamiliarity driving such a large vehicle. It always takes what seems like a long time and this reinforces the distance that the runner must cover. Once parked at the next zone, there is usually a 20-40 minute period before the runner arrives and each person has their own agenda: the next runner is getting ready, someone is eating, someone needs the port-o-john and the last runner is still toweling off, washing with baby towlettes and changing clothes. Their next run is 9-10 hours away.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Ten hours is a lot of time. After our sixth runner finishes, everyone has a certain buzz. We jump from story to story as we leap ahead to the transition zone where we can rest until leg 13 starts. This transition is fun, as almost every team will overlap here for several hours. Experienced relayers have prepared and the parking lot at this outlet mall has sleeping bags and lounge chairs spread in the grassy areas amidst a sea of white 15-passenger vans. It is early afternoon and I have no interest in sleeping nor the ability at that hour. I wander around meeting new people and getting their takes on the Relay so far, learning about their legs, discussing their home running scene and generally enjoying the openness of the running society at this point. Most people are confident but not egotistical at this juncture. We all know that the first leg occurs when we are all well rested and that the more legs we run, the heavier our running legs will feel. </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>I am having fun, but I am anxious. My first leg was rated HARD. My second leg is rated VERY HARD and consists of a 10-mile run on a constant uphill to the entrance for Grandfather’s Mountain. I have heard that it has a steep incline in the first few miles and then continues gradually rising until finishing with another steep mile. This is the tough part of my run and I have fought off fear for the past month. Will I conquer this mountain or will it humble me? I am so ready to start, but I can only wait patiently as the hours slowly slip away.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>It is always a good idea to be in good shape for an event like this and specific training for the event is highly recommended. Specific training would involve distance and hills. As far as distance goes, the primary decision is whether to train with one single long run equal to the approximate total distance or whether to double up and run multiple times on the same day. There are plusses to both. My personal preference would be to run the total distance in a single long run. Unfortunately, the heat prevents me from doing long runs in the summer, so ten miles had been my normal long run this summer and my legs totaled 22.1 miles. Two weeks before the Relay, the morning temperatures broke lower and I managed a 13 and a 15-miler – with a rest day before and after each. Nevertheless, I would have felt okay about the distance if it had been a flat course. But it isn’t. It is the Blue Ridge Mountains and the course profile resembles a stock market graph.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>The afternoon continues to creep away and then we are joined in the parking lot by the runners from the other van – a sure sign that their last runner is on the way. Runner One for us prepares to start: Glidestick, food, liquid, and given the time of day, the full set of night gear. The race is run on a number of public roads and there are few signs warning traffic about us and the normal potholes and narrow shoulders. Each runner wears a reflective vest, a blinking bike light on the front and back and a coal miner’s headlamp to be a light unto your path. All that, supplemented by a GPS to track your mileage and a bottle of liquid, and you are no longer the light agile runner that you know and love.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>The exchange is made and the level of excitement jumps noticeably. We have some quick conversations to congratulate the runners in the other van and to find out about their runs and just feed off their raw energy. I have a bit of that raw energy myself. The other runners now know that they are in line to run, but they also know that both the runner out now and I both have a lot of miles to do, so there is plenty of time for them to get ready. We hop in the van and head to our next transition zone for leg 13. We will see the people in the other van again at Exchange 18.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Given the difficulty of the current runner’s leg, I have about a 25-minute range in my estimated start time. Still, I want to start. I change into my running gear, lubricate, hydrate, dehydrate, dehydrate again, check my lights, and given the cool mountain air, I throw on a long sleeve shirt. I wait for a few minutes and then I dehydrate again. Familiar faces are leaving and I switch on all my lights and look like an alien out for a run. The darkness makes it difficult to identify a runner, but soon we hear a familiar female voice calling out the team name. It is my turn. Friendly words and encouragement are exchanged as well as the slap bracelet. It is just one more item I throw on the body of a simple runner that normally eschews a watch.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>I turn and start running up – or down – the road. I can’t tell if I am going up or if the road is flat. The spotlight shines straight ahead and can light up things over 10 meters away, but I can’t see far enough ahead to visually judge the incline. I have again started slow because the course profile shows a major climb in the first 2 miles. I can tell that it isn’t downhill and my pace seems slow, but the GPS reports that I am running my everyday run pace. Some runners can feel their pace and run it anywhere. I generally run a consistent pace, but tonight I need to correctly judge my effort to make sure that I don’t crash and burn.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>One thing is for sure: this is fun. The darkness focuses my mind and I can feel the road as I push off – the left side several inches below the right side. I can see the trees as their shadows further darken an already dark area. The air that chilled me as I waited feels fresh, but my internal combustion has ignited and the sweat has begun to accumulate. Some people talk of spookiness or wild animals or some general fear of the dark, but the darkness calmed me and I feel totally in control of the run and my body.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Around a mile, I pass the Eastern Continental Divide and assume that it is the highest point around. I am wrong. For some reason it seems to sit at the base of a hill. As I ran the second mile I see and feel more evidence of the advertised elevation gain, but it still feels reasonable. My pace is only a tad slower and nowhere near what I feared. I begin to dream of maintaining it – usually a sure indication of troubles ahead. The van passes me and a few Woohoos head my way. As I pass mile two, confidence begins to flow through my veins. I am going to be able to do this: the question now is time. I keep pushing and feel great. At 2.75 miles, my teammates have pulled over to check my progress and will me up this hill. That was fun and I wave and breeze past them. Less than a tenth of a mile later, my legs suddenly turn to lead and I struggle to put on a brave face as the team passes me again en route to the next exchange. So there is a hill somewhere here in this darkness. I slow down and my legs recover – no real problem, just a statement by them to remind me that I am not the boss.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>The middle of the run is a small but constant climb and a solitary nighttime run becomes a social setting. In the next few miles, I am passed 6 times by runners, some so fast that I feel like I am standing still. The first passes me slowly and my pace naturally quickens as I seek to maintain contact. And I do for about 2 minutes until I remember that I have a plan that I should stick to and run my race, not his. Zoom, he leaves me behind to my own thoughts. During this same stretch, I pick off 4 runners. I have a conversation with each one and attempt to pass as quickly as possible – without changing my pace – so that I don’t infringe on their great night run.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Most of the traffic on the road consists of vans passing by, and they are careful and supportive. But around mile 4, I find myself playing chicken with a driver that does not want to shift from his lane. I decide that I am the chicken and I step off the road into the rain gulley a couple of feet down. The car passes me as if I were invisible. I feel like I made the smart move and make a mental note to show all of my lights excessively from now on. I reach down and squeeze a few ounces of sweat from my T-shirt. Man, is it fun out here tonight. I feel alive.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Mile 5 seems longer. The strangeness of the night, the newness of the headlamp, the realization that I am not yet halfway all make me more aware of each step. I start to notice the incline of the road more – there would be a raging runoff in a rain. I see a huge boulder on the side of the road. The runners that pass me and the ones I am coming up on provide a temporary look at the route ahead and I can better gauge upcoming inclines for their elevation gain, but not for their distance away.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>As I cross mile 5, I know that I am halfway and all I have to do is run that last part of my normal ten milers. Supposedly, this is the feeling at mile 20 in a marathon, but it feels much easier tonight as I run in the dark by myself. I am there. This leg is mine. I have succeeded at the Relay. I still have another leg and it will be demanding, but this is the leg that loomed hardest. Now back to the business of running this one.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Given my elation at claiming victory so early, I step up the pace just to emphasize to the mountain my power. In what seems just a few minutes, I look at my GPS and see that I now have run 6.67 miles. The last 1.67 have just flown by – in fact, I wonder if that much distance has really been covered. I look back at the GPS, this time with the full luminosity of my headlamp, and see that in fact I had covered only 5.67. Fortunately, I accept it without any psychological damage and keep shuffling my feet. The next mile brings my calmness back and I run without thinking.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>I am wearing my GPS to help me gauge where I am in the run. Once in a while I just look at it, but usually there is a stimulus: a turn, or getting passed, or as at mile 6.7, a change in topography. I feel it subconsciously just before it bubbles into my reality. Boom, my pace drops and my heart rate inches up. I shorten my stride again and lower my center of gravity. I feel the exertion and the cumulative fatigue at the top of my hamstrings and my lower glutes. From this point forward, I am doing simple math: 10 minus my number of miles equals my remaining mileage. Now it is 3.3 and I know that if I keep a steady pace, I can gut this out with no problem. The night keeps getting cooler, but I keep squeezing sweat from my shirt. I am generating heat.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>The biggest issue for me is that I don’t know what lies ahead. I had examined the course profile a hundred times and I didn’t expect this big challenge until mile 8. I can only assume that the climb will extend until the end. There is nothing to do but to stick to my strategy of making sure that I don’t attack too aggressively, but now I try to combine that with one of running as fast as possible so that I don’t arrive at the exchange with any extra energy that could have made me faster. It is a fine and constantly changing line to which I continually adjust. I want a constant level of exertion to yield a varying performance based on the conditions. I seek distraction to take my mind off of the challenge at hand and there is plenty of newness in the situation: the moon now helps silhouette the surrounding trees as a light breeze causes the leaves to stir. I hear a small stream or waterfall off to the right, a small gravel road descends sharply in total darkness to the left, my headlamp is bright and positioned so that it is hard to see the stars in the clear sky, sweat pours down my face onto my drenched face and I draw imaginary letters on the road ahead with my headlamp. It isn’t enough. The reality of the climb communicates directly with my legs and my lungs causing me to be hyperaware of every step and exertion. It isn’t pain but life is passing at real time. </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Suddenly, at mile 8, for the first time I can’t see but I can truly feel a major elevation change – I am running downhill. Plop, plop, my feet are moving fast. I stretch out my stride as best I can and ponder how much to resist gravity’s pull. This is a welcome respite from the uphill and my heart rate plummets. I am reenergized and I know that I can take advantage of this section to reduce my average pace for the segment and I accept the speed. This is not on the charts and I have no idea how long it will last, but it feels good and I hope that the major climbs are over. Ah, but it lasts for about half a mile and then I do get the expected climb to the finish, I have no doubt that it will go on till the exchange zone is in site and I just give it all that I have. My heart rate is 5 -10 beats higher than earlier and approaching a danger zone and that is where I try to hold it. Others have noticed the hill and I pass two more people. I mumble words of encouragement related to the short distance remaining as I try to create a gap before I risk decelerating and joining them. I hold off checking my GPS as long as I can, because each time I see that I have only moved another tenth of a mile ahead. Well that is 10 minus another tenth and the end must be close – at least mathematically.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>There are lights ahead and it looks as if I am running towards a small festival or a Christmas tree sales lot. The road flattens enough that I pick up the pace and the effort to give the illusion of strength. I yell my team name out twice and I hear my name echo back. Coarse excitement reenters my bloodstream and I rocket towards the line, grabbing my team bracelet and preparing for the handoff. It is done. The next runner instantly disappears into the night and Scott steers me quickly around the crowd and toward the hill where the car is parked. I balk at walking up this very steep hill until I recover just a bit, but he keeps me moving past the officials so that the van can come to me. That is not only thoughtful, but also practical. I am tired and expended, but the current leg is only 2 miles and a steep downhill. We need to drive the next runner (Scott) to the exchange zone and have him ready and toeing the line within 14 minutes from the already-forgotten handoff. We drive down the hill and it is like a Pinewood Derby with runners setting their own personal bests. Once there, Scott is getting ready and I am walking around still sweating and catching my breath. Before I can do that, the next leg is underway and the runner that just finished is sharing his enthusiasm. This is fun. Next exchange is now less than 30 minutes away. I hop back on a towel in the van – I will wash off and change at the next area.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Much of the experience of a relay is from the life within a van and a 15-passenger van should more than adequately hold 6 passengers – particularly if one is actually running instead of riding. But like everyone that lives out of a suitcase, relay runners start spreading their things out and reducing the available space. Food, drinks, chairs, sleeping bags and clothing all fill the space before the runs start. But once the run starts, each runner has a wet sweaty towel, a set of running clothes that are dripping with sweat and looking for an opportunity to smell, and of course there are shoes everywhere. I and everyone else had a clean pair for nonrunning and at least 2 pairs for running. Once they get wet, there is nowhere to put them to dry and they are too bulky to put back in the travel bag. When packing, I had packed three plastic grocery bags with my clothes for each particular leg. My solution to wet clothes was to create a single larger bag to hold all of my wet clothes and to use a small grocery bag to hold my shoes. Did it work? Partially. The big wet towel never really dried and started getting the seats damp and smelly. The headlamp strap was wet like a sweatband and there was no real way to change that and I had to put it back on later. For the time being, darkness hid our messiness.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>After my second run, although the total team has completed only 14 out of 36 legs, I feel like the relay is almost complete. One short but interesting run remains for me, but I feel relieved of any pressure to perform. I sit back, cheering and supporting my teammates as we finish the rotation for our van. Sometime around midnight we hand off the magic bracelet to van 2 and have a sandwich with other runners just finishing their legs. Then we shift to the area where the next major transition for us occurs – a fire station. Lots of people have arrived before us and the firehouse is full of people chowing down on baked potatoes - prepared by firemen and some volunteers - with all of the fixings. The gravel parking lot is not only full of large white vans; many of the parking spots have barely visible runners under the open sky attempting to get some sleep. We agree that we will set our alarms for 3:45 AM with the expectation of a start for our first runner at 4:15 AM or later. I pop out my contacts and claim a seat in the van – 3 people are there and 3 are outside in the foggy night. I toss and turn and a couple of short hours later, it is time to pop the contacts back in and load up the van. The parking lot has noticeably fewer vans and precariously placed bodies, and we scurry around to try to learn when our runner will arrive. Mobile phone coverage out here is spotty and batteries are dead on the phones of the primary contacts, but eventually we receive word that the runner is about 30 minutes out. Fifteen minutes later, our runner comes running up to the finish line – before his van arrives. This seems like an interesting puzzle, but our job is to get runner number one on the road again and that is what we do. It is 4:30 AM and I am glad that I have just a bit more time to wake up before my run. We follow her and strategically locate ourselves at a turn marker - so that she will not miss it – and we cheer like a bunch of crazy runners that haven’t really slept. There are a few houses around, but no lights turn on and no shotguns or dogs appear.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>I feel good as my run approaches. To me, this is an easy 4.5-mile run without pressure. I have learned to run with the headlamp, reflective vest, and blinking lights. My water bottle is only half full, since it is cool and the distance is short. This is the third time the handoff has been made from runner one to me and it goes smoothly. I stay just long enough to give her a quick congratulatory hug and then I bolt out. My breathing finds a regular rhythm almost instantly. I can feel some aches in my legs, but those fade quickly. I can feel the downhill and I welcome the speed and ease that come with it. I feel faster than in the earlier legs and I unfearingly maintain my pace. I hadn’t really noticed any runners at the exchange, but I now spot the lights of two ahead and they seem to be falling back towards me. They are obviously saving some for the mandatory hill ahead. Other runners provide great comfort that you are in fact on the course and I use their lights to make my first turns. But then I become the leader and responsible for nighttime navigation. This is the spooky time of night to run – is it still night or is it morning? The simplest way to answer that is that the only people on the road are locals that have not been to bed yet. Have they been drinking? Will they know the roads and hug the lines on the curves? I don’t learn the answer to that, but I do know that the road belongs to cars – a pickup truck flies towards me and swerves in front of me to make a turn. The tires squeal but the driver really never puts me in danger; he just makes me remember to pay attention.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>At about two miles I come upon a decision point and I don’t see a sign. I stop and walk back and look around and once again make a decision to go ahead; this time on the straighter path. No other runners are in sight and no vans appear. The road begins a gentle and then a not-so-gentle climb and still no confirmation. I really don’t want to have to backtrack. Then, through the trees and around a switchback, almost on a different level, I spot the blinking red light indicating another runner. That allows me to shift all of my mental energy to the task at hand – this pesky and persistent hill. I had a big hill on leg one. I had two big hills and a steady climb on leg two. But this hill has more steepness and distance than any of those. I know I can run it. It just requires me to locate that drawer with my remaining energy and my mental toughness. Seriously, I should have looked at the profile for this revised leg. Oh well… left, right, left.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>As I make a grand sweeping curve and head up a 200-yard stretch to the next switchback, the other runner comes into view – and she is walking. This hill could make us all walk on our third run, but I have fortunately evaded that fate today and I wondered what to say as I pass. She is obviously suffering but there is no avoiding another relay runner at 5 AM on a lonely dark stretch. I decide to just say “ Just another mile and a half.” Hoping that the distance will sound short for a good runner and after today’s runs. Her response is “Really?” But the inflection didn’t let me distinguish whether I had encouraged or discouraged her. Was I a jerk? It is no fun to struggle physically while having negative thoughts and I drift off to other thoughts. What is my pace? Are there more people ahead? Isn’t it fantastic running out here in the foggy, dark night with mountains and hills, streams and pastures, and the cool fall air?</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Soon enough, but none too soon, I see the exchange zone and I realize that this is the end of the running for me. All of my reserve energy is summoned to speed towards my finish line and I arrive calling out our team name. There is no response and so I yell out into the dark the next runner’s name and he is standing 15 yards away not expecting me for a few minutes. He snaps his lights on, grabs the bracelet, and heads out for what will be his most spectacular run ever.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Scott is next and we review my run and then I ask more about his. I had seen the charts and heard the description, but the only legs that really stick in your head are your own. Finally, I translate his leg from the descriptive HARD to a distance and hills. It looks hard but no worries since I have a lot of confidence in him – and I am finished!</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Relays are often compared to the marathon and many train the same way. I can only say that I would never have attempted a marathon with the training that I had. I had the miles, but not the long runs. I can also say that although some marathons have steep climbs, I have never encountered hills like these at a marathon and I am not sure what I would do if I did. That brings me back to the question of how to train for a relay. I don’t think that it is necessary to run twice in the same day in training as long as you run the normal distance on a regular basis. I would recommend the occasional long run equal to about 150% of the longest leg and I definitely recommend hill training for a relay like this.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>My two goals for the Relay were to run strong on my legs and to have fun with the group. Both happened. I left feeling like a strong runner even though I have no trophy. As for ensuring fun with the group, that is tricky. It only takes one disgruntled runner with a bad attitude to spoil it all for everyone, and with six runners in a van, the odds of that are pretty high. Everyone in our van had a good attitude, so some other van must have had 2 bad apples.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>Driving home, I commented that I could have run one more leg and that maybe 9 runners would be the right number so that we could all do 4 legs. The following morning when I climbed out of bed, my legs begged to differ.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-64594603599595882662023-08-08T13:58:00.000-04:002023-08-09T17:10:08.567-04:00Practicing is different from racing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGkRQUU4g4ORhpfO6v-0ENQjtljMliqqBksA79j1hBT5lSZMUPm14HH6p-4oZojSLcNiI90fy8anQFTwK8fK_Ab9c3ukqv61mJKEXixKSFC8Jhm5sl2tf49FBxhyUqMn9sYtZYxmo3h4/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGkRQUU4g4ORhpfO6v-0ENQjtljMliqqBksA79j1hBT5lSZMUPm14HH6p-4oZojSLcNiI90fy8anQFTwK8fK_Ab9c3ukqv61mJKEXixKSFC8Jhm5sl2tf49FBxhyUqMn9sYtZYxmo3h4/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><br /><b>Practicing is different from racing</b><br />
<br />
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
</style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <div> <table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0"><tbody>
<tr> <td style="padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; padding: 0in;" valign="top"> <div class="MsoNormal" style="break-after: avoid; break-before: page; line-height: 37.1pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 3; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; page-break-before: always; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 37.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-text-raise: 5.0pt;"><i>J<o:p></o:p></i></span></div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>ulie Moss helped publicize triathlon to the masses when in February, 1982, she collapsed and was passed only 25 yards from the finish line. Rather than give up, she crawled the remainder of the distance across the finish line as millions of Americans watched, mesmerized by her courage and determination. ABC would use the footage as part of their “agony of defeat” campaign. This episode came to define triathlon for many who had never heard of the sport and the grueling Hawaii Ironman became the mystical standard distance for most non-participants. Julie later married superstar triathlete Mark Allen.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>That same year, a second Hawaii Ironman event was held as the organizers switched the event from the Spring to the Fall. The winner of the second 1982 event was a young woman named Julie Leach. Julie had been an Olympic kayaker (not whitewater) and had met and married another Olympic kayaker: Bill Leach.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Bill was an accomplished athlete in his own right. As mentioned, he was an Olympic kayaker and had qualified for 2 separate Olympics. The second happened after the U.S. boycotted the Olympics in Moscow and required 4 more years of intensive hard training for Montreal. Bill also played water polo at the college level. He was not a tall man, but he had broad well-developed shoulders and bulky quads. He had the physique of a gorilla – in a very positive muscular way.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Living in Southern California, I was exposed to the outdoor fitness revolution and my lifestyle gave me ample time to train. I had picked up running and now considered myself a runner. I had started to extend my distances on some of the runs, but I did little cross training. A neighbor was training to qualify for the Hawaii Ironman (a race that would later frustrate him on his first try) and the local free sports magazines often carried articles about triathlons. The sport seemed fresh, challenging and I decided to give it a try. I chanced upon a community college course entitled Triathlete training and signed up. To go to school or be in a group was very against my core personality and I paid the $55 registration fee, thinking that I could drop out and forfeit the fee easily enough.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I walked into the first class and discovered that only 2 of the 20 people there were enrolled students and could even use the college credit. The rest of the people were already triathletes and were there to get better. We went around the class introducing ourselves and stating our athletic goals and our goals for the class. It was an impressive group and some people wanted to shave a few minutes or seconds off of a particular part of the 3 sports. Others wanted to work out as a group. Some were friends of the instructor and had signed up just to make sure that the minimum level was reached so that the class would not be cancelled. People had completed the Boston Marathon and any number of local races. Some wanted to learn more about the equipment available or its maintenance. Some were seeking inspiration or motivation. I was curious and a novice and had no past performances of note to cite.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>After the circle of introductions, we returned to the instructor for him to introduce himself. He was friendly and humble, encouraging each person after their self-description. He, Bill Leach, was a middle-aged guy who looked in shape but not formidable at all. He had a good tan, not much hair, and was dressed for a gym workout. He talked about his background in water polo and kayaking and the agony of knee surgery that had been slowing him down for a year. Then in his next sentence he introduced me to the concept of age groups. He said “my goal is to win the World Age Group championship for 50-54 year olds in a year and a half.” Wow, talk about setting the bar high and to plan this out a year and a half in advance. This got my attention as I immediately thought that it was a lofty goal, he hadn’t run in a year, world, not local, and so many other things. That night marked the beginning of Bill’s role in the development of my thinking about being an athlete as it encouraged me to seek my own discoveries. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The class was interesting enough. We met one evening weekly for 3 hours. This time was divided into 3 parts: a training activity, a “lecture” and a weight training session. All of this was relatively new to me and I had fun. The weight training session was done in the gym near our classroom and the 20 of us had private access during this after-hours session. I had lifted weights some at a health club on my own, but never with any consistency, real knowledge or purpose. Our workout here was geared towards being a triathlete and hence our objective was to tone our muscles rather than build them. This was accomplished by circuit training. Essentially, the number of stations (mainly machines) equaled or exceeded the number of people. And we would do a workout on one machine before moving to the next machine – these were assigned numbers so that we didn’t use the same muscle consecutively. At each station, we chose a weight level that we could do consistently for 30 seconds. On most machines, that translates to at least 15 reps. As soon as the 30-second bell sounded, we sought out the sequential number, adjusted the seat and the weight amount and a few seconds later, ding, we started anew on the new machine. This continued nonstop until we had completed the circuit. It was an incredibly efficient way to complete a workout in minimal time. We only did one circuit followed by an abdominal workout. This was and continues to be my weakest area. I feel that I have strong abs, but I can’t do many sit-ups, planks don’t go long, my supermans have someone tugging on my cape and crunches crunch my stamina quickly. And so I did about half of these ab workouts (they increased in duration at the same rate that I did!)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>In addition to the workout and inevitable body sculpting that occurred, I learned about the difference in muscle building and tone. This carries over into the other disciplines, such as the strength, speed and long running workouts and the sprints, hills and long rides on the bike. However, while in those activities any muscle growth occurs in muscles specific to and useful in the sport, building bigger muscles for a big chest or powerful physique was vanity. Even worse, big muscles add weight and slow you down. So while you look stronger, anyone versed in the sport would see you as slow and slow-witted. You needed to show your muscles by having no body fat and not huge useless biceps. That made you cool, sexy, and the Holy Grail, faster. It also took less time in the gym, interfering less with an already full workout card both in terms of time required and muscle recovery time. I adhered to the lower weight amounts and higher rep levels then and now, over a decade later, I still do. And I am proud to say that I still don’t have a lot of muscles popping out. As for my abs, they still seem too weak, but even if I have a six-pack, it lies hidden underneath a protective layer of belly built by cookies and good food.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The other learning that I got from this was a better understanding of complementary muscles. Not having lifted much before, I assumed that a rep was a rep. In the class and by looking at the images on the machine, I learned that most of the lifts targeted, benefited and tired a specific muscle. A biceps lift can be followed quickly by triceps and by alternating legs, upper body, abs and back, there is little reason to ever take a break except to talk or ogle. But by learning about the locations, functioning and recovery of specific muscles, I better understood the sport of triathlon. After all, at least for me, swimming was an upper body activity, biking was all quads and running for the most part tests the hamstrings, glutes and calves. Shifting between the sports and the accompanying fatigue and discomfort is basically related to the speed at which the brain can redirect the blood carrying fuel and oxygen. Running was another place that I discovered different muscles. They are all connected and the hamstrings are important, but the role of quads climbs greatly when running up hills (providing strength) and when running downhills (absorbing shock). This means that specific training for a downhill course like the Boston Marathon can lower your time and make your legs feel better at the same time. The other muscle trick comes during shorter or longer flat races. It is complicated, but some of the superior runners can alternate which muscles they are using by changing their stride or turnover. So if your calves are tired or about to cramp, try running taller or shorter or whatever feels like it is calling upon a different muscle. Switch it up and let the affected muscle relax. I have never perfected this but I have successfully used the technique to fight off cramps in the late stages of marathons and as a way to keep my brain busy while I covered additional distance.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The class portion varied on what we covered. Marco Ochoa, a local runner and coach who finished fifth in the US Olympic Marathon trials and thus was an alternate, came and spoke. He talked about the pressure, the pageantry, the honor, the opportunity and about what not knowing if he would be selected at the last moment or not meant for his training. He talked about how he planned to train for a very hot fast Summer marathon, but hydration was not an issue for me yet back then. What I did grab from his talk is that he did speed work for a marathon and not for a shorter distance. That meant that he ran 5-7 mile repeats on his speed day. Five to seven mile repeats with a warm-up run and a cool-down run and with a short recovery run in between sounded like more mileage than my long run. Mile repeats? This told me that good runners do speed work regardless of their race distance. It told me that speed work at short distances might prove very valuable at short distances. Part two of what I heard that night is that to become comfortable with any given pace, the distance and the speed should match the target more closely. In a marathon, speed without stamina means failure. Since that time, I have tried to include intervals and fartleks in my runs on a consistent basis. Part three is that this was a normal guy that could run, but he also trained. He had no special gimmicks or tricks, he just put it all on the table and on a given day, he came up big.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>In another class we had an old man, I don’t remember his age. He may have been young at 60 or 65 but he seemed a hundred to all of us younger guys. However, it seems that he had been an Age Group winner at the Hawaii Ironman for the past few years and if I remember correctly, dominated his age group at the World’s. He showed slides and told stories that were inspiring and helped us to better understand the course and its demands. We stared at this guy and thought that if he could do it, it should be a piece of cake for us. His times were not awesome but there was no denying that he had done it more than once and that we could barely locate the island on a map. He could swim 2.4 miles. He could bike 112 miles. He could run a marathon in the heat. So what message does that communicate? Athletic endeavors can be lifelong passions and pursuits. Lacing up those shoes today can be fun or pain, but to succeed as he had, you have to lace them up tomorrow and tomorrow and …<span> </span>But that makes it easier in a sense. I have never been particularly fast, but I do have a strong core base. Day after day, month after month, year after year, mile after mile, you have to do it. There is no substitute. This guy had obviously done it. And that is part of the hope that I have of someday being a top runner, and that is to keep moving until no one else can and then to luck into the right event with little competition.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Bill’s wife Julie retold the story of her victory with a modesty that implied that she knew its meaning and while it was important to her, it didn’t define her. It was an undeniable part of her past and, while she continued to work out, she had new interests. Still, she supported Bill’s passion. And Bill didn’t mention it then, but he touched on the balancing act that serious triathletes have with the never-ending workouts, the job and the family/friend. Bill tried not to wall off these parts of his life but to integrate them. He talked of vacations together that included participating in a race. Bike rides were serious training times, but they were also conversation times, bonding moments, and times to get practical advice. Bike rides could also be used as transportation to work. Expand your day. Do things with friends and have twice the fun. Live your passion.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>We had classes that focused on specific portions of the triathlon. One of my favorites dealt with the importance of smooth and fast transitions. We thought through transitions, T1 & then T2. What are the steps? What are the elements? What is the order? What are the obstacles? What is the environment? Understanding the transition, its importance and treating it with respect seemed obvious, but it is often overlooked. After hearing it explained and thinking it through, we walked through it. Each step seemed obvious and easy, so we ran through it. It is hard to mimic how you will think and act when having just competed a swim or bike ride or how flexible you will be at the moment that you need to lean over to pull on your shoes, but we tried. And then we tried again. Most triathletes spend hours in the pool, cover many miles on the road and hit the pavement frequently to prepare. When the air horn sounds, you know how to put your face in the water and start swimming. When you mount your bike and start pedaling, you have practiced changing gears, drinking water and getting into an aerodynamic position. And when you start running, you have some feel for your pace, you know the direction and your planned distance. Bill simply communicated that the transitions were parts of the race as well and thus worthy of preparation and training.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span> </span>And so we practiced. He covered some essentials and others have become more obvious over the years. There is a tradeoff if you wear a wetsuit. If you wear it, start getting out of it as soon as you can, etc. But I also learned to look at races holistically and be prepared for each portion. Read the briefing. Ask a question of someone who did the race before. Look at the course map. Take a look at the swim start, the locations of the marker buoys, the swim finish. Walk from the swim finish to the transition entrance. What is the ground like? What landmarks are there to help you remember where your spot is today? Can you remember to put your shirt on before the helmet? Can you live without socks – have you practiced that? There are a hundred details and any one of them can add 60 seconds to your time. Good preparation and training means no lost time, which often translates into gained time. I am not a list person, but before each race, I invest a little time in knowing what to expect. Sometimes it is knowing that Heartbreak Hill has a few hills before it or that mile 1 of a 5k is downhill or even that they are serving PowerAde and not Gatorade on the course. The ideas that started that night seemed intuitive but I had never had a reason to think it through. Hearing what other people had done reinforced that being smart also sometimes means not looking stupid. How about the many people that have begun the run while still wearing their helmet, or who ran to the wrong end of the transition area with their bikes, or who did one lap on a 2-lap course, or forgot to have a water bottle on the bike, or forgot to wear glasses on the bike and had “bug eyes”, or were stuck on the ground unable to wrestle the wetsuit off, or knocked over one or more bikes, or even worse, found their bike had been knocked over. Do you have a spare tire? When you practiced running without socks, did you have sandy feet? So 2 lessons here: (1) prepare for all elements of your sport and (2) I am not the fastest guy around but genetics doesn’t necessarily determine who is fastest in transition.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Bill helped me find a used tri-bike and I learned that tri-bikes have a different geometry that make it easier to use your powerful quads while in an aerodynamic position. Greg Lemond placed an emphatic stamp of approval on aerobars when he used them in a time trial in their first use ever in the Tour de France where he blew away the competition – and because of that won the Tour. I never did that and I still have trouble getting in the aero position. But that started the learning process that included spokes on wheels, aero helmets, drafting benefits and dangers – in bike rides not Tri races, drafting in running (some benefit – more for small runners than bigger people), drafting in swimming – don’t get kicked in the face, etc. It even carried over into swimmers shaving their legs and chests and whether to wear a shirt on the bike portion (even a tiny tri shirt) or whether to wait for the run. In the days of Speedos, this was common. Today most triathletes wear a top although trisuits are designed to be aerodynamic. Again the point was to let small marginal gains support the power of your engine rather than be a drag. (Pun)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The mainstay of the class was the track workout. I had never done this. I had never run with a group and I had never had any coaching. We were a mixed group, with abilities ranging from blazingly fast in my mind to slightly slower than me. Our workout had 3 basic components: a 2-mile warm-up, the speed work, and a mile of slow cool-down. I knew that warming up the muscles is considered important, but my runs usually started at my front door. The warm-up<span> </span>run was in the local neighborhood and the pace was slow for me so the better runners were taking a stroll in the park. The cool-down was 4 laps on the track. Both were times for getting to know the other runners.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Tracks are meant to be run counterclockwise. Etiquette suggests that the fastest runner has the right of way and by yelling “track” indicates that you should get out of the way. Most tracks are now 400 meters instead of 440 yards (402 meters) but most people consider it a quarter mile anyway. It is shorter to run on the inside rather than the outer lanes, duh. You can start anywhere on the track, but it is customary to finish on a straightaway so most laps start there.<span> </span>Your speed and effort should vary as little as possible until you make a mad dash at the end – that means don’t start fast and finish slowly. I tell you all of this because I knew nothing about track or speed work. Years later I now I know the benefits of speed, different distances, different surfaces, alternatives such as fartleks and intervals, and even the difference in a 5k or 10 k pace. I don’t do much speed work, but I know that my times suffer because of this.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Our basic workouts were 2 400’s, 2 800’s and 2 more 400’s. Between each set, we ran half a lap and cut back across the track to start again. So the faster you ran, the more rest time you got. This didn’t make sense to me and the second half of our group was never fresh enough. We lined up, Bill said go, & we tried to pick a stride and pace that was pushing it, but sustainable. Over time, we found our natural partners and competitors within the group and could pace off each other. Bill ran across the track to call splits and he ran back to call final times. Since the faster runners already had passed, he would need to hustle back to arrive in time. Bill was not running with us and was only beginning to run again, and his run across the field resembled that of a pirate in port.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>A 400 for me has 3 parts. The first is the first 200 where you have energy reserves and oxygen. You know that you can run faster although most of us really don’t know how fast we are running. When you reach 200 or halfway, you hear the split called (or check your own timepiece) and decide if you have started fast or slow. If you have started slowly, you know that there is no recovery and that you have wasted one of only six speed sets. If the time is reasonable, you then double that time and that is the time to beat. Coming in slower implies you started too fast and you can’t maintain it. The second part is the next 130-140 yards where you try to hang on, not slowing down by racing your engine to very near the limit without redlining. This is the part where you feel the fatigue and wonder if you will be able to maintain speed for the entire lap. You are doing one end of the oval and you run forward fast while curving 180 degrees. Then comes the third part, you are around the final curve and you are within sight of the finish. Everyone’s pace picks up and you have 2 simultaneous needs: hanging with everyone else without fading and beating the clock that despite your pleading, never lies. I have been running on the edge of my fastest possible pace and now I need to exceed it. So I pick up the pace and borrow future energy, going anaerobic, accumulating lactic acid, breathing in all the O2 I can and willing my engine to work at my maximum heart rate. It is unsustainable, but I beg it to wait for failure – or rest – for 10 more seconds. And then I am over the line slowing to half my running speed, trying to find air to breathe. My legs feel heavy, like lead is the common expression, but I have never experienced lead, so let’s just say that it takes an effort at that moment to run a 10-minute pace. I am still processing my body’s shock when I reach the halfway point and walk back across because, yep, it is time to do it again. And this is part of the learning. No single lap makes you a winner or fast, but that you need the ability to do it over and over. To run faster in the later laps, you have to slow down some in the earlier laps. To run a fast 5K, you can’t leave it all in the first mile. In a marathon, those last 6 miles will reflect all your training as well as the pace of the first 20.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The 800’s were the same, except part one was the first 200 split, part two was at the 400 – which you had to compare with the previous 400, part three was the next 300 meters where you had no measurement of your pace except internal and other runners, and then there was the extra fourth part that was the longer sprint home. I measured those laps 2 ways: how did the average for the 400’s stack up against the pure 400’s and how did the 2 halves compare to each other? I did all of this while regaining my breath because 2 more 400’s awaited. I was bone tired, fatigued so that I could barely move and I had run only 1.5 miles of speed work. The last two 400’s are supposedly part of the recovery after the 800’s but it is all about survival. The end of this self-inflicted pain is not far away and I always summon the energy to finish, usually with only minor damage to my times. Then I do the 4 laps on the outside of the track at the slowest possible pace. Unfortunately, some people have a faster pace and so I hang with them. I can recover later.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Lots of running programs include speed work, but generally there is a suggested pace; i.e., run your sets at slightly less than your desired 5K pace if you are training for a 5K or at slightly less than your half-marathon pace if you are training for a half-marathon. Most of us ignore this at our own peril. I thought that speed meant speed and I didn’t hold myself back. I ran, like everyone there on the track, as if I was training for the 400’s. I am now better about not running full speed when I need to get a feel for a pace. I am also comfortable with the idea of running some runs at substantially slower than my normal pace to obtain the aerobic benefits while promoting a rapid recovery which will not hamper another workout.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I ran my first marathon during this class and I think that it helped me understand pacing and to run it faster than otherwise. The funny part, though, is that when I went to the Wednesday night track workout before the Sunday run, Bill suggested that I might want to take it easy and not really push too hard. So that’s what they mean by tapering. I appreciate the taper much more now even though I still prefer less taper than the recommended times. And the Wednesday after the marathon, I was back at the workout. I was sore, but I hadn’t learned the rule: a day of non-intensive running for each mile of the race. I couldn’t afford a week off if I wanted to hang with my peers.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>A few weeks before the end of the class, Bill announced that our final track night would have a mile time trial. I had never done this and so this would be my best time ever, but I didn’t know what my target should be. Could I sustain my 800 times and multiply by two? Most of the mile times out there are by people that ran that time in high school or college. There are few that run the mile for time when they start as an adult. I decided that a 6-minute mile might be a stretch, but it was a realistic, achievable goal that I would take pride in talking about. I thought about pacing but it is difficult to know how much to slow down early and how much would be there for a final kick. My 800 times had recently been in the 2:55 time range, so if I could maintain that pace I could run the second 800 10 seconds slower and still accomplish the 6-minute mark.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>There really was no preparing for this except to taper a bit and I didn’t swim, bike or run on Tuesday or Wednesday before Wednesday night’s date with destiny. The great thing about a 6-minute race is that it takes 6 minutes and it is over and you get immediate feedback and grading. I ran the 2-mile warm-up with the group and lined up a couple of steps off the start on the inside of the track. We got a “on your marks, set, go” and we were off. Part one of the race, remember, is “where you have energy reserves and oxygen. You know that you can run faster although most of us really don’t know how fast we are running.” And that was the first lap. It was familiar territory and Bill had solicited a volunteer to call 200 splits while he called the 400’s. The difference tonight is that I had the normal race adrenaline flow that made fast seem slow and I had to fight through that looking to my muscle memory to save me. I also stayed near my normal running buddies hoping that they knew how to pace themselves. First lap at 1:28. Perfect. Second lap at 1:28 and 2:56 cumulative. The third lap was part two, that endless period “where you try to hang on, not slowing down by using your energy level to near the limit without redlining.” Third lap at 1:34 and a cumulative of 4:30. I needed a single lap at 1:30. I didn’t make it. I pushed hard, particularly as I rounded the final curve, and imagined that it was within reach. Mile time – 6:02. Not bad and very close to my goal. I was happy and a tad disappointed, but plotting another trial. My 2 normal pacers finished in 5:58 and 6:04.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I signed up for the spring class as did most everyone else and we reassembled to recover from the holidays and prepare for the upcoming season. The talk of past races switched to new names and places and completed registration forms. Southern California has gorgeous weather in January and February and it was a great time to train outdoors. I ran a self-timed 5:59 mile at a local track by myself but it wouldn’t count until I did it officially. Bill started running at the track some with us and he ran at about a 7-minute pace – and it didn’t look good. He was searching for a stride to match his revised mechanics. He continued to swim and put in some serious fast bike mileage. The man had those two parts down, but he was behind our last group on the track.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I got my redo on the mile about mid-semester and I nailed it with a 5:52 – maybe there is something to this speed work after all. I felt strong, confident and fast as a runner. My times in local races placed me around the top third mark in running, but I couldn’t translate this to triathlons and I didn’t have any real speed on the bike or in the swim. It is hard to dominate when the transitions are your only strong suits. Bill had reentered triathlons to test his knees and I saw him at a few. He was very friendly always, but his pre-race personality was focused, with a concentration on the event. I was loose and excited by the carnival atmosphere. We raced different age groups (he usually raced as an elite despite the chance to win an age group - this was training and he craved the competition) so we had different start times and I watched him from time to time. Now 49, he could swim and pedal his bike mightily, and usually ranked among the leaders when coming out of the second transition. But alas, that is where he lost ground as the young and healthy knees of others sped away. He had a steady determined gait, but it looked like he was hobbling along.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My times were just the opposite, with running being my highest-ranking portion. Triathlon statistics and times are great, fun opportunities to put any spin on the race you want. You can compare your place overall, within your sex, in your age group, in the swim, either or both transitions, the bike or the run. You can check how much higher your place would have been if you had been only 30 years older or in my case, just the run portion for a female 30 years older. The other great way to kill time is to check out all of the results and their implications for other athletes that you know. So I checked out Bill’s results (and invented this justification). The results supported what I knew. He was a top swimmer. He was a top biker. He was a master of transitions. But wait, he outran me!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>And it wasn’t just one race. Bill was beating me consistently and by comfortable margins. On the track, I just assumed that he was slower than me – the knee being the reason. I trained more and ran faster and Bill continued to whip me even though I doubt that he ever compared his time to mine. Mid-summer before moving, we raced in a tri in San Diego that finished with a 10K. I did well and was proud of my result – but Bill did even better. So one day I just asked him how, with a bad knee and his slow workouts, he ran so much faster. His immediate but obviously considered answer was “that you just have to have a different gear for races.” For him, that meant training your body and mind to respond when really needed and so he just put down his head and pushed on to the other side. I have worked hard to find that gear and most races it is there. You just have to know when, where and how to shift into it.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><i>Note: Bill Leach won the World Age Group championship for 50-54 year olds the following year.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment--><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>To read more, </b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span id="save-message-inner"></span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-59172748434497143512023-08-08T13:55:00.000-04:002023-08-09T17:08:06.631-04:00Qualifying for Boston<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKo3e7mXkhKcZ2o84J3l39pdZtdoJ1Dcu0F2k4r1vGHuUl3irbgKrzi3Q7ChHTxDa2tKes-NB038Q3n2h4-rp5UezvOo3SjHQy6mr_M-T-6O9WKXcZeD-d9kRFZbfS_fiWjYySzv0JFw/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKo3e7mXkhKcZ2o84J3l39pdZtdoJ1Dcu0F2k4r1vGHuUl3irbgKrzi3Q7ChHTxDa2tKes-NB038Q3n2h4-rp5UezvOo3SjHQy6mr_M-T-6O9WKXcZeD-d9kRFZbfS_fiWjYySzv0JFw/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 101"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">When Maria moved to Boston for college, I casually mentioned that maybe I would run the Boston Marathon and visit her. At that </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">time I wasn’t sure how often she would want us to visit, and this would offer the perfect pretext for visiting. However, things went well, and we visited or she came home on a regular if not super-frequent basis. So no excuse to visit was needed. However, I had made that statement in front of Travis, who always remembered and encouraged me to fulfill my promises/dreams. And so when he went off (going to the same place but definitely not following) to Boston 3 years later, he said, “I’ll see you in April – you know that you promised Maria that you would run the Boston Marathon and this is her last year there.” And there it was, he laid my promise on the table, called it and then had doubled up on it by making it a trip to see both of them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I hadn’t run a marathon in over 4 years and had no plans to run one when this mid-September bomb dropped. And even if I had run recently, there was the not-so-small matter of qualifying. I never had. I had never really understood the whole attraction of Boston and consequently, I had never really felt a need or desire to run there. This fit neatly with the fact that my best times were still 8-10 minutes short of qualifying. And that is what went through my mind first. Here I am in mid-September, with a strong base of running, but no marathon distance training, no recent race experience and no idea of my speed, with a goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon or, at least in my mind, not lowering my image in the eyes of my son. Peer pressure doesn’t work so well on me, but I do value his respect.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page101image231858304" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/319b770f-ce76-4597-aea9-70b80fc2eb94" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">99</span></p></div></div><img alt="page101image231858512" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/bb163f1f-333b-4035-8817-e66835e31f40" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 102"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I also respect the marathon. At 26.2 miles, the distance can take a toll on you even if you are well prepared and at that length, most of us mortals are incapable of running it at a speed fast enough for it to really be a race. I usually control my pace for much of the race, but it controls me at the crucial point where finish times can be greatly increased or hold steady. I knew instantly that I could run a marathon, but I had no idea if I could run a marathon at the necessary speed to qualify. Over the years I had talked to people and read about the need to put it all on the line in order to achieve a significant goal. Basically, this means to risk failure or blowing up. This means running at a pace that is faster than comfortable and that may result not just in not qualifying, but being so tired and depleted that completing the race might not be possible. Imagining failure and the physical fatigue and the mental anguish of dropping out creates a huge mental barrier to truly attempting such a feat. But I resolved to do the training and see if I could get in the speed range that would make a Herculean attempt meaningful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Training for a marathon always requires a commitment, and training for a marathon that would serve as a qualifier for another marathon seemed an even bigger chore. I quickly decided that it would be best to ignore the effects that the first marathon would have on the second and just see if I could qualify. I started running with a bit more frequency and I started tacking on a few miles to make one run a long run. I started at 12 miles and didn’t seem too tired so that was a good sign. My daily runs felt good and I jumped to 40 miles a week total.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">What would I do differently in training for this race? That seems to be a straightforward question</span></p></div></div><img alt="page102image232092672" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c42da4b8-c152-4759-af1d-dc206ac9d187" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">100</span></p></div></div><img alt="page102image232092880" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/daf84e45-e89a-4497-921a-d03fae14f51e" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 103"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">and the obvious answer was to incorporate speed work into my workouts. But as simple as that sounds, speed work is intimidating and hard and dangerous. Lots of runners get injured from doing speed work while adding long runs while increasing total distance. Many of them never make it to the starting line. Speed work covers relatively short distances but it drains the muscles and can have detrimental effects on runs for other days. It requires a mental toughness to stick with a schedule. For whichever reason, I found it tough to get motivated on those days and worried that an injury was waiting just down the trail. So the obvious idea of speed work would not be my savior.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Another question on my mind was where to run a qualifying marathon. This is a hard decision even when made 6 months in advance. Many of the popular marathons fill up early, and in any case they didn’t allow me adequate time to train. Almost every time I run a marathon, I think that I needed one more month of training in order to be prepared. That feeling is there whether I had a short period (10 weeks) or a long period (20 weeks) to train. Using this logic, I needed at least 10 weeks to train starting in mid-September, so the earliest possible date would be December, and January would be even better. So I started the search for a marathon in the early part of the following year. Well, there aren’t a lot of mid-winter marathons. Plus, I wanted a marathon that would not add an obstacle to qualifying. So I peered over the elevation charts – flat is good and downhill is better. No rolling courses or personal challenges would work. I had only a handful of choices and I eliminated some because of the possibility of heat. I would prefer to try to run fast in the cold than on a warm day. I also ruled out expensive</span></p></div></div><img alt="page103image232038528" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/258e6801-e6bf-4a1b-a019-b08745f3da4d" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">101</span></p></div></div><img alt="page103image232038736" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/cfe1f2b8-c555-44bc-b0da-ca2079b4667e" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 104"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">cross-country trips and decided on a reasonably local spot: Myrtle Beach in mid-February. Plenty of time to train and hopefully just enough time to register and recover for an April 17</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 7pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">th </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">run in Boston. Oh well, one step at a time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">My strength as a runner is consistency. On a regular basis, I run a reasonable distance week after week after week. I don’t do grueling workouts. I am not good at peaking. What I am good at is running my miles at about the same speed one after another – endurance over a standard distance. The trick for me in a marathon is to increase that distance from my normal 7 miles to the largest possible number, knowing that the closer it gets to 26.2 the better.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">But then I lost it. I travelled for a few weeks for work and didn’t run. I travelled for vacation and didn’t run. I got sick and didn’t run. We had bad weather and I didn’t run. Christmas came and I didn’t run. Any excuse and I didn’t run. I had weeks without a run. Why? Who knows? My only saving grace was that when I did run, it tended to be a long run. I got back above 40 the first week in January although my long run was only 12 miles and I was now 6 weeks out from the marathon. I followed up on that by travelling and not running for 17 consecutive days. My taper was too long and way too early. I broke that dry spell the morning after my flight home by running 20 miles. It was hard and made harder by the fact that I ran hard. I took 3 recovery days – I needed them - and then ran two 7-milers. Seventeen days out from the marathon, I ran 22 miles. I was determined to get myself in shape for a marathon in a period of 3 weeks – the normal time to start the taper. I reached 44 miles that week, exceeding 40 for only the second time in the past</span></p></div></div><img alt="page104image232198416" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/73872bf7-3266-43ec-bbcf-d933d87cb911" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">102</span></p></div></div><img alt="page104image232198624" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c139ec78-dafc-4717-b950-6cb4e456ac6b" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 105"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">eight weeks. After 8 on Sunday, I ran 11 on Monday followed by a long run of 20 miles – on 6 days rest and 11 days before the race. Adding in a 7-miler and another 11-miler, I reached 49 miles. That was my highest recorded weekly mileage in years and one week out from a must-do-well marathon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Myrtle Beach is a good place for a marathon. It is reasonably flat, has lots of empty hotel rooms in February, is well organized, is reasonably priced and has a temperate climate that seems to cooperate. Crowd support is a bit weak and most fans are there with the specific intent to cheer for a specific person and not for all of the athletes. While some will cheer you on, others will act as if they don’t see you when you are the only runner within a hundred yards. The other notable facts are that there are many more people running the half than the whole, that both races start simultaneously and share the same course for 13 miles, and that they have relay teams as well.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Race day arrives and Myrtle Beach is crawling with runners walking in the dark towards the start line. Like zombies in a frightening flick, we converge to the lights. Prerace is prerace and a few more Port-a-Johns would have been helpful, but the fact that we are using chips, the small total crowd (<5000) and that the starting line is 100 feet away remove any pressure. We will be there when the 6:30 AM start occurs. The sun will not, as it is not scheduled to rise until 6:56 AM. That’s fine, as we will have streetlights and some early morning light before the sun hits the horizon, but it adds to the coolness of the start. It also means that we stand around and start during the daily temperature low and it reduces the chance of heat being a factor, It won’t be a factor today as it is a bit chilly, but really</span></p></div></div><img alt="page105image233420608" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/886d29c7-12e3-40eb-b2ca-7a9ed895e5c4" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">103</span></p></div></div><img alt="page105image233420816" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/79dc00a3-ddc3-4776-b9ed-a193ed4234b7" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 106"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">the perfect temperature for a marathon. My lucky streak continues.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">We don’t so much line up as crowd up. I toss off my sweats and feel cold in my shorts and singlet, but I know that will change after a mile of running. I have run here once before – 7 years ago – and the course start and finish have changed. Because of changes in the Boston qualifying times and my extra years, I only need to cut 2 minutes 13 seconds off of that time. That is only about 4.5 seconds per mile. Of course I have aged and I haven’t had the best training, but... it’s only 4.5 seconds. It is hard to explain to non- runners that 4.5 seconds per mile is actually a lot – particularly for 26.2 miles. But enough complaining. I stood among the runners looking at them and both consciously and subconsciously admiring their fitness and comparing their predicted times to mine. Many are there for the half and I need to run their pace twice. Some are there for fun, some with friends, some to complete the distance and others to race. This is an unusual marathon for me. I am usually there for fun, but today was a challenge. As I told everyone multiple times, I hadn’t run a marathon lately and I was running this one only because of my stated goal: to qualify for Boston. I repeated this to myself and reminded myself that I should not slack off during the race. Either I make Boston or I go down spectacularly in flames. I had never had a DNF (Did Not Finish) at any sporting event, but I kept trying to convince myself that if I didn’t qualify for Boston, I needed a DNF today.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The excitement was palpable as always when the gun sounded and we rocketed off into the thin veil of light now showing. Pacing in the first few miles of a marathon is extremely important: too fast and you</span></p></div></div><img alt="page106image231902256" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d88152aa-3020-41ce-a6c2-82d71c0a664e" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">104</span></p></div></div><img alt="page106image231902464" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/5e094693-cd0e-4741-970b-46498fa4be54" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 107"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">have ruined your race; too slow and you are likely to establish a rhythm too slow to achieve your optimal time. Most of the time in a daily run, I look to my body to communicate the pace. However, I have discovered over time that this is an unreliable indicator at races, since the adrenaline faucet is running at full blast. Everything feels too easy. For this reason, I try to pull back my pace to feel slow at first and judge my pace through the first mile by whether I am passing or being passed. Usually more people should be passing me as they sprint out and this was particularly true with today’s group. Without a careful examination of the bibs, there was no obvious way to know what race category others were. The relay runners, and there were about 200 at the front, were all running a 10K pace. The halfs were running, well in the first mile, many of them were running a 10K pace. Mile 1 and 2 clicked off fast but controlled. Shortly after that I spotted 4 Port-a- Johns which were, to the best of my recollection, the only ones on the course. I decided to make a preemptive stop. Not needed, but done, and I am back in the flow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The miles kept flowing by and at a good pace. I was steady and there was little variation from one to the next. We visited the tourist sites on the edge of town and one pancake house after another. Let’s finish this run and eat some pancakes! As we neared the half, I felt good and for some reason felt that I should speed up so that I could pass some of those half-marathoners before they turned off. I don’t think that I impressed any of them but it did speed the split. One after another, runners turned off the course towards their finish as we ploughed ahead to our own half marker. I crossed at 1:42:14. It is hard to know until later whether</span></p></div></div><img alt="page107image233482816" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/533d4681-f277-49c2-8263-b1dea8a9519d" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">105</span></p></div></div><img alt="page107image233483024" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/031f0d2b-771b-44ca-b805-fab0da8653b4" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 108"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">a half time is good or bad. If it turns out that you have a low time but sacrificed finish speed, that is bad. If you have a slow time but saved energy for the second half, well then you were a genius. I judged this time to not be too fast given my goal and perhaps even a little too slow. Knowing that the last part of the run eats up time, I calculated how much time I had in the bank – how much slower I could run in the second half. So I had 2 minutes and 46 seconds to carry over, plus I could run the second half slower by 2 minutes and 46 seconds and still make it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Doing math in marathons is always risky and usually requires that the same operations be done multiple times before the results are accurate and remembered. I don’t wear a GPS or even a watch and I subtract my past time from my current time to obtain my split, and divide my total time by distance to know my average pace. So my calculation at half was that I had run about a 7:48 pace. To run an even qualifying time, I needed a pace of exactly 8-minute miles. So this meant that in the second half I could slow down from 7:48 to 8:00, plus I had an extra 12 seconds per mile available so I could run an 8:12 pace from here on out – that is 24 seconds slower per mile! This seems complicated sitting at a desk, but it is truly complicated when running. On the positive side, by the time I knew all of this I had crossed the 14-mile marker running at the same pace, and so I had even more time in the bank and less distance to cover.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">While 24 seconds per mile seems a lot slower, many runners commonly experience decreases in speed of 2 or 3 minutes per mile in the later stages. Given this, even though it might be the correct action, we don’t immediately take advantage of this time but</span></p></div></div><img alt="page108image232150720" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/7ec682dc-36b5-416d-9c82-20bd43787b25" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">106</span></p></div></div><img alt="page108image232150928" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a0d1a1f5-72e4-46d1-90dc-09397d4a0304" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 109"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">we try to maintain the pace for as long and as far as we can. And that is exactly what did.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">As I mentioned, the crowd support in Myrtle Beach tends to be personal rather than generic. However, if you bring along a dedicated supporter, fan, family member or even just a hyperactive person that you meet the night before, their opportunities to interact with you are ample. In the second half, the runners are spread out. Side streets are empty. Parking is available. Eva had come along for the adventure and she saw me 9 or 10 times and stopped off for a latte. On one occasion, she cheered for me for 50-75 yards as I approached, then 2 minutes later I hear her cheering for me for 50-75 yards as I approached, and then a third time just down the road. She was doing all of the work, but I had to smile and be friendly each time. Fortunately I felt good, and I shared this with her. Normally this is the time when I shrug my shoulders and say that I am not sure how this is going to conclude.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">We cut through a small area filled with people and find an active zone with an aid station. I sip on the cool Gatorade and start running again. Zip. Zip. I have been passed by 2 guys running at full speed that look as fresh as if they had just started. Wait, they are relay guys running the anchor legs. Wow. There’s Eva. I smile again and totally out of character, I claim victory saying, “I’ll make it.” Hah, what kind of idiot makes a finish time prediction with 6 miles – the last six miles - to go? Well me, I guess. I felt good. I felt strong. The weather was perfect at about 50 degrees and sunny. I had maintained my pace and had about 4 minutes “in the bank” with 6 miles to go. That meant that I could</span></p></div></div><img alt="page109image233704496" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/6d8e540a-0c82-47bc-bb07-449e6edbc26b" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">107</span></p></div></div><img alt="page109image233704704" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a1cfd2b6-18b6-4c57-ab32-09c097318419" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 110"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">average an 8:40 and break 3 hours 30 minutes. Not a problem today.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Off I went to claim victory. Miles 21-24.5 were a straight shot up Kings Highway, paralleling the beach. This is a major road and we ran on the right side. It was flat but I felt like it had the slightest roll. The change was small but it dipped down to sea level and then, dare I use the word, “climbed” up to 40 feet above sea level. It felt a bit harder but not significant, but the time on the clock had ticked more than I expected and I needed to maintain the pace. Where had the time gone? Suddenly at mile 24, my calculations showed that I could not slow down any more and that I needed 8:45 miles for 2.2 miles to meet my goal. Two miles ago and this wouldn’t have seemed like much of a challenge. So this is what it had come down to at the end: I had to run a not-fast pace, but faster than the last 2 miles. All of that big talk about running on the edge and risking a flameout was just talk if there was no energy, but I felt reasonably good. There was nothing to do but stick my head down and try to run the next 2 miles.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I am not sure if you have ever run fast at the end of a marathon, but a little bit of speed will take you past a lot of people who are slowing down step by step. It will also play tricks on your mind. You can be strong for a minute and feel exhausted the next minute and then surge again. I ran a fairly steady pace with a few surges thrown in. At mile 25 I figured I had about 11 minutes plus a minimal difference between the gun and chip times. Again, barring a breakdown, I am there. So I pushed even harder and headed home. I missed the clock at mile 26 (or it wasn’t there) but felt safe as I turned towards the finish. Oh yeah, either I had really run the past mile, there had been a clock error, or</span></p></div></div><img alt="page110image233364384" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/dfabcc33-6ea9-49a4-a720-78b593a3b8f4" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">108</span></p></div></div><img alt="page110image233364592" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/9b3184d3-268c-4f65-9753-da3f42da2928" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 111"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Qualifying for Boston</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">my calculations were too conservative, but I had plenty of time and ran leisurely over the finish line with 1 minute 20 seconds to spare.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I had qualified for Boston. I had 9 weeks to get ready. But first there were pancakes to eat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 10pt;">P.S. I learned afterwards that Boston rounds your time down to the minute and so there is an extra 59 seconds available. I had time to stop for pancakes on the course!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 10pt;">For more on qualifying times, see</span></p><p><span style="color: blue; font-family: Garamond; font-size: 10pt;">http://www.runhardrunfun.com/2009/06/boston- marathon-qualifying-times.html</span></p></div></div></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-90245292695187078022023-08-08T13:54:00.000-04:002023-08-09T17:09:23.103-04:00The Dude & what he makes me do<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPnywa_ydP7axJ6sPpLqkdnlty0IVX74N2iVwu3Ep1G-2-1AdeFAJK5Iyy0v1Raquzrv4yGXCnN6yh0H1Tf2et03DEc-nBWz8hWbYJam6K3Kt0_qwdzXaRUf_DfSadHzjpntylRf9kws/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvPnywa_ydP7axJ6sPpLqkdnlty0IVX74N2iVwu3Ep1G-2-1AdeFAJK5Iyy0v1Raquzrv4yGXCnN6yh0H1Tf2et03DEc-nBWz8hWbYJam6K3Kt0_qwdzXaRUf_DfSadHzjpntylRf9kws/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><b><div><b><br /></b></div>The Dude & what he makes me do</b><br /><br />
<div><i> </i><br />
<table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0"><tbody>
<tr> <td style="padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; padding: 0in;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal" style="break-after: avoid; break-before: page; line-height: 37.1pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 3; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; page-break-before: always; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 52.5pt;">I<o:p></o:p></span></div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table></div><i> </i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>t was a typical hot Bakersfield summer morning and although it was not yet 10 AM, sweat dripped from all of the triathletes. Even still, Travis had trained for this moment. He parked his bike in the transition area, took off his helmet and headed to the run course. While not a sprinter, Travis attacked the course with the gusto of a competitive athlete, running on the edge of exhaustion. His training let him know that the pain of the switch from biking to running would soon be the pain of a solitary run in the heat. And so he ran all out around the cross-country course until he arrived at the finish line. Disappointed that other seven-year-olds had already crossed the line, he began to re-examine the race, wondering where gains could be made. While I knew that the likely answer was to choose his genetics better next time, I understood the process.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I am decidedly mid-packer. I have analyzed the results of races: if only I had run 3 seconds per mile faster, I might have finished 10<sup>th</sup> instead of 11<sup>th</sup>, or if I had run one age group older (or younger in many cases) I might have placed 6<sup>th</sup>. Maybe I can train more or harder or faster or taper more or taper less next time. Yes, I understood intuitively what this 7-year-old in a Speedo was thinking. And it is that train of thought that not only reduces the sting of never winning, but that also helps provide the small victories that sustain a base level of motivation and enthusiasm over time.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>About the same time as this, I read about mental philosophies for overcoming a challenge by becoming or merging with the challenge. The mantras were mockingly bandied about the house: “I am the road”. “I am the hill”. While none of us converted to a new transcendental believer, we did come to appreciate the joy of recognizing a challenge, facing that challenge and enjoying the challenge – whether we conquered it or as occasionally happened, the challenge required another attempt on another day.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Every athletic endeavour by Travis was approached with that competitive spirit of overcoming the odds and tasting victory. And he projected that approach for his activities onto his interpretation of my activities. He wanted me to win. I held no illusions about winning overall, but I understood that winning was more than showing up. It was preparation. It was effort. It was taking risks (calculated, of course.) My success was internally measured on my ability and my performance relative to my ability rather than by unattainable plaques and trophies. But it was also judged by Travis’s perception of the events through his own prism. I wanted to fulfill my need and obligation to make him proud of my midpack accomplishments without validating mediocrity. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Flash forward through the years. Travis has long ago graduated from adolescent sports leagues and team sports, and has chosen running as the arrow in his quiver for staying fit and trim. This has been mainly a summer activity outside or treadmill-based during the frozen Boston winters. I joined in on these runs as often as possible to get one-on-one time with him. The topics varied from serious to silly to silent and the speed and distances varied, but by putting one foot in front of the other, we logged good mileage during his breaks.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>This year was similar but different. I started out the year by running consistently and adding distance. I signed up for an April marathon and so training started not long after the ball fell at Time’s Square. I generally track my miles only when I am training for a marathon, but since training coincided with January 1<sup>st</sup>, I had embarked on a record-keeping adventure. I ran the first 5 days of the year, 3 of them with Travis, and recorded 40 miles by the end of the first week (6 days). The holidays were over and the runs with Travis gave me a chance to find out what Travis had planned. He had talked of taking a semester off, but I learned on one of the runs that he would be back at school. We talked about the pros and cons and I tried my best to be a listener. No doubt that this was my perception and that he viewed this as intruding and advice giving, but I took few firm stands. We ran on January 1<sup>st</sup>, but I only asked questions about the night before. In fact, we ran together almost every day and I only asked a few questions and the answer was simple enough: he would almost certainly be in school.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>That first week was over 40 miles and I fell into a groove. Winter was mild and I exceeded 40 miles almost every week as my long runs stretched out. And my total mileage crept up, since we didn’t take any vacations that kept me from running, and I continued preparing for the marathon. But the real increase came after the marathon. Travis had indeed decided at the last minute to take a semester off to concentrate on his entrepreneur’s platform, and spent much of the month of May with us. So I took an entire week off after the marathon, but then I had a running buddy with limited time ready to make up for his time off in the frozen tundra. Rather than an easy glide back into running, he had me out there 5 or 6 days per week, even if it was only 2 miles running to and from the gym. Yes, he had me in the gym lifting weights again. I was competitive with him the first week, but after that he improved constantly and I remained level. Still, my body firmed a bit and the miles accumulated.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>He left at the end of May and Maria and I had travel plans. She took me on a fantastic backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail for forty miles over four days with a four-ton pack. The company was fantastic, the scenery wonderful and the food sufficient (especially the espresso-bean-laced M&M trail mix). But there were no entries into my mileage log. I had never been concerned about that before and I wasn’t now. We followed up on that with a 6-day trip to the Caribbean. I hardly ever run on these type trips but Maria insisted on activity and so I ended up with twenty-some miles instead of a doughnut in the log. Back home I ran another more normal level - into the 20’s - for a few weeks. At the end of June, I had run 1,000 miles for the year. This was probably a record for me, but usually my annual mileage suffered later with a week at the beach, travel for work, a trip to see family or friends, or some extended period of inactivity. But Travis was back at the end of June and I made it back into the 40’s. Most of our runs were 7 or 8 miles with a 10 thrown in for good measure. Then the week of July 4<sup>th</sup>, I ran hard and Travis ran hard. My mileage pushed into the 50’s. This was an unusual level for me and particularly unusual for me in the heat of the summer and with no particular reason to be training. This was followed by a week at the beach where Travis would set his alarm at a surprisingly early hour (for him), and still the sun and humidity would have preceded us. On alternate days Maria joined in. I added a forty-plus week when I normally might have run once.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Travis pushed up his mileage to forty plus and I added a run a week with a friend and the miles piled on. I had never felt stronger or fitter. I could eat everything. I lacked a bit of speed but I had plenty of endurance. Around Labor Day as Travis had reached peak mileage and packed his bags to head on back to school, I crossed the 1,400-mile threshold and it occurred to me that I might be looking at a big number for the year – 2,000 miles or more. This impressed me. I don’t set a lot of goals and I announce even fewer, but I told Travis that I planned to run 2008 miles for the year 2008. When you make an announcement like this, you get all sorts of questions, but runners really have one thing they want to know – what are the implications of that statement? That means, okay, Q. how many miles have you run? A. 1400. <b>Implication 1: </b>1400 miles through Labor Day means that you have averaged about 175 miles per month or roughly 40 miles/week. <b>Implication 2: </b>You still need to run 608 miles. There are less than 4 months, so that means an average of a little less than 40 miles a week. – Wait. Forty miles a week is a lot – I usually average that only when training for a marathon. What if I travel or take a few days off or don’t run at Christmas?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I actually didn’t see it as that big of a challenge. I thought that it would be a big achievement for me, but well within my reach given my head start. In races, you can’t put time in the bank to borrow against later, but with mileage you can. I kept putting in just the right amount to keep me on schedule to make 2008 and there appeared little doubt. I convinced myself that I could rest the following year. Then came the Thanksgiving holidays and Travis was back. I ran an 8K race Thanksgiving morning followed by 6 miles with Travis. Eleven miles on Thanksgiving? It was obvious that the difference for me that year was running when I normally didn’t. It seems obvious that by running more often and longer that the total mileage will increase, but I felt as though the big difference came from not having gaps in training that normally sneak in and are unnoticed. I realized that many of those are when family or friends are around and I take time off. The biggest difference this year had been that Travis had been around and caused me to get out the door at the exact times that I would normally not run, plus the miles with Maria on vacation. They weren’t there all of the time and so I did most of the normal stuff on my own. That takes consistency as well.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>On December 1<sup>st</sup>, with a full month of 31 days remaining, I had 1,911 miles and needed fewer than one hundred more. I ran 10 miles that day and started wondering how high the total would go. I was already in record territory so every mile set a new record. Would I ever get near this again? Should I lay off now so that the goal would be achievable in future years or should I go for the maximum or just let it happen? As I mentioned it to others, the most popular idea was to run exactly 2008 miles and to hit that magic mile just before midnight. I understood the drama and desire for pageantry, but no way was I risking that I might not accomplish that on New Year’s Eve, even though I lacked any concrete plans for the night and had no desire to skip a few weeks of running to hold the total down – particularly since the Christmas holidays would offer runs with both Travis and Maria.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Once I knew that I would exceed 2000 miles, that figure became the number to celebrate as well as what ever the final number would be. My running buddy Scott was perhaps more intrigued by the accomplishment than me and kept track of the remaining numbers. But then a car smashed into his car and injured his leg. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it took him off of his leg for a few weeks and he wasn’t going to be there to run the big mile with me. However, with only a little planning and adjusting of miles, I realized that I could be in front of his house exactly as the mile rolled over (particularly since with no GPS or watch, it was all an approximation). So on December 16<sup>th</sup>, I ran up to his door and he used a crutch or jumped or somehow covered the 10 yards that made the difference, and then I was back on the road.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>It’s funny, but when you run a lot of miles, you just keep running a lot more miles, and I added on another 88 before the ball fell again at Time’s Square. I had a lot of great runs and conversations, but the only documentation of that is a small number in an Excel file. I took it easy at the end of the year and finished with a round number of 2,088. This meant that I had averaged about 40 miles/week for the year. So I rested at the end and started New Year’s Day with a 16-miler. I doubt that I make it there this year, but I am off to a good start. I am the road. I am the mileage log. Hopefully, I had passed the test of a 7-year-old athlete one more time.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;">Note: I’m not going to make it to 2,000 this year, but Scott is – exceeding his all-time yearly best by over 500 miles – and it shows in his runs!!!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span id="save-message-inner"></span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-21611035308253517252023-08-08T13:53:00.000-04:002023-08-09T17:05:12.318-04:00By the time we got to Wildflower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhncV6C4yFggggRtCedd08nP23mwNT9ytgafuG-ycbs0_JaZGK2HhxbaiQG97YdNH7yn-QWdaZxJVJHzEhCqjVNqkdI0CJEj2yuvii3HBmp8o-0BJN3cTK3_DdxxdXnZMcWRFqwf-q72Qg/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhncV6C4yFggggRtCedd08nP23mwNT9ytgafuG-ycbs0_JaZGK2HhxbaiQG97YdNH7yn-QWdaZxJVJHzEhCqjVNqkdI0CJEj2yuvii3HBmp8o-0BJN3cTK3_DdxxdXnZMcWRFqwf-q72Qg/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><br /><b>By the time we got to Wildflower</b><br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
<div><i> </i><br />
<table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0"><tbody>
<tr> <td style="padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; padding: 0in;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal" style="break-after: avoid; break-before: page; line-height: 37.1pt; margin-left: 4.5pt; mso-element-anchor-horizontal: column; mso-element-anchor-vertical: paragraph; mso-element-linespan: 3; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: dropcap-dropped; mso-height-rule: exactly; mso-line-height-rule: exactly; page-break-after: avoid; page-break-before: always;"><i><span style="font-size: 52pt;">B</span></i><span style="font-size: 52pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table></div><i> </i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt;"><i><i>y the time we got to Woodstock, <br />
We were half a million strong <br />
And everywhere was a song and a celebration. </i><i><span style="font-size: 8pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></i></div><div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; text-align: right;"><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Joni Mitchell<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>The first description that I heard about Wildflower was one that many others repeated in the magazines and journals: “Wildflower is a Woodstock for triathletes.” I never heard many triathletes say that, because we were all too young to know much about that festival except the legend generated by a movie and a hit song by Crosby Stills and Nash. We were also in California and despite it being the epicenter of the 60’s peace and love movement, Woodstock had been a largely Northeastern phenomenon. Still, the concept of Woodstock and triathlons mixed together sounded awesome, gnarly, cool, dude and groovy all mixed together.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I heard casual mention of the race, but nothing had really caught my attention until I picked up a local sports paper at a running store. The description blew me away as it talked about the difficulty of the course, the caliber of the participants, the advance sellout of space, the support of volunteers and the festival atmosphere over multiple days in a remote area of California. If even half accurate, the article described a chance for us to have a Woodstock-type experience planned in advance. I didn’t even consider the physical challenge yet; this was too exciting.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Soon, I started working questions into every conversation I had with people that might possibly be triathletes. If they had heard of the event, I peppered them with questions. I went to the source and the website includes the following description:</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.4in; text-align: justify;"><i><i>“…Wildflower is one of the premier triathlons nationally and internationally.… The Wildflower Olympic Distance Triathlon is an amateur age group and relay team event. This world-class course includes a 1.5K open water swim, a 40K (extremely hilly bike course) and a brutal 10K run course. The race will include the Wildflower collegiate championships.” </i> Yeehi!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I preregistered on the first permitted day. This is something I rarely do, but I didn’t want to risk missing it. Then I started reading even more, and the daunting course burned into my brain. I was a reasonable runner, but a weak swimmer with little hope of time improvement, and a novice biker. The advantage that I had was time to train: both on a daily basis and over the next few months until race weekend. I established goals, not a training schedule. I preferred to work out on whatever sport whenever. For most athletes, this means that they spend more time on their strongest discipline because it is what they have done the longest and do the best. So it was with me. I spent most of the spring running my normal loop and adding long runs. I alternated the other 5-6 workouts between swimming and biking.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The triathlete’s season runs from Spring to Fall, and we are coached that you need to be careful to avoid the fatigue and injury that can accompany overtraining. For that reason, many people took breaks during the winter and then returned with a plan. Periodization is emphasized with the importance being on “peaking” at the right time. Generally, for amateurs that means 3 or 4 races during the season at a maximum. We can do more, but we should train through them.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The general training schedule for a serious triathlete, and that is what I was at that moment, is 10-13 workouts per week. These can be roughly divided into each of the 3 sports and at that time followed similar steps. Early in training, the major importance is placed on building a base that allows for more specific training later. Base building is a euphemism for long and slow or for getting mileage under the belt. This develops a core aerobic capability and strengthens the muscles for later. In running, this meant 4-5 days per week of slow steady paces for an hour or more. For biking, it meant two short rides and one about twice that distance. For swimming, it meant boredom, as I swam freestyle laps back and forth without a pause.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The next step incorporates speed. I substituted a track session for one of my runs. I had no real knowledge of the track, but my Timex watch gradually showed shorter times for a circuit. I hugged the inside of the track to make sure that I didn’t lose time for uncounted distance.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Swimming would be part one of the race and I had only covered this distance once – for a merit badge in Scouts – and it would require effort. I have always been able to swim, but I have never been a swimmer. There had not been any swim teams at my high school. I don’t think that I had ever used goggles until then and I tried to figure them out. It seems obvious that you put them over your eyes and with the right adjustment of the elastic strap; they would keep water out of your eyes. I tried that and water filled my goggles. I tightened the band and water filled my goggles and I had large indentations (marks) showing where they had been. Thinking that maybe my sockets were too deep, I tried a variety of sizes and styles. All of them let water pass. Some days they would be working and I would think that I had found a solution. Then 10 meters later I was looking through water-filled lenses. I asked questions of other swimmers but the standard reaction was a strange look. It seems, like for many other parts of swimming, that swimmers just naturally know how to do this.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I did most of my swimming at the pools in Heritage Park in Irvine. There were 3 large pools used by a variety of aquatic groups. They were first-rate and, as I understood, had been constructed for and used in the 1984 Olympics hosted in LA. All three pools were outside and open regardless of the weather, though it was seldom an issue in Southern California. The diving pool had 25-meter lanes and a 5- and a 10-meter diving platform with an underwater observation room. I had the opportunity to take a plunge one day from the ten-meter platform. It is a long way to climb to the top and that should have tipped me off that it is also a long way down. I placed my arms tight against my sides, jumped, and even remembered to point my feet before entering. That’s it. There might have been plenty of time for a reverse triple, but I only managed to point my toes. And I still felt a stinging sensation in my feet as I broke the surface and proceeded down far enough that my ears screamed to be cleared. Divers are different from me. Not that any of this had much to do with triathlon training, but it did show that I was living in the moment and not restrained to reasonable challenges.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I am a slow swimmer. I have studied form and technique and it looks simple enough, but I can never duplicate the movements with the requisite ease. It is a strength workout for me. I watched a few videos, read magazine tips and asked a coach for ideas. I followed these as best I could. For a time I skipped freestyle lap swimming and did stroke work. I swam laps using just my right arm and then strokes using just my left arm. Then, with a TYR flotation device tucked between my legs, I would alternate strokes: going as far as possible on the right side followed by a single stroke from the left for as far a possible. Then the same thing but with a more fluid transfer from left to right. I held a kickboard and flutter-kicked for a length and then tried another kick for a length. I tried to imagine that I was rolling on a barrel. I tried alternating breathing sides by breathing every 3 strokes: a great plan if I wanted to drown. I can breathe on only one side: I must turn my head to the right. I tried a few other strokes but decided that freestyle was enough for me. Plus these special workouts required me to find time when the lanes were empty – no small task in leisurely Southern California - where it often seemed that no one worked because they were too busy working out, looking good, driving the personality-extending vehicle or hanging at the beach. Showing up at a normal hour meant sharing one of the fifty-plus available lanes. I learned this etiquette too. If there are two people sharing a lane, they split it and each takes one side. If there are three or more, you follow each other and try to stagger the starts enough that there is no passing. But passing is allowed, even though it creates opportunities for head-on collisions if everyone isn’t paying attention. Since I was slow, I never really learned all of the rules of passing others, but if you are being passed, you move slightly to the right and swim as fast as you can so that it will take the passer longer to get by. This is true unless you are passed at the end of the lane, in which case, you either yield and let the person pass or you drift left and block them off. If you are in the opposite lane, try to avoid oncoming traffic. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I knew that I was not exaggerating about my speed. I felt slow, and the second hand on the large clock at each end of the lanes confirmed this. I accepted that I shouldn’t compare myself with Amanda Beard, who was swimming a few lanes away, or even most of the people that had previously been, or were currently, swimming competitively. However, that didn’t ease the insult I felt one evening as I was doing laps – again in the diving pool. I was doing a speed workout where I would swim hundreds freestyle, take a ten-second break and start again. I was on my second round when the girl/woman in the next lane started passing me. This was a common occurrence and was significant only in that she had one foot extended straight up towards the sky – and both arms. I had been swimming to some disco tunes that were being played under the water – I blocked them out by counting my laps: one, one, one, one … – without considering the source of this nuisance. It was the synchronized swimming team and this “athlete” was swimming faster on her back using the propulsion from a single leg than my freestyle sprint. But I knew that I was improving and decided that she was superhuman and have ever since truly respected the physical feats of synchronized swimmers.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I have some inflexibility in my right hip and it turns out that each time that I kick, I scissor kick and essentially apply a brake. This led me to decide two things that I would do but that others shouldn’t: (1) I should kick less, and (2) the swim is essentially a strength effort for me and I should increase my endurance level. And so I switched to the competition pool and the 50-meter lanes. I never had a great push-off but this was harder. I added a 50 daily until I reached the 1.5 KM distance. This is a warm-up for others, but extended time and effort for me. In the weeks before the race, I did 5 days of 2,000 yards and I had no doubt that I would finish the race distance.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Biking was another issue though. The course description calls this an extremely hilly ride. My sources talked about the steepness of Beach Hill. Without having seen it, I believed the transition area to be in a parking lot at the lake’s edge. The main road was on entirely different level through the park and hills. The climb to the main road was known as Beach Hill and in addition to being the very first part of the ride, had a grade steeper than normal DOV guidelines permit. I was new on the bike and I was still mastering clip-on pedals. At first I had failed to tighten the clips sufficiently and I couldn’t rotate my ankles enough to create the necessary torque to break the connection. This caused me to take several slow-motion tumbles around the neighborhood and even at a traffic light. I had moved past this as a likelihood and had even erased much of the psychological damage that it had done. I could use the shoes under normal conditions.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My current fear revolved around my weakness on the bike. Supposedly the wheels and chain and other modern machinery made it easier to do “work,” but I struggled on hills. I tried to use the gears to shift (<i>pun</i>) the work from my legs to the big cogs, but I eventually reached a point where I would shift to the lowest gear, stand up out of the saddle and pedal. This will get you over a hump at the cost of serious energy expenditure and the accumulation of copious quantities of lactic acid in every muscle large and small in your legs. Fortunately, you have usually cleared the obstacle at this point and can enjoy the downhill coast or pedal steadily over flat terrain as the replenishments reinforce the endangered muscles. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>One of the hills near my house was Ridgeline. It was about 1.4 miles of steady climbing with some stretches that were more pronounced with a few minor respites. I had added it to some of my runs, and though it was an effort, I never considered that I might not make it. I just stared ahead and pushed and eventually I stood at the top. This was not the case on the bike. I had yet to make an uninterrupted summit and most rides required 2 or 3 pit stops. I might have been able to make it, but I would be exhausted with no break in the near future and barely moving. Therein was my problem with hills and my not irrational paranoia about Beach Hill. I feared that I would be pedaling as hard as I could and that my speed would shrivel to a standstill. I would learn this suddenly, and being unable to react quickly enough, I would begin that slow-motion tumble, preferably to my right, down onto the pavement as other triathletes scooted by me on their more expensive machines and with their superior motors. And so my mantra for the bike portion was “conquer the first hill.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>During this period, I added Ridgeline to every training ride and soon it wasn’t my friend but we tolerated each other. I also increased my weekly long ride to an average of 30 miles with one even reaching 38. Other triathletes that I talked to were doing 150-200 miles a week, but I couldn’t imagine that much time in the saddle. When one was giving me advice and asked about my weekly mileage, I stretched the truth and said 80 miles per week – my highest consecutive seven-day period (though over a span of 2 calendar weeks) – only to see the concern in his eyes as he agreed that “You just can’t make any progress at a level of 80.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>These were my early days and I knew nothing about cadence or heart rate or specific weight lifting. I had purchased an old QR tri bike and I practiced bending and riding aerodynamically on the tri bars. I tried drinking in that position. I knew some of the suggestions and worked for any advantage to be obtained short of incremental riding.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I ran a few “bricks” because I knew the benefit. “Bricks” are practice runs that occur immediately upon the conclusion of a bike ride and mimic the required bodily reaction in an actual race. The bike ride shifts blood to one part of your body as you depend on the quads for force. Running calls more heavily on your hamstrings and calves and it takes some time to redirect the blood flow with its fuel and cleansing power. The exercise is called a “brick” because your legs are heavy as you commence the run and feel like bricks. I only did a few because they were uncomfortable and tiring and quite often resulted in me missing a workout. Dropping from 11/week to 9/week was tantamount to forfeiting my right to use the triathlete label.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Being a triathlete is fun. It is a lifestyle. When you do this many workouts per week, you are always just finishing one or about to start one. In between, you can compare them with other triathletes or try to have a steady relationship with the person that loses all of this time together. You are healthy, fit, and generally attractive. It is almost unavoidable to have some skin color, and most judge that to be an attractive feature, even though we now know the long-term dangers. Conversations dwell on performances, gadgets, clothing, training and upcoming events. I participated in several early-season sprint distance races at Bonelli Park, but my gaze started shifting towards Wildflower soon enough.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My preparations had progressed well for the event but I hadn’t totally grasped the need for a camping reservation. Fortunately, Jody (a fellow runner) and Bob (a competitive age grouper triathlete) had signed up for multiple sites as a group and invited us to pitch a tent alongside theirs. Great - ready-made tri-friends would recount their stories at the campfire.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>So with a tent and food, we drove up early to visit some friends in Paso Robles. They gave us a bottle of red wine that won a medal at the local county fair and extolled its virtues. I still view wines from there as desirable. After lunch, we drive the rest of the distance to Lake San Antonio. After passing through the brush and bramble, we discover the end of the rainbow: triathletes, and athletes, and friends and family of athletes. The races include about 7,500 participants and 30,000 spectators and occurs a good hour’s drive from anywhere but the campground. So everybody that can come is here. The expo is already going. People are running everywhere to stretch their legs, and the roads are full of bikers heading all directions in any lane. We seek out and find the campsite and we are the last to arrive. And I thought that <i>I</i> was excited!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>When most outsiders think of triathlons, they think of the Hawaii Ironman and the grueling long distances. Races come in all distances though, and even the relationships between the separate disciplines can change to reflect the available course. There are some standards, though. The Ironman, which is an endurance event and is probably the distance the fewest people do, features a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride and 26.2 miles of running (a marathon). The half Ironman is exactly half that distance and mixes speed into the equation with endurance. The International or Olympic Distance is an official distance with a 1.5K swim, a 40K bike and a 10K run. That is a speed event for professionals, but a speed and endurance event for more ordinary mortals. Sprints are any combination of distances shorter than that. Wildflower has 3 races: (1) a half Ironman that is considered very difficult, particularly this early in the season and which attracts a world class field without offering a purse, (2) a mountain bike sprint which takes advantage of trails and technical riding, and (3) the event that I am registered for, the Olympic Distance.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My race is on Sunday and the other two are on Saturday. That means that half of the racers will be spectators on Saturday and the evening meals, the choice of beverages consumed and the time to turn out the lights reflect this. It is schizophrenia with half of the world preparing for early and difficult races and the remainder in a festive spirit anticipating their race. The following evening everyone does a 180, with half of the racers now finished and jubilant and the others now trying to focus. Of course, independent of this, there is a carnival atmosphere with all of the participants, booths, musical groups, meals, speakers and attempts at new relationships.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Most people wouldn’t recommend sleeping on the ground for two nights before a major event, but it was only the first night that mattered. I was stiff as I watched the races on Saturday but I was so hyped on Sunday that I never noticed any stiffness. Our campsite was about a mile from the start, but there was never any doubt about watching the other races. They were great. The big stars stepped up and won in unbelievably fast times. I went back and forth a few times during the day and probably put 6-7 miles on my pre-race legs, but it never mattered. I drank Gatorade all day to avoid dehydration as we stood out in the sun. This was Central California and we had no cooling breeze from the ocean and it was hot by 8 AM. Still, this was a minor inconvenience for a front-row seat at a party and major sporting event.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Finally, it was my turn and the entire campground was up and active in the predawn hours. The scheduled start of 9 AM was generous enough, but we foraged for food that should have been located the day before, did our first round of bathroom visits, gathered our collection of gear and headed over to rack the bike and prepare our transition area. <i>And everywhere was a song and a celebration. </i>The tires have 100 psi, I lay out a towel for drying my feet after the swim. I lay out my bike helmet face up with the straps unbuckled and laid to the right and left. I place my bike shoes at the front side of the towel propped open for an easy slip- on. Usually I go ahead and put them on the pedal clips on the bike, but in a nod of respect to Beach Hill, I want to put them completely on before starting, so that I can expect maximum pedal force from the very first revolution. I have a tri-singlet that bares my midriff with my race number pinned on that I place just below my helmet. It is essential to remember to put the shirt on before the helmet. The loss of time and of dignity is too severe otherwise. Between the two, I place my Oakleys with the frames open and ready to slide over my ears. Normally I protect these fragile and expensive lenses, but this is the reason that I own them and I have to risk it. My running shoes have stretch laces that allow me to pull them on with having to tie them. I grab the tongue and lodge it up to make it even easier since I will no doubt be less limber when I make this move. I place a full water bottle on the bike. Things that I don’t have today that I would during a workout are bike gloves and socks. Neither of these takes much time to put on, but gloves, which provide cushioning and hand protection, for some reason are customarily not worn during races. Perhaps it is because of the heat that racing generates. Socks are optional, but the pros don’t wear them at this distance, and I have no extra time for them. I have done several experimental runs, and to my surprise, I have not gotten any blisters without them. I run through a mental checklist, silently reciting the events and pointing at the appropriate part of my body. Check. Check. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My next step is to get my markings. My sex and my race number are marked with a Sharpie on the upper part of both arms and both thighs. My age is marked on both calves so that other “competitors” can try to pick me off later in the race. Or so I can go after them.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Most racers have begun the migration down to the water’s edge to hear the prerace speeches. I spray Pam on my legs and I am clawing at my wetsuit trying to pull it into place. I have only worn it a few times and it is still a learning experience. The water temperature is 65 degrees – cool – but that is the norm around here, and I wear a Quintana Roo long john wetsuit with long pants and no sleeves. I opted not to have a full bodysuit because people say the chest constriction will freak you out and that it restricts arm movement. Mine is tight enough, and the arms warm up quickly after the race starts. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The air horn blurts out the beginning of the race, but I have no need to panic. Triathlons start with a swim. Since everyone starts at the same place, and we swim more or less at the same speeds for a while, and we have to be horizontal, the start can be frantic. People are kicked in the face, goggles are knocked off, and there are scratches and clawing and swimmers climbing over each other. This has caused many swimmers to develop a strategy for the start: starting out really fast, or wide, or at the back. It also led to triathlons being among the earliest adopters of wave starts. This works well because most triathletes are called Age Groupers and they essentially race only against people of the same sex and age range. So they are lumped together, marked with numbers and given matching swim caps. Fitting for the psychedelic aspect of a Woodstock festival, there is a veritable kaleidoscope of colors of swim caps and every color from a Grateful Dead parking lot tie-dyed T-shirt is represented. I think that my age group wore purple. I never train in these and I don’t really know how to wear it. I pull it down, hopefully not backwards, as far as I can, and then I roll it above my ears. That’s the most comfortable way that I have discovered. Purple is not my best color and I am sure that my stylist would object. I look strange, but I fit right in.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I pull my wetsuit top up and finish zipping it. I am careful around my neck, which I have smeared with Vaseline to protect against chafing that the wetsuit can cause. Waves of racers have been leaving every few minutes and our turn is fast approaching. Goggles on. Adjust to the shock of cold water. Pick my angle – I am one of those that takes a geometric approach to the start and seeks the angle that will result in the shortest swim. Since it is impossible to really know, I am happy where I am. Shriiieeek!!!!! We are on the move.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Many swimmers don’t like open-water swims and they suffer from panic attacks, higher blood pressure or slower times. For some weird reason, I am the opposite. The start interests me and my slow heads-up style somehow helps me avoid violence. I feel the tight chest on the wetsuit and wonder if I will be able to breathe. But I also know that I am not going to win and that rhythm provides solace here. And so I swim at a steady pace with the buoyancy of my wetsuit compensating for my swim style. The cold water is refreshing and makes me feel alive. Swimmers are ahead and behind and even just off to the side, but I keep a straightish line for the buoy. The swim is clockwise around a triangle of orange buoys. That means that we head towards the next orange buoy and keep it on our right-hand side as we pass. If, when you pass the buoy, everybody else is turning, it is a good bet that you are on the next leg of the triangle and this provides some idea of the distance that you have covered. After a few minutes, our group has spread out. There are 20 waves leaving every 5 minutes, and this will go on for an hour and thirty-five minutes. There are lifeguards posted in kayaks or on surfboards or even motorboats and some people are already in contact with them. It is okay to talk or even take a break, but if you receive any help or get out of the water at all, your race is over. I am contemplating their situation when I suddenly see two other colors of caps. I am both passing and being passed. I am not surprised that a great swimmer (or even many) from another age group can outswim me that much, but I wonder about the level of ability of someone falling prey to me this early. My goal today is to avoid being passed by the leaders of the age group 2 waves behind me. This is a .92-mile swim and times will range from 15 minutes to over an hour.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I still feel good and I am almost watching the race from outside of my body. I clear my goggles a few times, focus on my stroke, extending my arms, rolling on a barrel and covering the remaining gap. I look up through my now foggy goggles and I see the swim finish. I think about the upcoming transition and what I can do now to make it easier for my blood to change directions. Then we exit the water. I reach back and unfasten the velcro at the back of my neck and then grab the long ribbon cord attached to my zipper and give it a yank down. I reach to the shoulder straps and pull the top down around my waist, pull off my goggles and head through the timing area, up the ramp on my toes trying to avoid pain and cuts, and into the transition area. No blood flow in my legs and an uphill, oh yeah!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I am a slow swimmer, a biker in slow motion, and a decent runner, but I am able to hold my own in the transition area. I know the tricks to choosing reminders of where my spot is. I know how to rack my bike for a fast exit and then for a fast return. I know where the entrance is and where the exit is. I know if we have to walk/run our bikes out. I know how the course starts. And so I zipped in, sliding my wetsuit even lower as I ran. I tossed my goggles to the back of my space and jerked the wetsuit off as I stepped onto my towel. I slipped my shirt on as I dried my feet and placed them in the shoes. I bent to tighten them and grabbed my helmet and glasses. Snap, glasses on, bike in my hand and I am running clippety-clop for the exit, in my biking shoes. Over the line and mounted. I am off.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Beach Hill was everything that was promised with an almost immediate elevation gain of 400 feet. I had trained for this and I went up and over. It was not a problem, though early power surges sometimes come from future energy sources. I am on the main road going slightly downhill. I am not yet in an aero position when I see and hear Eva. Is she having as much fun as me? About a mile into the race, a biker loses control and swings wide. I move quickly to the right and I am slightly off the road in a sandy patch. My bike swerves and before I can record the events, I do a forward tumble over the handlebars and go down on the edge of the road with the back of my shoulder hitting first. Somehow as I roll, my shoes unclip and I am able to jump up. Startled spectators, as we are still near the beginning of the race, are either stunned or are trying to determine the extent of my damages. So am I. I brush the sand off me and look at the bike. It is scratched but completely rideable. I’ve got some road rash and could have benefitted from those gloves, but I jump back in the saddle and I am off again. The clock hasn’t stopped and I have no time to lose.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I spent some time thinking about what happened, and examining the bike and my arm, but it looked okay. My pace was fast, no doubt due to the downhill and my adrenaline glands producing at warp-speed. I remember four things about the rest of the bike leg: (1) The road seemed covered by items that people had dropped: water bottles, air pumps, shoes, energy bars and food. (2) People kept passing me and asking if I was okay. At first I thought that they had seen the fall and had a healthy curiosity. But then I noticed that some had started after me and couldn’t have been there at the time. Then I discovered that I had major rash, debris and some bleeding on my back. Not the way I had planned it, but I had made a mark on the bike ride at Wildflower. (3) There were 3 more major uphills on the course that equaled the first. Reports from the prior day said that the half was hilly as well, but that it covered 56 miles compared to our 24. (4) The last mile was a steep downhill that required no pedaling and many decisions on whether to judiciously use the brakes or not. It is a bad idea to lose time, and a worse idea to crash.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>T-2, the transition from bike to run, should be faster than T-1. There is no wetsuit to pull off. When stopping the bike, you slip your feet from the bike shoes and leave them on the bike, dismounting barefoot, racking the bike facing in with the brake handles on the rack, dropping your helmet, slipping on the running shoes without any need to tie them and running for the exit/start. My sunglasses are already on, so I look cool despite the soaring heat magnified by the time – at least partially due to the generously late start time and the delay until my wave left. Still, out the gate to be met by that greatest of partners: Eva. I use the word intentionally because the life of a triathlete combined with a relationship isn’t possible unless the significant other buys into the program, the hours and the expense. But it can improve immensely if that other person enjoys the activities surrounding the events, and here was Eva cheering me and thousands of others on. I wondered if she was having as much fun as me. Then as I passed I saw her puzzled expression and remembered the mess on my back. Would that be a valid excuse for a slow time?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My legs came back to me after a few minutes and I began to attack the course at a steady pace, and it began to counterattack. Reflecting back on this course description, I remembered “<i>and a brutal 10K run course</i>.” Apparently the author had told the truth. It is a combination of roads and trails, but the real story is the elevation gain and loss. The half has a reputation for being a monster whose only salvation comes from the topless coeds that manage an aid station back in the woods on one of the trails. Unfortunately, our only distraction was the large number of people that had slowed to a walk. I admit that I stopped at the water tables, but I hate walking, and so I tried to keep a slow steady pace forward. Then, as all hope is gone, we come upon a viewpoint and I can see that the finish is all downhill from here. I run with total disregard for my knees and make the turn home for the finish. I had hoped to finish in under 3 hours and I can see by the clock that I will accomplish that today. I use that, the downhill and my last energy to blast over the last few hundred yards. All the while I am staring at the calves of the men around me, knowing that each one passed here would be one place higher for me among the midpackers.</i></div><i><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">All in all, I loved Wildflower and it was a great birthday present. Maybe I’ll ask for the same thing next year.</span> </i><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>To read more, </b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-22987307270664812962023-08-08T13:52:00.000-04:002023-08-09T17:03:20.157-04:00Robbie Crusoe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Ig57GpCfW1V2dh2ujEU1lZkT5KfTrZ9jp2r8TAY5hRt4IyCoCUvvBZGbDrXsSmoCQT6AmcxTG_XpWbPMeiA2SZz2tiBItcYZHI9DtxcU9Bp9lh8hIgbqzgm7O-XYuoZi3SpqPl8vGpU/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Ig57GpCfW1V2dh2ujEU1lZkT5KfTrZ9jp2r8TAY5hRt4IyCoCUvvBZGbDrXsSmoCQT6AmcxTG_XpWbPMeiA2SZz2tiBItcYZHI9DtxcU9Bp9lh8hIgbqzgm7O-XYuoZi3SpqPl8vGpU/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><b style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 14.666667px;">Robbie Crusoe</b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 66"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><i>O</i></span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;"><i>nce a Runner</i> </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">is a novel that illustrates the hard work and dedication that is required of an elite runner named Quenton Cassidy. He drops out</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">of college, moves to a cabin in the woods, and submits himself to a brutal training regimen. Cassidy, who has always dreamed of running a 4:00 mile, spends weeks training for the race of his life. Since its publication, the novel has become a cult classic for competitive runners of all abilities.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Runners of all ages and abilities in all parts of the United States have adopted the name Quenton Cassidy when registering for races. The name is synonymous with a passion for running, a dedication to hard and consistent training, and in the opinion of many, a boast of being an elite runner. Cassidy is a hero for runners and a cult star worthy of worshiping.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I am no stranger to the use of an alias. My purchases and magazine addresses have often been done with fictitious names that allow me to know the source of a mailing or phone call quickly and to hide my true identity. This has gotten harder to do in the modern world, even with race registrations where many times a photo ID is required to pick up a race packet, Those of us that procrastinate, pay cash, and pay the late registration premium can sometimes use an alias if we intend to win and honor Cassidy or need to hide our whereabouts from a stalker.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Not that any of this really mattered at first. We were arriving in Nevis by ferry and my Native sunglasses failed to make anyone think that I was a native, but they shielded my eyes from those harmful UV rays, made me feel like I looked cool and provided all of the anonymity needed at that moment. It had</span></p></div></div><img alt="page66image165317264" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/fea1f0f3-2c0a-4014-bc1f-1df6a208e5aa" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">64</span></p></div></div><img alt="page66image165317472" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/fe678a81-47d5-4360-a50f-9072b9e90962" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 67"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">taken me a few years to choose these shades and I had hidden behind a variety of cheap, borrowed and found lenses during that time. I had 2 goals in my sunglasses that seemed to contradict each other: the desire to wear them casually and the need for function in athletics. Function required them to be light and to protect my eyes from bugs and wind while biking, bright sun when running and to not fog when being used in the normal hot, humid & sweaty conditions that workouts generally entail. One of the features that helps in these various types of protection is the wraparound design that most have. Of course, they can’t wrap around too much or there will be a lack of ventilation causing them to fog up quickly. The features that make them work for athletes are the ones that make them weird for casual use. But I saw a pair at REI, tried them on and wore them home. They meet all of my needs. It just required a change in my attitude.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">And so as I anonymously disembarked into the morning sun on the docks of downtown Charlestown, I set about using my negotiating skills to obtain a taxi to the hotel. My information had the hotel about one-half mile from town, but of course that turned out to be completely bad information. Fortunately, I didn’t have to look for a driver as he somehow spotted me. I provided him the necessary information for him to provide a “fare” (</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">pun</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">) price: yes, I am from out of town; no, I know nothing about the island; no I have no alternative except to ride with you; yes, the others in my group are anxious to get out of the sun and head to the beach. Upon hearing the price, I immediately accepted to show that he could have charged me more and I still would have paid. That was my small victory.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page67image165603488" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c1e21c78-ebd7-4e18-9adb-606b9ed61f44" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">65</span></p></div></div><img alt="page67image165603696" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/17d2823a-8bd4-4cab-9fd9-13ddbf97f649" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 68"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The ride to the hotel would have been non- eventful had I not seen a large sign advertising a race. Following discussions among ourselves, we determined that the date shown was 3 days away and that we would be on the island then. Maria was psyched. She had wanted an active vacation and here was an opportunity to run in a place that seemed, trafficwise, to have limited running space. The taxi driver didn’t know much about it, but I felt certain that the people at the hotel could get the details. And so at check-in, I inquired. No. No idea about it. Sorry. Ask at the shop beside the dive shop. It was closed, but there on the door was a flyer advertising the Churchtown running race and providing the date. In my mind, I assumed that any local race would have a reasonable entry fee and so we really only needed two pieces of information: the distance and the start time. Certainly these guys would know, but they didn’t. It seems that the shop’s owner, Reggie, is quite a triathlete. Another sign has a time written in large letters that after a Columbus-like voyage I discovered was his bike time for a ride around the island. It not only was the best ever recorded on the island, it had just been set the prior week. Reggie also had a 50-yard swim rope between buoys to allow for swim training at our beach. Reggie is great, he posted the signs and he is ... not on the island for a week. Back to step one.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">It took 3 tries but finally the right person was asked in the office and we met the manager, a friendly young local man who himself intended to participate on Sunday. The distance would be 10K and the start would be at 8 AM. The start location would be at a certain intersection in the Churchtown neighborhood – close to the home of the manager. Filled with</span></p></div></div><img alt="page68image164811024" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ab121632-1091-4778-957d-93c1edb1ced6" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">66</span></p></div></div><img alt="page68image164811232" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/1f59d738-4138-4dd8-be51-80f273ffd6a1" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 69"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">information, we immediately set about prerace training: scuba, swimming, beach activities and a strange, guided rain forest tour. We indulged our bodies with the nutritional muscle-loading benefits of large dinners with fish, rice, beans and salads and breakfasts of banana pancakes, and tapered with rum punches at sunset and moonrise. So we were prepared. Our last detail was to reserve a driver for 7AM on Sunday morning since there might not be one otherwise. All that being accomplished, we set the alarm on a running watch and drifted off into sweet dreams. The following day would be a sweaty dream.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Some say that getting to the starting line is half of the race. We dressed quickly the following morning and went to the entrance to meet the taxi. At 7:15, there was no sign of life on Nevis other than us. Five minutes later, we saw a grounds man and struck up a conversation, His loose lips let slip that he finishes his work at 6 AM and was now on his way home. It seems that we had a time change somewhere that we had missed and so we were an hour early! This provided us with some much-needed time to lounge on the beach and take in the morning scenery and rays. Just before seven, we repeated our bathroom routines and returned to our waiting taxi.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The overall participation in the race would be about 80 people and about 40 or so were already there when we arrived. Registration was a postcard-sized form requesting basic information and was being handled by two volunteers on the porch of a house type building. They were very friendly and explained the course route to us and said that there would be photos on a website. Results, perhaps, as well? </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">I needed an alias </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">and in this morning heat, I would never be</span></p></div></div><img alt="page69image165541696" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/393a0941-3f15-4296-b03e-5f22eb752ece" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">67</span></p></div></div><img alt="page69image165541904" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/81ba688d-14cd-46c0-8c6e-dc1e8e4d0ddb" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 70"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">able to honor Cassidy’s name, so it wouldn’t do. Why not use the name of a man associated with islands, Robinson Crusoe? Too obvious, until I modernize it to Robbie Crusoe. So after paying the $20 entry fee, Robbie Crusoe was ready to run. Maria had joined in this time and kept calling me Robbie.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">This race definitely was a local event. We were the only 2 straight-up tourists in the crowd. The group was about 90% male, and maybe two-thirds looked like they ran on a regular basis. The others were in good enough shape, but they weren’t regular runners. The attire ranged from running shorts and singlets to regular shorts. But whatever the dress and level of training, everyone was there on this warm June morning to be an athlete.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">And warm it was. We were inland away from the cool ocean breezes and the mercury had almost reached the day’s high at 84 degrees. Clouds would later cool off the area, but long after we finished. The prior year’s winner was a runner and seemed to be everyone’s overwhelming favorite for today’s main event. I longed to race him and see if I could steal the crown, but knowing his likely time would be about 7 minutes or so less than mine, I was more than content to remain in my role as Robbie Crusoe and enjoy the scenery with Maria. Still, it was interesting to watch him do high kicks running in place and 40-meter strides. By race time he looked exhausted and soaked with sweat. He must have come prepared because he had a bucket of water that he dumped over his head to cool off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Eight o’clock passes with no movement towards the start line. No one seems particularly upset about this although there is no obvious reason for a</span></p></div></div><img alt="page70image165375776" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/81240764-3338-4b10-bed7-4dc71a9ea4e9" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">68</span></p></div></div><img alt="page70image165375984" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c1f9c3d9-1168-47d6-9640-a4467731472f" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 71"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">delay. Many in the group know each other and there are greetings and handshakes being exchanged. The hotel manager has spoken with us and almost everyone else there. There are challenges being made and boasts of performances to come that obviously are intended to be humorous. It seems that no one expected the race to start precisely at eight, but rather that was a rough time to organize around. The race director steps up and provides some general instructions. The most important of these should be the course directions since this is a point-to-point and the roads are surprisingly complicated for us to figure out. I listen and I hear that we should turn left here and right there, but basically what I understand is that we should maintain contact with another runner who knows where we are headed. That’s it. Have fun. We all gather together in the middle of the intersection as a volunteer stops the only car around: a taxi driver that was coming to see the start of the race anyway. There is no precise starting line, meaning that the distance was approximate, and the people closest to the direction that the race would proceed became the actual starting line. This was island life at its finest: a group of people meeting on Sunday morning for a race around eight to run more or less 10K and to start from around here and with everybody happy with this. We were thrilled. Screeeeeeeech. And the race is on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">We had about 20 spectators and a few cheered. Eva was among them and she would begin a shortcut walk estimated at 4 miles to meet us at the finish line. She would need directions more than us, but people were glad to help. The runners did what we always do. We ran at different paces and the pack began to spread out. This could have been a local run back home in</span></p></div></div><img alt="page71image164757136" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/97125179-467e-4094-9033-baef948494c8" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">69</span></p></div></div><img alt="page71image164810608" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/f981da57-667f-43ba-9fc0-161d1fe20d14" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 72"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">many ways as we ran through a residential neighborhood, around corners, weaving towards a bigger street. It was early Sunday morning and people came out into their yards to watch the race go by. It was entertainment for them. Heck, it was entertainment for us and we enjoyed seeing a side of island life normally sheltered from tourists. We settled into a pace or actually several as the course had a surprising number of hills. That caused us to speed up and slow down. There were no course markings, mile markers, aid stations or timers, but somewhere around mile 2 in our calculations, we started down a long stretch of narrow road surrounded by open land. It was a bucolic setting and also a spot without shade that allowed us to experience the full force of the heat of the tropical sun. My sunglasses - oh yeah, I had them on at 8 AM - protected my eyes, but my clothes already felt as wet as they would at a post-swim lunch.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">At mile 3, there was a water station and we stopped and downed 2 cups of water each. The sun was baking us and we were unprepared. We thanked the volunteers and chatted with them a minute. Our energy was leaving us much like the heat effect seen on highways on a hot summer day. We were dehydrated and drained at mile four. We continued to be in the middle of a pack already spread out over 2 miles. Around mile 4.5, an interesting phenomenon occurred which probably made the difference in our finishing the race: the residents in this new part of town had become passive participants. About every 100 yards, someone had set up their own aid station and offered small cones – 3 ounces? – of water in an unofficial capacity. They just wanted to help. The stands might have one person or there might be 5 or 6 kids helping and our</span></p></div></div><img alt="page72image164756720" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ea2bee37-91c6-4e88-b83f-7bf08c96164f" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">70</span></p></div></div><img alt="page72image164756512" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/6a8830d6-aa1b-4bc9-bddb-58d68a9c6335" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 73"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">cultural anthropologist side mixed with our need for water and the short accompanying break to pull us to every single stand. Maria was really suffering from the heat and needed the breaks. She didn’t really want to take them because that meant starting again and she was ready to finish. How much farther! I talked to people at the stands and felt that I learned a lot and that I was a good ambassador. I tried to tell jokes and make witty comments to distract Maria, but she just ignored me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">There is an advantage to placing little information on an advertisement in that you are not restricted. The start time was flexible and as we learned, so was the distance. As best we can guess, the distance was a bit over 11K. We drank lots of water and then that stopped about a mile before the finish when we ran past a cemetery. This served as the source for lots of corny comments that even got Maria making them again. She had her second wind and we plodded alone down the street. We were back in town and again taking a winding course through neighborhoods. Other runners were visible only every now and then. We made one turn only to have an entire house of people scream to us that we had gone the wrong way. There being no clear sign, we believed them and ended up back on the course. This was verified when we saw to more homegrown water stations. What a friendly place.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The finish line had to be close and we moved by a small grocery store and into a section with vehicular traffic. We saw the side of the athletic field where the party had already started. We had to hop over a couple of curbs to find a volunteer that had stopped traffic from both directions for us to cross. Against logic, this must be the course. Music was</span></p></div></div><img alt="page73image164687440" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c9eda81b-c312-42b9-97f9-c56e50d1713c" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">71</span></p></div></div><img alt="page73image164687648" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ac4ebb9e-56a8-41a1-a65a-20e73c12b92f" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 74"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Robbie Crusoe</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">now blaring and we could sense the excitement. Again, as in all races, there were people walking and running towards us that had already completed the course and had some an urgent need to walk the wrong direction. We turned into the athletic field and saw an arch just ahead. I say I slowed down but Maria insists that she switched to warp speed as she stepped across the line just in front of me. The announcer called our names....Maria May...Robbie Crusoe...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">We sought out a shady spot on the edge of the field and there were plenty of runners there to share stories. The favorite had indeed won. A runner from a US university cross-country team on the island for the Summer had taken the female side. The hotel manager, who spent 10 minutes explaining how tough the race was for him, had finished in a very respectable time and could hold his head high for another year. Some took pride in finishing their first race. Others planned workouts to shave time off their next race while others talked about the awards ceremony, which had been postponed to coincide with a street party later that evening. So we never saw official results there or on the internet, but we had a fun run. I have only done 2 races since then and I registered for one of these as Robbie Crusoe. And now, when mail comes addressed to that name, I, for just a moment, drift back to the islands and I am Robbie Crusoe.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">P.S. Eva arrived without incident shortly after we did and had her own fun experiences to share.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page74image164977360" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a4081c0a-2130-4a5a-86a2-56e1f063b151" width="241.060000" /></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-49654793244934794142023-08-08T13:42:00.001-04:002023-08-09T16:58:34.996-04:00I am so vain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvD-IUTHVRGqYOf14TsG2zDrq9oRz5VyVIMKG4a-Ologcbao2j_jWZy_dEZtDSYjPofdWtL6CADAWRqKVSFLOoB1NZ691WD26ZGiydqtAHMTfHP7ckvKuyVEUidNBpSYzjL0gBokDETQ/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvD-IUTHVRGqYOf14TsG2zDrq9oRz5VyVIMKG4a-Ologcbao2j_jWZy_dEZtDSYjPofdWtL6CADAWRqKVSFLOoB1NZ691WD26ZGiydqtAHMTfHP7ckvKuyVEUidNBpSYzjL0gBokDETQ/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 58"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I am so vain. I think that this story is about me. And it is. It is the story of how I came to receive mail addressed to Robinson, well actually, Robbie </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Crusoe. And where is my man Friday?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Long ago, I began running and I encouraged our kids to run and I had enough energy to run without them and later with them. And they joined in around-the-block runs, as parts of walks, on their own and at the end of races – well I was a midpacker, so near the end of a race. But time passed, they grew and their interests changed, or at least often their activities did not include me. So I was surprised later that Maria and I began to develop a running relationship. It was a great thing to run together. Like in all running relationships, you get some one-on-one time, some conversation time, and for the length of the run, you share a common goal and interest. No fights, no arguing, just a run.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Most of our runs were neighborhood outings. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if I was invited along or not until she made a move to the door. I would be standing there in my running clothes but could just as easily end up running alone. I tried to act as if this were not the case, so that either outcome would not be a disappointment or a cause of stress. My overwhelming preference was to run with her or I would have already headed out the door. And as we ran more together, the rest of life fit together better and so we would run more together. Of course, geography eventually interfered with frequency and our runs would be farther apart. But I valued the runs immensely.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Maria is competitive and likes to push herself. She had not entered many races, but the thought of</span></p></div></div><img alt="page58image99387424" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/19a5039c-dd6c-44e8-b77b-f8b84792a1e6" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">56</span></p></div></div><img alt="page58image99387216" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/3b6b2f52-b69c-402d-b5d6-8f7111867b83" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 59"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">running hard interested her. I don’t enter many races either and most of my runs are at the same pace in the same place; not exactly great training for a PR. Maria and I had different abilities but easily found a common pace for running. Given the choice of running in a race or running with Maria, I would choose the latter every time. (Good thing that I put them in this order!)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">So it came as a bit of a surprise that Maria suggested that we run the local Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. It seems that many running shops sponsor a race for those of us planning to gorge on a heavy afternoon meal because the turnout is so good. We all want to get in a workout so that we will feel less guilty. Since many people are visiting friends or family, people at the race are locals as well as from other cities and states. There may be really good runners or just a lot of people on an outing. In any case, if that was what Maria wanted to do, I was up for it. I didn’t expect my time to be great, but I was running enough that it would be respectable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">We got up early Thursday morning, dressed and slipped out the door. There was already a crowd at the store, but registration was painless enough. We took our tacky T-shirt (another required part of a Turkey Trot?) and brochures back to the car. We relaced our shoes with the timing chip attached with a strong plastic strap. I applied some Glide Stick. We were ready and headed off to walk around the small parking lot and hear other people’s conversations. I bumped into a woman I had met recently who was training for the New York Marathon and who, I had seen online, had run a fast 10K recently. I introduced her to Maria and we talked about the race and the turnout. This race measured 8K. Suddenly, I had a</span></p></div></div><img alt="page59image98903600" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/1553d803-473e-4fb7-bf18-5407826138f9" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">57</span></p></div></div><img alt="page59image98903808" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/0b90f312-0674-45d0-89b2-36da5c18c60d" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 60"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">goal and that was to finish ahead of her. This was not aimed at her, but was representative of my respect for her ability and the accomplishment that it would represent. I am not sure Maria had the same challenge.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">It’s about 3 minutes until start time and we have all gathered on the side street where the race will begin. I am doing some stretches and getting ready for a fast but controlled start when Maria asks me what pace we should run. “What?” I ask. She wants to know if we should start slow and then pick up the pace with a negative split, try to maintain a steady pace, or just go for it. But all I can hear is the “we.” “We?” Without missing a beat, I asked if we were running the “race” together. “Yeah, don’t you want to?” Well, of course I wanted to run with her. My original plan had been to run with her on Thanksgiving morning, though on a trail and not in a public place where they would record my time, put it on a wall for all to read, and then put it on the internet for anyone with a computer anywhere in the world to find.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">From the beginning, I have recognized the possibility of stalking people on the internet, particularly as it relates to running. Type in their name and oftentimes up come the results. There is nothing there but the distance and the time. There are no asterisks* that describe the rolling course, or that you dehydrated, or that you ran with another person at their pace. And what that “we” meant was that my current 3 or 4 results online would be joined by today’s result: one that was certain to be good for some but much worse than what I wanted out there in the information world for me. I wanted people to think that I was a serious runner, so my desired internet time should be</span></p></div></div><img alt="page60image98807168" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/f27b89ed-8fe9-46ff-b6fd-c1cbb38a83c5" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">58</span></p></div></div><img alt="page60image98807376" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c735470f-741a-4ebb-9932-67c034ed4663" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 61"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">about 4 minutes faster than my best possible time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Meanwhile, I estimated that “our” time would be about 5 minutes slower than my normal time, resulting in an almost one-minute-per-mile pace difference for all the world to see, for all time. Since Maria was looking at a real time rather than a fictitious time, had athletic pursuits other than running than dominated her efforts, and since she in fact would be running at her pace, none of this affected her. She also assumed that I had understood that we were running the race together and thought that I could help her keep a strong pace. I knew all of this immediately just as I knew that I valued running with her more than running alone in the race.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I answered that we should start a little slow, keep a steady pace and try to finish strong if we could. I immediately followed this by saying “I’ll be right back” as I got out of the start area. I wanted to remove my chip. But I couldn’t break the strap and if I did break it, what would I do with it? It might still register if I put it in a pocket or held it in my hand. I couldn’t throw it away since it had a $25 lost fee. So I sprinted against traffic through the final stragglers to the start back to the registration area. I found some scissors and snipped the strap. I then handed it to a volunteer and told them that I had decided not to wear it and that I wanted to turn it in. It seems that they for some unknown reason lacked a system for the return of chips prior to the race, Finally, they write down my number – I kept that – and accept the chip. I run back to the crowd through the spectators at full speed as they are giving the 15-second warning. Standing beside Maria, she looks at me and asks, “where’d you go?” There was no right answer to this question and I knew that the truth would come</span></p></div></div><img alt="page61image165191808" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ddfa78b8-9061-4251-b333-eef55f463dd5" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">59</span></p></div></div><img alt="page61image165192016" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/deb89bd4-5712-4008-a26a-562666cc6289" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 62"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">out quickly after the race, so I fessed up. “I took off my chip.” Wow. If looks could kill... she understood the implication immediately. Fortunately she found it funny rather than insulting. But the horn drowned out her laughs and we were underway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Fast starts are the norm for most races and even more so for shorter distances. Each of us has our own flow of adrenaline going, and collectively, we help each other generate even more. Most of us don’t really have a good feel for our pace and only know our speed after we see the clock. We look around and others seem to be running normally and are not sprinting. They look like lesser athletes than we feel and so we should be faster than them and therefore, the fact that we are not zooming past them and others, provides incontrovertible evidence that we are proceeding at a cautionary pace. In fact, we are running beside someone who in the prerace chatter had bluntly stated that his pace would be less than what we know we can run. We should be congratulated for our discipline and self-control. And so it is, race after race, until we reach the clock or timer at the first mile and learn our real time and realize the debt that we have incurred and will need to repay later in the last mile.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Given all this, I am certain that Maria did not need the incremental mental motivation that my slight provided. But there it was anyway. But she reacted like a pro and ran a measured, controlled and steady pace as others dodged around us or sped even further ahead. Among those was the woman I had seen at the start. Oh well, she would beat me today. And then, as so often happens, we are passing the Mile 1 marker even though we just started. This was a small race, but there was a trifold sign and a skilled volunteer calling out</span></p></div></div><img alt="page62image98849456" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/915cba1f-af84-4372-b1f8-5de3d7faf22f" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">60</span></p></div></div><img alt="page62image98849664" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/039eb793-4e99-4f9b-8ada-d6e0be5a8dd9" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 63"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">the times. Neither of us wore a watch so this was our first idea of time: 7:54, 7:55. We crossed in sub-eight. That seemed a little fast for Maria, but I didn’t have a good gauge on her current ability, even though I knew that she had not been running so much lately. Still, on this course and on this crisp autumn day, she looked strong and under control. It was enjoyable. Normally, in a short distance race, I don’t carry on too much conversation. But today, we talked about running and alternately praised or mocked other runners on the course. Generally, I failed to appreciate the turkey, Pilgrim or other theme outfits while Maria thought that they were funny.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Mile 2 took us from a small road to residential neighborhood streets and rolling hills. It is a nonscientific fact that it takes more energy to run up a hill than you gain on the downhill. Furthermore, at mile 2, it is illogically imperative to maintain your pace on the uphills while trying to take advantage of the gravitational pull when heading down. As a summary for those not gifted in Physics, this means that they really tire you out. And so it was that we kept the faith and the pace on Mile 2.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">8K is almost exactly 5 miles and so mentally we are running 5 miles and our course markings are all at the mile markers. Mile 3 continued to roll past houses where families had begun to wake up and cousins play together for the first time in a year. The course was not technically an out and back, but it was pretty close and so we looped around a small orange cone indicating the approximate half-way mark and ran back up and down those same rolling hills. It is discouraging to struggle on part of the course and then have to run it again. This simple truth was evidenced</span></p></div></div><img alt="page63image165268320" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/55a45491-94da-4faf-a30e-672d414fe1ea" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">61</span></p></div></div><img alt="page63image165268528" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/921a3782-ca79-45fe-b561-1d3fc6f72283" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 64"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">in the grimaces on the faces of those we saw both before and after the turnaround. Maria seemed okay and even more than held up her side of the conversation. I was in shape and cocky. This was just an easy run for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">As mile 4 started we passed the NY Marathon woman and I wondered if she had started out too fast and now was suffering. I later learned that this was in fact the reason, though it applied to a (male) friend that she was running with and not her; and she had not ditched her chip. Her finish time was 28 seconds slower than ours. I know this because I googled it!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Maria’s pace was a bit slower, but she fought through the burn in her legs. Her new issue now was the need for a bathroom break. Like most small local races, there are no bathrooms on the course and so the only real options are to go in someone’s yard with lots of people watching, stop and walk, or suffer through the finish. (Wetting your pants is only an option in the Ironman IMHO). So Maria did what she does and put her head down and headed to the finish as fast as she could. But late in a race and with pressure on your bladder, it is hard to shake the acid from your hill- weary legs and run faster. Then 2 blocks from the finish line, she spies a Port-o-John at a house under construction. Being female, she normally could hold it forever and would never enter one of these. However, today she makes a beeline for it. I stand there and watch some runners pass by. I am thinking that I am glad that I no longer have a chip and that this lost time will have no asterisk to explain it later on the results on the </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;">World Wide </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Web. The plastic door is open and Maria is back and sprinting. She doesn’t slow down</span></p></div></div><img alt="page64image165664240" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/1270d952-305d-4e9b-9d7c-36803e886827" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">62</span></p></div></div><img alt="page64image165664448" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/75383e88-ce35-4644-a064-fb7f4dad390b" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 65"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>I am so vain</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">until she crosses the finish line, reeling in about 10-15 of those that just passed her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">We stayed around to check out the results. We were solidly in the middle of the pack and it had been a fun and challenging run for all. There was a bit more collegiality than normal and the crowd dispersed slowly. Maria finished 6 of 18 in her age group. Not bad for a part-time runner that took a bathroom break. I complimented her on her time and finish and did a check just to make sure that my name had not been recorded. Safe. Then of course, I looked at my age group to see how I would have finished. If I had run a really fast race, I would have been seventh: no prize, no recognition, and no comments from anyone else. I enjoyed the run with Maria and would make the same choice instantly again. She still gives me a hard time about removing my chip and others that I tell about this just sort of stare at me and don’t get my reasoning. The only explanation is that like Carly Simon sings: I am so vain.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Oh, Robbie Crusoe? First I need to tell you a bit about Quenton Cassidy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 9pt;">* No explanation provided</span></p></div></div></div>
</div><b></b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-8931166387267552732023-08-08T13:37:00.000-04:002023-08-09T16:59:07.810-04:00New York Marathon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuNqW-rasd5UcrHR7MFvHz8DDgb_XtKjNZ0hFLhNSgFNVHNdUi1f02OmnnSMD1LOLYqCmPF1GvX0MK7hAk7AzeHUz0PIAflQ8btBp7wglALORlFhch5sw552HHKObxrmDYKqRGT3MaVY/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuNqW-rasd5UcrHR7MFvHz8DDgb_XtKjNZ0hFLhNSgFNVHNdUi1f02OmnnSMD1LOLYqCmPF1GvX0MK7hAk7AzeHUz0PIAflQ8btBp7wglALORlFhch5sw552HHKObxrmDYKqRGT3MaVY/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><b> </b><span id="save-message-inner"> </span> </div> Chapter 4: <i><b>New York Marathon<br />
</b></i><br />
<style>
@font-face {
font-family: "Garamond";
}@font-face {
font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";
}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin-right: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoHeader, li.MsoHeader, div.MsoHeader { margin-right: 0in; margin-left: 0in; border: medium none; padding: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; }span.HeaderChar { font-family: Garamond; font-weight: bold; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }div.Section2 { page: Section2; }
</style> <br />
<div class="Section1"><div><table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0"><tbody>
<tr> <td style="padding: 0in;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal" style="break-after: avoid; break-before: page; line-height: 37.1pt; page-break-after: avoid; page-break-before: always; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-size: 50pt;">“N</span></i></div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>ew York is a great place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.” People had been saying this forever, but it seems exactly wrong to me. I had lived in Manhattan 3 separate times for a total of just over three years and I found it a truly great place to live. It had the energy to match what it asked of you. The world flowed around it and it seemed the CPU of the surge in information; everything from everywhere linked into NYC. The Big Apple, I<span style="font-family: 'Zapf Dingbats';">ª</span>NY, even the karaoke standard of “</i><i>New York, New York</i><i>” supported this. Well, it is an arguable point, but when I drove the moving truck across the George Washington Bridge 10 years ago, I would never have imagined that it would be a decade before I stepped back into the city and I would haven laid even lower odds that it would be a marathon that served as a pretext for the visit.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>In the ensuing years I travelled quite a bit, but NY was never on the list, and knowing it so well, I felt that those scarce vacation days and funds should be allocated elsewhere. But as I became a runner and considered the adventure side of the equation, New York represented the apex of the known world. I had never seen one of the marathons when living there, but later I began to hear about groups of people making the New York Marathon a destination vacation. A group of over 25 people from Venezuela journeyed to NYC to run and later, as one of them recounted the fun, I admit thinking that it sounded cool and fascinating, even if it had no possible part in my future. It just had that big city buzz about it and the media reported it. Having walked all over Manhattan, the idea of covering all 5 boroughs struck me as strange and perhaps even reckless.</i> <i> I had never visited Boston and didn’t know much about the marathon there, but I knew New York to be great and everything that I heard about the marathon made it sound like the ultimate sports event. I harbored no illusions of winning or even placing in the double digits in my age group; I knew that this would be a participation event. Then, and my recollection of the sequence of the events is forgotten, my brother-in-law who lived across the continent from us on the East Coast, said that he planned to run New York. Great, we will see you there. Eva heard about two words and she was on board for the trip. “New York? Yes I want to go? Marathon? I think that we can work that in. I’ve got some ideas of things that we can do and places to eat and there definitely are people to see….” And so I completed the application 6 months in advance and waited to hear if I would be lucky enough to be chosen to spend a small fortune to run an inhuman distance from the extremes of the city to end at the tourist mecca of Tavern on the Green. And I was that lucky.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Everyone has their own way of preparing for a marathon even if they don’t. This predated Galloway, there were no forums, the running boom was beginning but the marathon surge would still need to wait a few years. Shoe fittings were judged by pressing a finger down to see how close your big toe came to the end of the shoe. Information about the race was practically nonexistent. We had no elevation charts, though New York must be flat, right? There were a few plans on how to train for a marathon, but they were generally directed towards elite runners and included 6-minute repeats. For the rest of us, there were two basic pieces of information: (1) you need to run at least 20 miles once in your training and then plan to add another 6.2 in the race, and (2) you may “bonk” or “hit the wall”. Bonking meant running out of energy and was fairly easy to understand. We had Power Bars for that, though no one would actually consider taking these along for a long distance run. “Hitting the wall” was a term of mystery and represented an invisible but real barrier somewhere around twenty miles where suddenly the body could go no further. It was not known why this happened, but it was clear that it was undesirable and had detrimental effects on the outcome of your race. Best to avoid these.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>My first marathon had gone well, being a reasonable time, the only negative split I would ever have and a quick recovery afterwards. I assumed this one would be more of the same, though I felt only slightly more knowledgeable about the distance. I continued running with no other real purpose than enjoying the daily activity. My neighbors started commenting about seeing me out, I had a great California tan and I could wear running clothes to the grocery store at any hour. I found a trail that allowed for a long loop with spurs that permitted runs of any distance, provided water breaks, avoided traffic and put me among the other real athletes in town.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I took pride in the changes that were occurring to my body: my big toenails began to look weird, crack and grow unevenly. I had a tan that showed exactly the fit of my singlet and stopped just above my ankles where my feet were white with or without my socks on. I even developed a blue foot disease (coloring only) as a result of sweaty feet causing my Thorlo socks to lose their dye onto my feet. I could head to the community pool secure in the knowledge that there were concrete signs of my running, or at least enough weird cues so that I could start a conversation about running.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Almost all of my runs were alone, but running shared time with triathlon. I had launched into multiple activities simultaneously and they shared my efforts. With all the cross-training activities and no real running program, my weekly totals fluctuated but generally stayed in the low thirties with the occasional notable forty-mile week. I didn’t run in races as I considered my running to be personal and noncompetitive. This seemed a logical fit with a huge marathon, but not the case with a local 5k. I didn’t judge others; I just didn’t do short races then. I prepared for the race by running and I felt neither fear of the distance nor nervousness about the upcoming trip.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>It was great to be back in New York. The convention was held at the New York Hilton and it exuded that big city feel. I heard athletes speaking French, German, Japanese, Spanish and a dozen other languages that I couldn’t decipher. People were walking around in running clothes, “jogging suits”, tracksuits and at least in midtown of this metropolis, there was a feeling of a marathon. The athletes were excited and you could constantly overhear conversations about running even if you might not understand the language.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Inside the convention area was the greatest ever congregation of runners, running paraphernalia and energy. This was the center of the emerging movement and every company that had any relation to the industry was here. Every high-tech food or piece of footwear was available for a real-life test. There was no concern about being on your feet because that’s what walking around in New York meant. We spent hours visiting the booths. It was impossible to know which of these items would help in the marathon, but I was not so green as to consider introducing something into the race with which I had not trained. These were toys for future runs.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>One thing that never changes in New York is the high cost of being there. Fortunately, we had wrangled an invitation from some friends to stay over with them at their apartment and had plans with them for dinner the night before the race. We really wanted to see them and this was really the only time to do it, so no pre-race pasta dinner at the hotel tonight - not that I would have gone anyway. But that differs from hanging out with old party friends in some significant ways. They were animated and it was fun. They led us to a Greek restaurant near the UN and we ate heavy food, drank wine and ignored the hour – a perfect way to see them again. Our friend Miguel had previously run the marathon and shared a few tips – one might have been to get some sleep the night before the race. He made plans with Eva for breakfast followed by cheering.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Back at their two-bedroom apartment, an incredibly large one by New York standards, we headed off to bed. We got their young son’s room with lovely Disney sheets and bunk beds – at least I would lose no sleep from sharing a bed! I got the top bunk and put my head down next to Daffy Duck’s and eventually drifted away. I didn’t visualize the start the following day or a strong stride over the finish line, but I did have fairies dancing in my head and singing.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The morning of a marathon is special. Even if you are totally prepared, you do it so infrequently that it is out of the ordinary. I heard the alarm and reacted instantly to not wake everyone else up. Being a resident of the West Coast, the three-hour time difference and the ridiculously early hour combined to seem like a middle-of-the-night game. I could just as easily have been going to bed. I say that but actually it would have been easier to climb up the ladder than to make a startled dash down in the darkness to the floor. I didn’t step on any toys or miss any steps, so I had no new excuse not to run. Could it really be time to go? I slipped on my running clothes and planned to find out.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Outside it could have been any time: the sky was bright as it always is in New York. The stars sleep elsewhere because the city never sleeps. I was close by and only had to cover about 5 streets and three avenues to catch my 5:45 AM bus in front of the Public Library at Fifth & 42<sup>nd</sup>. There was a long line of buses and some were already leaving. People seemed to be arriving from every direction. I spotted my bus and no sooner was I on it than off it went. As I searched for seats, I spotted a former work colleague now based in Puerto Rico and exchanged pleasantries. It’s a small world after all.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Fort Wadsworth is the staging area waiting for us at Staten Island and was in full-scale mobilization. Organizers now warn everyone that they may spend several hours under or near one of the tents and that the weather may be cold. The average low for the start later in the day is 47 degrees, a very comfortable running temperature. I have located Paul and apparently, he didn’t get that memo either. Not only am I underdressed for the temperature, the wind is whipping through and there are on and off again snow flurries. Paul seems to be braving it better than me. I have spent most of the past 15 years in the idyllic tropical climate in Caracas or in sunny Southern California. I doubt that it has made my blood any thinner but I am in shock. We board multiple buses sitting there looking for a seat, but most turn out to be private and full of people that were smarter sooner than us. Later I will attempt to reach a partial solution by spending way longer in the port-a-potties than normal – and then getting back in line to do it again. They smelled, but they broke the wind. (</i><i>humor</i><i>) The tents had no sides and were jammed with people. The body warmth alone would have been helpful had we brought something to sit on that would provide a moisture barrier. But without that, we had to stand in the cold for about 3 hours.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Meanwhile, bagels were being offered. Where I lived in California had few venues for a good bagel and I had missed H&H. Still, I drank water and avoided eating. My digestive tract has an issue, if you know what I mean, with eating before a run. If I had been better prepared and on top of things, I would have eaten early and perhaps have had ample time to digest them. Certainly my body could use the fuel for a furnace for the run and to stay warm. Amazingly, other people could put away three or four, a couple of yogurts, bananas and even a few hot dogs (my exaggeration). I would have assumed that they would pay a price, but I know too many people that do this routinely with only positive effects. So I said no to a bagel, easily justifying my self-denial with comments on cold hard bagels not being appetizing. Little did I know that they would catch on and soon cold, hard bagels would become a staple of almost all post-race goody tables. I still don’t pick one up today.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i> Almost always I find that the time between arriving at a race and starting is just about right. I say hello to a few people, adjust my gear, stretch a bit and then visit the toilet as close to race time as possible. I then get to the race line and as I am getting positioned, the race starts. Today was different. I was ready for the race to start. Running would mean some warmth and I would maybe even use less energy running than shivering. So as soon as a movement to the start area began, I was on the move. Plus I needed to figure out exactly where to go.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The New York Marathon has long been an overwhelming number of people and they began a corral system and a color-coded system early. The colors indicated which holding area on which road you started. There are three different start lines that all come together after the first mile. They are theoretically measured so as to not give any one an advantage while lessening the initial bottleneck. Well I am sure that it lessens it, but 40,000 people – bigger than my hometown – just take a while to spread out. Within each color, there are corrals based on your estimated finish time. So in theory everyone within your group of more than a thousand should finish within a minute of you. Get to know them well. The corral fills quickly and I see the different levels of experience, modesty and wealth. My corral is all men and a large number, I see at least twenty, are urinating into bottles which are passed to the side or tossed in that direction. A full quarter of the people seem to have on a black garbage bag as a wind protector. Others are shedding shirts, sweater, gloves, ski caps and such and most are passed to a collection point on the side. This was my first experience with a collection of this sort for the homeless and it seemed fitting that it occurred in the city that many of us view as the epicenter of the homeless. It is exciting. It is cold. A cheer is rising from the crowd. Pushing and crunching, they herd us together and we move closer to the start line. I am lucky (I think) to have a number around 10,000, which puts me about halfway towards the front.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Mumble jumble, some noise and talking, a quick stretch and bang. Was that the start? Today’s marathons have gotten large and more than a few have starts in waves. New York is now 3 waves with three colors with seven corrals in each. We had one gun. Not a big deal unless you are old enough to remember when runners were all measured by clock time and not by chip time. This time is lost and for most people is too significant an amount to make up. That is why New York was considered back then a marathon to run for fun, for the experience and not for time. It is one of the reasons that the times from there seemed so slow. Maddening, as it seems, we don’t cross the start line until more than 9 minutes have passed. It is warmer from the number of people but not yet from self-generated exhaust fumes.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Now our level of excitement climbs. This is spectacular and surreal. Runners already extend a mile in front of us. They are all around us and ten thousand remain behind us. We are all jackrabbits just released from a cage and anxious to escape. The race starts on Staten Island and we immediately depart on the Verrazano Bridge. It is huge and awe inspiring. I have seen it hundreds of times from the southern tip of Manhattan but never like this. In what has been called a dramatic spectacle, both lane directions, inbound and outbound head out, and have runners with imported smiles advancing. There are runners on both levels. The wind that we felt earlier at the staging area is now whipsawing us as we cross the water. Some runners are discarding their black bags and as they toss them to the side, they come flying at bullet speed back to those of us behind. We duck, we weave, we virtually explode with the gigantic rush of adrenaline recently released in each of our bodies and this transfers to every runner as we feed off our energy and that of those around us. And it keeps coming; the bridge is not a narrow transom crossing an aqueduct like in Southern California. We reach mile one at 16:22 and there are still hundreds of yards of bridge remaining. Sixteen twenty-two for the first mile? I do some quick math and, oh, a 6:58 mile in a crowd, for mile one. Too fast. What would I have run without my posse? That’s okay, I need to make up some time and it was just one mile.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Since 1976, the New York Marathon is a point-to-point race and covers all 5 boroughs. We had started on Staten Island, crossed the Verrazano Bridge into Brooklyn, former home of the Los Angeles Dodgers. They had left in the middle of the night, but we arrive in plain daylight and preannounced. There had been no fans to yell us on as we crossed the bridge, but now faces of spectators appear at what is considered a world-class sporting event. We are running through New York, but it is obvious that the city is not a single place but an agglomeration of smaller neighborhoods. Almost every ethnic group not only shows up in support, but also mans an aid station and has pride in their community. It is always interesting when the viewers are the viewed and we stare out as much as receive. I high five a little boy. The spectators cheer but there is little interaction that requires effort on our part.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>We wind through Brooklyn. Other than the climb of the initial bridge crossing, the course has had little serious elevation change. The weather has warmed up but my legs are still cold. I had debated wearing long pants, but worried about overheating or chafing. I am reconsidering that decision, but there is no changing it now. The course is almost straight and so the spectators and aid stations and mile markers come to us as we proceed unobstructed. Somewhere after mile 9, the road begins to have frequent turns and I am calculating angles to minimize the distance. When the official measurement of the race course occurs, all possible angles are considered and the shortest are measured. I don’t want to run too little, but I also don’t benefit from an extended course – and my math skill might substitute some for my running ability. We run just over eleven miles in Brooklyn and we reach the halfway mark. Everyone checks out the time and predicts their finish time. We reach different conclusions on how to count the start time, whether we will run a negative split and shave time off or whether we should add time at the end. But one thing is certain for those running near me, our calculation is about where we will finish and not about anyone else. It isn’t a race against these people around me. They are running with me. We might race in the last few minutes, but they are my best friends now. This calculation is about my race and my final time.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The marathon finish time is a single number. By convention, everyone drops the seconds and rounds down to the nearest whole number. Even then most people don’t have a real appreciation for what a race time means. Many people judge others by the hour. If you break four hours, you are fast. Less than four thirty, well that is almost like four hours. Or how fast is that per mile? A three thirty marathon means about an eight-minute pace. This respectable marathon time translates into what many perceive as slow. They can run (or could years ago) an eight-minute mile. Never mind that you have to string together 26 of them consecutively while taking water breaks and fighting through a crowd. They are unable to appreciate that a 13-minute time difference translates into a thirty- second change in pace. That is a huge change of pace for a seemingly insignificant incremental finish time. But as we calculate our anticipated finish times, we add and subtract and average. We can take joy that an 8:30 pace until now will average with a 9:30 second-half pace for a nine-minute pace and that even the 9:30 will be an average of the next section and that slower last quarter. We watch the times for each mile, but in the end they will only be conversational material as we discuss how we might have done better if we had run mile one more slowly or not faded so badly on mile 23. I make my calculation and I am not unhappy, given the slow start.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Just after this, without even gaining any elevation, we cross a bridge into Queens. I don’t know Queens very well. It has always been a place farther along the subway route where less-fortunate workers and families continued after I stepped off the subway, or how we got to the airports. We run two-and-a-half miles there and I run calmly without any hurry to leave, but without truly getting a feel for the neighborhoods. Maybe I should come back another time.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>And so I leave by taking the Queensboro Bridge, better known to me as the 59<sup>th</sup> Street Bridge across the East River. The elevation gain measures less than the opening salvo, but it makes my legs feel a bit heavier. This is the point of the race where a couple hours have passed and the body is starting to really draw upon your energy reserves, the muscles have sustained some injury and the mental edge has dulled a bit. It is a bit boring as we head up to the bridge and then we runners are alone on the bridge with only our own thoughts and motivations. For some reason, I find it interesting that portions of the metal grating are covered with carpet. The carpet is obviously for the runners and I am uncertain as to the scientific benefit: does it reduce pounding as well as providing a less slippery surface? Does it keep some runners from freaking out that they may slip through a small hole? Not wanting to test the reasons, I stay mainly on the carpet even though I step out a few times to pass another runner already feeling the effects of gravity with ten miles to go.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Yes, mile 16 brings us into Manhattan. It is what most out-of-towners consider New York and what New Yorkers call the city. I am familiar with this area because we lived 2 separate times for a total of ten months almost in the shadow of the bridge. I am excited to run up First Avenue and so I rush around the almost circular exit ramp which takes us on a ninety-degree right turn by going left and circling back under the bridge and in front of the Roosevelt Island Tram (think Jaws from James Bond) as you head up First Avenue. I have a good pace going, but I am under control.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>What I see as I come out of the underpass was perhaps the greatest scene possible for a person that runs and loves New York. First Avenue was mobbed. You could see about 3 miles straight uptown and it was a sea of runners outlined on both sides by shrieking, normally reserved, New Yorkers eight people deep on the sidewalks on both sides. I think that there was music, though there was no space for a band. Runners are cheering back as they leave the tunnel, leaving an eerie echo for the runners entering. It was impossible not to suddenly be supercharged and we all ran at our strongest, our best and our fastest. I had agreed to look for Eva at the right hand side uptown corner of First and 62<sup>nd</sup> Street and I knew it would be hopeless for us to see each other in this crowd of spectators, with the volume of runners streaming by, and the ridiculous speed that we were running now. This was a mental deflator and I was pushing it out of my mind when I see her waving and screaming my name. I wave and I am past her, headed uptown.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I hold that pace for 4 miles as I go up First past the places that other friends had lived or that we saw when taking a taxi to the Triborough Bridge. We cross a bridge into the Bronx and I feel the elevation gain, although it is minimal. It isn’t affecting me aerobically; it is causing fluttering in my hamstrings. That’s weird. I’ve never had that before. It seems that every block we make a turn and the course is contrived. This is the South Bronx – the supposedly worst section around, and rumor has it that for safety reasons, they minimize time there. Having seen the map since then, it could be the reason, it could be geography, or it could be the corporate sponsors. In any case, a mile later we are going across another bridge and my hamstrings flutter again. This time they don’t stop completely but I keep on. Just before mile 23 we come off Fifth Avenue and we enter Central Park. Immediately we start climbing the only significant natural hill so far. Even though this is an elevation gain of only 80 feet, my quads flinch and then my hamstrings. I decide to forfeit some time, even though now we are nearing the finish and time has value, and I stop and do cross-legged toe touches, stretching first my right hamstring and then my left. That feels better and I am back in the race. That was a short stop, but I still estimate that fifty to a hundred runners have passed me during that time. But I am reeling in a few of them, plus people that are obviously suffering worse than me from bonking or hitting the wall, and from many that have cramped worse than me. The cold weather during the morning wait is collecting its toll. Two more miles.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Mile 25 is rolling as if to taunt my muscles and I vary my speed, I lean forward, I stretch again and I decide how best to hang on. A full-blown leg muscle cramp is painful. That is a fact that I experienced sharply and despite its warnings, unexpectedly. The immediate treatment is well known: stretch the muscle. First things first: finding some place to safely attempt this. The road is full of runners that lack the lateral motion or agility to avoid a suddenly-stopped runner. And the sides of the road are filled with fans that seek to see their runner one more time as the finish line approaches. But I make it to the side and go back into the cross-legged toe touch position and lean down. We now all know that the hipbone is connected to the thighbone, but I learned about the interconnection of muscles that day. As I stretch my right hamstring, the cramp shifts to my right quad. I almost fall onto the street, but I grab my foot & pull it up behind me. And the cramp leaves my right leg and transfers to my left hamstring. I shift and play this game. I see the feet of way too many runners going by, and even realizing that each runner had two feet, I still know that I am dropping by hundreds in the final results. Yet, I have to stop the cramp to resume running and after a couple of minutes, it subsides and I jump back in.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Whenever you are almost out of gas, in running or in a car, you have to decide whether it is better to speed up and get there or slow down and get there. I started slow to test out the legs. Paranoia can be a virtue but I was rewarded by a flattening of the road, so I chose the speedy route. We passed by The Plaza onto Central Park South with less than a mile to go and I could steal energy from the crowd. I’ve walked that section many times, but it seemed much farther this afternoon – it was after 1 pm already. I made it to Columbus Circle and turned back into the park expecting to finish. But that extra portion added to reach the Queen’s stand always seems like more than .2 miles. I hung in there and passed 10-15 people for a moral victory that the final rankings would have but never reveal. I accepted my participant’s medal and felt relatively good about my finish time. I rationalized away some time due to the delayed start time and blamed the cramps on the cold. Even with those things, I was only 6 minutes slower than last time. In reality, that meant that I was faster. Or so I decided.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>The cramps were gone but so was my core body heat. I was cold and my only clothes were back at the room. It was several more blocks before spectators and runners could meet up. Eva found me and shared clothing and together we found Laura (the sexy singing sister-in-law). She had seen Paul a few times on the course and had great stories, and together we went to find Paul and to relive the race over a deli sandwich.</i></div></div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;"><br clear="ALL" style="break-before: page; page-break-before: always;" /> </span> <br />
<i><b> </b></i><br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>To read more, </b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<i><b> </b></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-80799078507265024272023-08-08T13:35:00.000-04:002023-08-09T16:49:38.947-04:00Sunday morning in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuNqW-rasd5UcrHR7MFvHz8DDgb_XtKjNZ0hFLhNSgFNVHNdUi1f02OmnnSMD1LOLYqCmPF1GvX0MK7hAk7AzeHUz0PIAflQ8btBp7wglALORlFhch5sw552HHKObxrmDYKqRGT3MaVY/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuNqW-rasd5UcrHR7MFvHz8DDgb_XtKjNZ0hFLhNSgFNVHNdUi1f02OmnnSMD1LOLYqCmPF1GvX0MK7hAk7AzeHUz0PIAflQ8btBp7wglALORlFhch5sw552HHKObxrmDYKqRGT3MaVY/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 33"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Sunday morning in Paris is supposed to be the time to have a croissant and </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">café au lait </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">at a small café and talk about world events or what you had for</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">dinner last night. Alas the ban on smoking has increased the appeal of this to runners at the same time that it has driven the Parisians away. But Sunday morning is also a great time for running in Paris. Most businesses are closed, restaurants have yet to open if they will at all, students are sleeping, few people go to church, and traffic is relatively light. Especially if you choose to run on the highway along the Seine. It is closed to auto traffic and open to bikers and daring runners.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I hopped out of bed about 9 AM (hey that’s pretty good given the time difference) and dressed in some running tights and a long-sleeve running shirt and stepped through the passageway and exited the building. The temperature was in the upper forties and a slight drizzle was falling. I felt immediately conspicuous given my clothing. Paris is full of skinny attractive people but the proportion that work out is not that great and those that walk around in athletic attire is even less. Today, I saw no one but me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">This was my first run on this highway and none of my French acquaintances had ever heard of this and even thought it to be a strange concept. However, the internet had told me about this run and I needed a good run to ease the bloated feeling of eating so much – quantity and frequency.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I knew how to get to the highway. It runs just beside the river and so from my apartment, I headed to Notre Dame on Sunday morning in my Shakespeare tights. The trick is finding access to the highway since</span></p></div></div><img alt="page33image98501856" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c965fb5e-469d-49a3-9b49-5b9b28b09187" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">31</span></p></div></div><img alt="page33image98502064" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/bc6140ae-70af-47cb-8fb7-a72dfbc5bdb5" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 34"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">there are entrances only every mile or so. After getting a few stares and taking the photo of some tourists, I found an entrance and broke into a run. I started a little fast as I ran down the ramp but I knew it would take time to find a rhythm after so much walking on concrete.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Running for me is often about zoning out and sometimes I barely remember covering portions of my regular loop. For this reason, and security – from crazy drivers – my running while travelling is different. While many people think that you need to see everything, I much prefer the comfort of the run feeling good. I trust my running instincts to watch for cars, traffic lights, uneven pavement or ground, dogs and other potential problems. When I look around, I am conscious of what is going on. I think about it actively and I also think about the physical parts of the run. Breathing, stride length, minor changes in elevation – things that make the run mentally harder. This is not desirable, but in a strange city, there is no choice.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The upside of the conscious run is that there are lots of intentionally and unintentionally funny things out there. It is a great way to learn about a large portion of the city quickly and later amaze locals and fellow travelers alike with your knowledge of the streets and certain out-of-the way places. Why yes, I have seen the new museum, or that statue or the crepe stand at the park or the weird outdoor art in the park. In my mind, a run is the only way to discover and visit </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Les Tuileries</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">, the spectacular gardens in Paris in between the Louvre museum and the Champs Elysees. They are just too big to visit other than to get exercise if you are a tourist already spending 4 or 5 hours per day walking. It</span></p></div></div><img alt="page34image98455616" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/17b9abc8-ec10-4d71-9745-0b1c92899667" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">32</span></p></div></div><img alt="page34image98455824" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/f8d37c67-632a-46f8-949c-dbddabc22fd8" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 35"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">provides a great track with little traffic for the runner.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Today, though, I am trying to figure out what my course is. It seems that the major section of the closed highway headed away from the center of town. I of course want to go towards the center of everything. I have estimated that a 9-mile run will take me to the base of the Eiffel Tower. Since I have run only once this week, I decide that the run is not so long as to wear me out or to make me sore. Years ago, we had gone out separately from Travis for a few hours. After awakening, he saw the Eiffel Tower and decided to walk there before meeting us for lunch at 1PM. The short story is that it looked close to him from several miles away. He walked a while and it looked really close. He walked some more & it looked close. Eventually, he ran out of time and had to walk back in a hurry. But I used Google Maps to approximate the distance and I had a breakfast companion that was very flexible on the hour of the first meal of the day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I run about a mile on an empty highway. There are a few bikers and a few other runners out. Since one would assume that half of the people are moving my direction, I really don’t pass by many people. However I pass enough that I begin to consider what the proper etiquette is. It is easy enough to get by on a crowded city sidewalk with limited French. Most people don’t acknowledge you. They go to lengths to not interact and to be polite in that strange metropolitan way with only the occasional </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">pardon </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">heard. What do runners do or say? In Central Park, you can consider yourself acknowledged if no one runs into you. On the bike trails of Santa Monica, it is okay to admire hard bodies, but there are too many people to say hello to everyone. On the bike trail on Lakeshore in Chicago, quite a</span></p></div></div><img alt="page35image31746624" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/92666b1c-fea6-44da-85a4-4741211b8b7d" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">33</span></p></div></div><img alt="page35image31746832" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d500b209-9608-4c04-b7f5-7d060af2c3db" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 36"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">few midwesterners exchange greetings. In your own neighborhood, you say hello and wave a lot because you never know who knows whom. In general, I give a lot of quick nods, peace signs (yes that is my standard and automatic wave and predates any recent political association), and “mornings”, “hey, what’s up?”, etc.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">So options in Paris include </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">bonjour</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">, a wave, a nod and ignoring the other person. I try to emulate the other person but it is generally too late to respond once the pass has occurred. It seems that I will be awkward regardless of what I do, so I opt to do what I feel most comfortable with: a slight wag of the finger with a slight nod. I don’t know these people and I want to be a good ambassador, so I seek to minimize the issue and convince myself that I acted appropriately – for a runner. Not a Frenchman or American, but a runner.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The empty highway has disappeared and I am navigating a cobblestone path along the river’s edge while activity on the street picks up. I see entrances to garages, restaurants, shopping arcades that evade the casual tourist. There is the odd jazz musician seeking Euros and taking advantage of the acoustics of the bridges. I see an empty highway now on the other side of the river that has no obvious connection other than one of the busy bridges. I smell urine from the homeless that lets me know that if I really can’t hold it, there is an outlet. I pass by the boats loading for Sunday brunch cruises on the Seine. Families, couples, senior citizens and tourists are boarding. Each has their own reason and the array of clothing shows that. Once again I am aware of my attire as I pass through at the dock.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The rough path ends and I scramble up the</span></p></div></div><img alt="page36image98152016" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/a5f3126a-6e1e-4470-a5ee-a661e26257c0" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">34</span></p></div></div><img alt="page36image98152224" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/61126ba1-6952-4db9-aaba-276c0dc85b2f" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 37"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">steps to the sidewalks that follow the river. Athletes have given way to dog walkers and I begin to watch my step as I remember the Parisian fondness for dogs. I have a rough idea of where I am and consider a </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">detour </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">– it is after all a French word – to pass by the </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Arc de Triomphe</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">. It is of course instantly recognizable as a bad idea. I only vaguely know the way there, to a spot certain to be overrun with traffic and tourists and which seldom would be listed as a running destination. But an event illustrating exactly the opposite is the magnet pulling me there.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I was much younger then and early into calling myself a runner. We had arrived in Paris in the midst of the World Cup games that France was hosting with a lack of respect on our part for the excitement that the home field advantage would cause. Spoiler – France won the finals. We watched the finals in a crowded French restaurant in the Latin Quarter on what at that time passed for a big-screen TV. The owner opened free bottles of champagne, people danced on the tables, and later the celebrations started. Groups of people had wandered the streets for days chanting “We’re going to the finals” and “Go Blue!” and it continued afterwards. Our hotel was on </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Boulevard St Michel </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">which became one of the central points (at least in my head) for what was basically driving around a big block and honking your horn more than any other car. The game finished late and the party went on into the </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Oui </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">hours of the night. And of course that was our last night and we had a noon flight the following morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">So what does this have to do with my run on the highway? I like to run before a long flight. It makes me feel a little less slothful. I will sacrifice sleep in the fruitless belief that I will sleep better on the flight. I</span></p></div></div><img alt="page37image98099328" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/6fb52d0c-af72-4bf4-b1ed-197d560d17d5" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">35</span></p></div></div><img alt="page37image98099536" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/52645e12-982a-4781-999b-b0534e6d238e" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 38"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">arose early that day in order to confuse the Princess of Jetlag, and made it onto the street. I wasn’t super confident in my ability to not get lost so I decided to run on the sidewalks on the Right Bank. I had run a few miles when I realized that I was near (less than a mile) from the </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Arc de Triomphe </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">and that the streets were completely empty. A couple of zigzags later and I stood alone under the Arc with an empty </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Champs Elycee </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">in front of me. Travis had quoted and paraphrased Napoleon here many times: </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">L'Etat, c'est moi</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">! Here so many victories had been celebrated and champions recognized. The </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Tour de France </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">passes by here every year. I felt that enthusiasm and I used some version of a French expression to claim a mythical championship - perhaps running, perhaps general – and to raise my arms as I looked down </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Champs Elycee </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">where there were no challengers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Like Forest Gump, I started to run and I kept raising my arms and running. As I approached </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Place de la Concorde</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">, I saw that workers were already busily assembling a stage for the coronation of the new heroes. None of them realized at the time that I was the champion, as the Queen background music likely played only on the personal IPod in my head.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">And that is what almost caused me to turn away from the task at hand. But today I was a man on a mission. It was the Eiffel Tower or bust. And so I followed the sidewalk as it curved left to follow the river while the </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Arc de Triomphe </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">awaited a different champion. The path was straightforward at this point and the distance between bridges provided for some uninterrupted running.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">My pace picked up as my mind drifted. The</span></p></div></div><img alt="page38image97684736" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/eb4b9786-397b-4394-83be-842d39a0c124" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">36</span></p></div></div><img alt="page38image97684944" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/0b6a62b7-86bf-4b23-9e94-4727ed42250a" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 39"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">cool weather provided perfect running conditions for me, but was mild enough that the rest of the world had decided to join me outside. I found a relatively empty stretch on my side of the river as I came up towards the Eiffel Tower. I felt like a runner here. Others, at least in my mind at that moment, saw me as a runner: a true athlete in the midst of the city. I wasn’t tired but rather warmed up and full of energy. I surveyed the scene to decide when and how to turn around. Should I cross the river and risk traffic? How? Where?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The how and where really had few answers as there were only two bridges. Rather than cross right at the tower at Trocadero, I ran down to the next bridge. This would let me run by the entire area and the full block. After crossing the bridge with a surprising number of pedestrians, I chose to stay close to the river rather than go under the Tower. There were people eating hot dogs, the carousel had young children riding, police were already trying to aid the compromised traffic patterns. I stopped for a moment to cross the street at the command of one traffic cop and turned to take in the scene. I saw smiles and flashes and heard multilingual directions. I thought that I should make myself a part of this strange painting. It would be a small section that most would overlook, but that some professor could review and later explain the relevance of this strangely-dressed Shakespearean among the crowd. A couple asked me to take their photo. Then I offered to do so for another, then a family, then another and just as I could have settled into a new profession as a tourist photographer extraordinaire, the crosswalk signal changed, the shrill whistle of the traffic awakened me, a balloon floated over the river and I was off running again. On this side of the river, my pace</span></p></div></div><img alt="page39image98335984" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/eae04f50-eb90-4657-b95c-24b95e70f2b5" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">37</span></p></div></div><img alt="page39image98336192" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/2cf4545a-5f8e-432d-948e-bcde1a31bf1b" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 40"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Sunday morning in Paris</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">quickened and slowed as I chose my route on sidewalks and around people. I ran by a museum that was just opening; both for the morning and as in only recently in existence. It was the </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Quai Branly </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">museum and it displays collections of objects from African, Asian, Oceanian and American civilizations. I committed the name to memory and later our Parisian friend wondered how I knew such much more about Paris than her. How wrong she was.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Like many runs of this type, distance seemed to be a poor yardstick (sorry, metric system). Time was passing and the uncrowded window of opportunity for running was shutting. I ran a mile on a closed highway on this side of the river before it ended and I could find no sign of a continuation other than sidewalks for the remainder of the run. But it was a run. I had a wet shirt, partially from the rain, but mainly from the sweat of a workout. My hair no longer looked like a cross between European styling and like I had slept on it. I recognized the landmarks indicating that I would soon be back at the start.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I stopped at the </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Boulevard St Michel </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">where the coffee shops with a view of Notre Dame had begun to fill the tables despite the 4 Euro price for a mediocre coffee. I turned towards the crowds already filling the corner at </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">St. Germain</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">. I still remembered that I was dressed strangely. The rain had increased and I didn’t have an umbrella to maintain my current level of wetness. But it felt good, because after the run I felt like a runner and I assumed that others saw me as such: an athlete in their midst. Of course mainly they were seeking to avoid bumping into this man who obviously needed a shower. And then breakfast with Eva.</span></p></div></div></div>
</div><b> </b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-49334815833415517612023-08-08T13:26:00.001-04:002023-08-09T16:40:05.696-04:00That Big Hill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 3"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold";"><b>That big hill</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">That big hill and the heat were always there. From the beach, relaxing in the warm waters on the Atlantic side of St. Kitts, the big hill was always </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">within view. Occasionally you could hear the low roar of a truck or bus climbing its way to the top, but mostly it sat silently. It didn’t look that big from the beach. We walked by it daily, heading to a small beach on the Caribbean side that had some local restaurants and the sunset. It looked like a hill, but nothing insurmountable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Then there was the heat and humidity; around 80 degrees at 7 AM with the sun a fireball in the sky. But it really didn’t get much hotter, and with the cool breeze on the beach, it was a perfect temperature on the sand.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">After a day of staring at this hill and running a small route that provided decent mileage but exempted us from any serious exertion but left us sweating out our toxins, the thought was inevitable: Up for it? It took the form of a question but in reality, it was just a statement or maybe prior notice that my future included a date with this incline. See, in this particular relationship, I am the needy one. I am perhaps physically the stronger runner, but I want the time and the bonding inherent in the runs. I make suggestions and comments, but I am always flexible on time, distance, pace and route. I generally don’t complain if the run changes in the middle: “2 more miles?” or “Let’s stretch”, or “Let’s turn here.” I say okay to a run on my rest day. I run short when I need more mileage for the week and more often than that, I run long when I should go short. But I choose that because these are my favorite runs.</span></p></div></div><img alt="page3image30960816" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/f3ab1fcb-50cc-47d0-b012-5e1477a60073" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">1</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 4"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">So, when told that we should work the hill in, I said yes. I didn’t know if I could make it up without stopping, but I felt pretty sure that we would both give it our best and that it should be a little easier for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Let me describe the hill. In running, there seem to be a lot of ready-made descriptors for hills. Maybe the most common is “mountain goat “ or “goat man” hill. This describes both the steepness of the hill and delves into the psychology of the runner: determined, strong, muscular, unchallenged, and perhaps, unthinking. So in describing the hill, should I talk about it or us. Let’s start with the base of the hill. In a typical Caribbean fashion, the base lies on an open flat area at sea level. You start at zero, so the math would be easy for your GPS, if you had one. This hill was like a large mound of dirt in that it was more or less round, rose up equally on each side and covered all available land from the sea on one side to the ocean on the other.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">A single two-lane road with no shoulders but with a few gravel driveways traversed the shrub- covered landscape. It ran about three-fourths of the climb in a straight line with a twist then to circle around and head back down to sea level on the far side. The total distance to a scenic overlook at the twist was only three-quarters of a mile and made the challenge even greater, because anyone could conquer such a short distance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I write all of this now out of respect for the hill. At the time, I must admit that although we expected a strain, we didn’t expect it to be so much fun. As such, on day one, we had joked about turning and heading up the hill as we ran past the turnoff. “Hey, let’s add on the hill.” “Okay, maybe on the way back.”</span></p></div></div><img alt="page4image31067184" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/29e30607-9592-40d6-a160-b3811be84e30" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">2</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 5"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Run two started the same way, but Maria wanted the challenge. Heck she always wants the challenge. Easy way, no way. Let’s do the hard stuff beyond our capabilities and after we have done that, let’s do something else. So it wasn’t unexpected that as we approached the turnoff she said, “Let’s run up it today.” I may have muttered something other than okay, but while yesterday I had jokingly suggested a summit, it was obvious by her tone and history that this was an order, not a joke. Not that I didn’t laugh!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Running with a partner requires some compromise. Even people that have run years together encounter unfamiliar situations that require adjustments to their natural cadence. What is a good pace? What is speed? “I am dehydrated.” Well, the same applied here. Maria had been running stadiums in the snow during the “Spring” and I had finished a marathon, so we were both in good shape. But the steepness of the hill removed all of the familiarity from our strides. It was difficult to calculate the length of a stride and consequently to have much of an idea about speed or even more importantly, the level of exertion. A heart rate monitor would obviously have helped regulate our effort to keep it level, if it hadn’t exploded. In the absence of that, much like lawyers and doctors, we regulated ourselves. We did this by immediately reaching our maximum heart rate and holding it there.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Basically, we ran like you would. We put our heads down, tucked in our arms and put one foot in front of the other. Speed declined in importance as the incline continued. The mission was to maintain forward motion. And that we did. Soon we were 50 feet up the hill and then, 52, 53... My unfunny jokes that were sometimes acknowledged were simply ignored. I</span></p></div></div><img alt="page5image30570720" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/1cf09dd7-b907-4a33-89cf-052b2fafe180" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">3</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 6"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">became self-aware of my conversation, realizing that only positive statements would fit the current need for motivation and even those might interfere with the inner core’s focus and generation of mental and physical power. We were machines.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Up and up we went, with only one bus and one truck to avoid, along with a few locals headed down the hill to their morning jobs. What had been beads of sweat glistening on our faces became fountains feeding future salt ponds. The temperature hadn’t changed as much as the amount of fuel being consumed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I find that in many challenging runs, I segment my effort. This is often a recommended strategy designed by the professionals, but for me it is subconscious and unintended. I try to lie to myself about my plans, but somehow I always know the truth. And so it was here. We stared 10 feet ahead thinking that if we could make it that far we might stop. I probably would have, but Maria kept pushing on. I mentioned compromise: I would have had a faster pace than Maria on this run. I might never have made it very far, but I would not have not gotten there faster. Maria kept pushing forward and I held myself with her. Does it take more energy to run another person’s pace? Am I forcing her pace? How far can I go? How far will she go? She has already exceeded the reasonable. But she is not reasonable. Could she have any genetic material for a “goat woman?” How do you get a DNA test done on the island? Who paved this road? What kind of flower is that? Check out the view of the ocean. How far have we been? How much FARTHER?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Finally, the perceived lack of oxygen from the altitude (we were now hundreds of feet above sea level</span></p></div></div><img alt="page6image30947968" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/d69d3596-5f1b-4da4-b01a-fd1af74b9fb0" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">4</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 7"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">– obvious at a single glance), the heat and humidity, and the hill, yes the hill, told us that it would be prudent to take a break. So we did. We were about two- thirds of the way up the hill. Looking down, it didn’t seem such a great accomplishment. It afforded us a good view of the hotel zone and no indication of an exhausting challenge, but with the promise of refreshing breezes and a dip in the cool waters.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Looking up, the twist in the road (generally a curve when it serves as a metaphor) and our finishing point looked nearby. It seemed only a few hundred yards ahead. Granted, the terrain continued unchanged. This would have made a great sledding spot for a long unobstructed run – if it snowed in this area of the world. I silently, and then out loud wondered why we had stopped when we were so close. My mistake, as the immediate response is “Let’s do it” and we are off.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Our heart rates instantly return to their maximums, skipping the gradual buildup of the preliminaries. The profuse sweat that sprang from my pores resumed after having slowed during the break. The steepness remained and our pace had not quickened. But something had changed; this was familiar territory now. We knew the hill. We knew the symptoms manifested in wet bodies and throbbing chests; and they felt good because we knew that we were on the verge of conquering this hill. I didn’t think it then, though I had quoted it to my kids for years: “I am the road. I am the hill,” but we both felt it. That doesn’t mean that we didn’t have to run it; it was still there. It just meant that our mental breakthrough helped us make the physical breakthrough. This was not agony or a challenge or a workout. This was fun. This is what we had chosen to do. This is why we had</span></p></div></div><img alt="page7image31103488" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/79a80cb5-bcdc-4de4-a028-96953f16aebb" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">5</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 8"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">chosen to do it. We had only a vague sense at the bottom of the hill of why we would make that turn, and there were no victory signs awaiting us as we crested, but internal satisfaction would be enough. Even if we didn’t fully realize the implications, we basked in the morning sun at the overlook, talked about small things and knew that one more small fiber had been woven in that bond between us. We also knew that we were (are) champions and that we can face other big hills off the running course. Then, well, we did the inevitable and the necessary: we ran as slowly as possible down the hill trying to avoid cartilage damage from the pounding forced on our knees by the elevation loss. Our time down was exactly half of our time up and the entire run not counting the stops had been only 15 minutes. I probably would never have made that turn up the hill if I had been running alone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">So that seems a good place to end the story, but that was not to be. As we swam in the ocean, the hill was always visible and inviting us back. Maria remembered only the high from the run and seemed insulted that we had needed a short break in the climb. We must go back tomorrow. We could easily conquer that hill. And so as we walked past the turnoff on the way to lunch, we vocally informed the hill that we would be back the following morning and that we would own it. It had all day and night to prepare for what would be its epic test – to cast its shadow over our determination and abilities. We repeated the challenge even more vociferously as we returned from lunch and so there would be no backing down. And of course we were not allowed to cheat by going to bed early or eating bland food or skipping rum-laced drinks</span></p></div></div><img alt="page8image31023648" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/683202eb-6817-47b9-91a6-33f1c1f34af5" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">6</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 9"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">starting at sunset – which came early just to step up the challenge.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The alarm sounded early the following morning: a beeping on the running watch seldom on my arm. I needed my normal preparation time while Maria rolled out of bed almost an hour later, laced her shoes, rearranged her smile, and donned some sunglasses for their coolness factor. The run from the hotel to the turn was only a half-mile, barely enough time to elevate our heart rates from their sleeping levels and certainly not enough time to stretch or warm-up our muscles. Still, without any hesitation, the turn was made, and with no transition time, the climb had begun again. Our body temperature rose, heart rates jumped, but the hill, rather than reacting angrily to our taunting the previous day, had that jovial friendliness somewhat common in the islands. It welcomed us back. Maybe most don’t return, so it has a complex after so many failed friendships and desertions.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">“Come on, mon.” “You can do it, mon.” “Looking good, mon.” “Check it out, mon.” “Keep it up, mon.” Well some of these were the hill talking to us and others were just me trying to imitate an island accent. Usually though, I sound like I am doing a poor imitation of the Indian (Mumbai?) accent. Today though, Maria is not only acknowledging my comments, she adds supposedly funny comments to the mix. “Tis a big hill, mon” sounds like a native. Why can’t I say it like that? Even her imitations of MY Indian accent sound more authentic when she says them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">We notice small landmarks: there’s a driveway, here’s a mark on the road. Soon we arrive at the small</span></p></div></div><img alt="page9image31064064" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/be728b3e-6d32-45d5-a0f0-d635b1faa0bf" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">7</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 10"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">overlook where we had rested the day before. “Want a break?” I ask. I am on vacation and happy with my middle-of-the-pack running abilities and out here to run with Maria, so I am less affected by a rest break in the middle of a big hill. The look that Maria shoots at me – without even lifting her head from its steady gaze 10 feet ahead – says it all. This is a challenging run. There are no hills along the river in Boston. I am going to succeed, so don’t wimp out on me now. And how she did it I don’t know. It was sheer determination: a trait that I associate with stubbornness. But unlike many of us, this was a positive stubbornness used when motivation had evaporated or been called upon too extensively, not the kind where you refuse to change your mind or won’t listen to reason. This is a personality plus, not a fault.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">So we skip the break and continue on up the hill. Our pace is slow but we keep moving, and soon we begin to measure the distance remaining until the top of the hill. It represents not success and victory, but on a more basic level it is identified as the stopping point, the place where we can rest, where the push up this hill can be abandoned without shame or recollection. That distance keeps shortening, and the reality that we will make it begins to overpower the accumulating fatigue, and we struggle to control this fresh flow of adrenaline and channel it into a reservoir to be tapped equally and as needed over the remaining distance. Almost there, almost.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">How do you reach a goal and stop? What makes us suddenly switch from moving to a walk or non-movement? There are no buttons, controls or levers. Well, in this case, we were moving slowly and had, as I said, moved forward by putting one foot in</span></p></div></div><img alt="page10image30624192" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/603e6382-33b4-4687-b618-eb586f5d0edc" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">8</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 11"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">front of the other. And so, then, as if on command, we both stopped by just not putting the next foot in front. We grabbed our legs & bent over for a minute to refill our bloodstream with oxygen. We had inhaled deeply and frequently on the way up, but apparently the natural efficiency had ebbed a bit and not transferred quite enough quite fast enough to the other parts of the body. In any case, we didn’t do that long because the exhilaration and the beautiful view both claimed their rightful places in the spotlight. That spotlight being the morning sun, that by now had climbed a few degrees higher and provided a reason for Maria’s sunglasses. Cool she was. We lingered a moment and had a swallow of water before heading back down. Our summit today had taken only 9:30, a minute faster than yesterday. How could such a short run be the focus of a day or a vacation, of a story or even a moment?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I blame Maria for many things, particularly those that might push me out of my comfort zone. But I sometimes respond. Knowing that she will say yes to a run or workout, I am more likely to fantasize and suggest a hard workout than if I were on my own. I might take off from running while on vacation. But if she is along, the workout can make the vacation. So I’ll take credit for, if you are keeping up with the story, what was the logical next step.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I started bragging to the local taxi drivers about Maria’s sprint up the hill. Most drivers found this unbelievable. They saw the hill not just as steep, but also as the edge of civilization. In a sense, the hill divided the island into the populated and larger portion and the extreme side with only a few beaches and foreigners’ beach homes at the other end. In between, there was little. Still, one driver was both impressed</span></p></div></div><img alt="page11image30895072" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ac1057db-5bfc-480a-8e5f-1f0a41ad8ab1" width="223.061000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner</span></p></div><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt;">9</span></p></div></div></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 12"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">and intrigued by our exploits and said (what I later learned to be untrue) that one local ran over the hill every day and continued to the end of the island. He suggested that we do the same and finish at a well- known but not crowded beach known as Reggae Beach. Once there, we could take a (pre-arranged) taxi back. When questioned about the distance, he estimated 16-20 miles: more than a casual run in the heat with hills on vacation.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The idea fascinated me at once: running a good distance, seeing the island as few tourists do, hanging out with Maria and finishing up with a swim in the placid waters of an empty Caribbean beach. So I kept asking drivers and no one really knew an accurate distance. Nevertheless, by looking at taxi fares, asking questions, and measuring inches on a not-to-scale map, I determined the likely distance to be around 9 miles, but almost certainly less than 10 miles. Doable. Under the guise of romanticism and sharing our experience, I had a taxi driver detour to the top of the hill (seemed easy in a car!) where we got the great view and I was able to look North towards the end of the island. I counted 4 ups & 4 downs. Wow, four of these? That is only one every two miles. And surely they didn’t all go back down to sea level. I began to think that not only was this possible, it was mandatory.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">And so early on our final day, we started the routine again: alarm, sun block, sunglasses and out the door. We had asked Eva to start 1 hour 30 minutes behind us in a taxi to meet us at Reggae Beach. If the run were significantly longer than anticipated, we would hop in the taxi & ride to the beach with her. If shorter or about as expected, we would meet her there. There is only one road, so she would see us if we were</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">10</span></p></div></div><img alt="page12image30568432" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/be98bd21-9e97-4a3d-b730-826878c11d65" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 13"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">there. We stopped at the hotel store and bought a 20- ounce bottle of water each. I drank 3 cups from their water pitchers in the lobby – one flavored with chunks of pineapple and the other with watermelon. I wasn’t thirsty but I am a heavy sweater, particularly in the sun and on “The Hill.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Out the door & down the street we head. We make the turn and head up the hill. With the strength in our legs from the prior two runs and a longer goal, the hill was not to be a problem today. We were respectful and minded our pace so as not to tempt fate. We knew that we had to climb this hill before the rest of the adventure could play out. We huffed and puffed, but in no time we were standing at the overview watching the sunrise with two British tourists. Trying to get a feel for our pace, I asked them the time. They had just missed sunrise because they were an hour off on their watches. This was funny since we had made a similar mistake a few days earlier when meeting a local driver. In any case, it gave us a chuckle and propelled us back onto the road.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Our immediate next concern was the backside of the hill which in fact wound down towards a straight stretch of road with beaches on both sides. This was easy and we stored our strength for the rebound up the next hill. I don’t think that it was as tall, or maybe we had zoned out. We had views on both sides and the sun at our back. For this hill, we were sufficiently warmed up and once we reached the top, we questioned whether we might have skipped part of it or overestimated it. Furthermore, in terms of hills, we were half way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Halfway down the second hill, the road curves</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">11</span></p></div></div><img alt="page13image30788240" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/642497ac-2dc2-4cd9-acaa-4bfe19b3c2fe" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 14"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">and then winds back and forth around and on several smaller hills. It does this without rolling much and the net effect is that we eventually begin the third hill already about halfway up, and feel that we have been a little cheated. But that feeling passes with the elation of being three-fourths of the way there. In hills, that is, as we have only covered only about 4 miles, and we settle in to a longer reasonably level section.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Our good feeling gets even better as we soak in the sun (water was a good idea), the blue expanses of sea just off the rugged coast, and even recognize dive sites from the previous day. We also feel good because we are running. We are running at a steady pace. It feels normal. For the moment, this is not a workout, it is our daily run. We resume normal running thoughts and chatter. We each point out things to the other: some obvious and some that are good finds. The muscles feel good as they move, the sweat flows to help, not to punish, and it just feels like a normal run.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Not to say that there were no weird moments or moments of giddiness. We saw maybe 4 cars during the entire run, but we encountered, at various distances, almost every kind of animal life indigenous or otherwise located on the island. The fact books (</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">sic</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">) state that there are more monkeys on St. Kitts than people, and we found that to be true in the dawn hours. We had multiple spottings of large groups in the trees or even crossing the roads. Fortunately, we were (incorrectly) not viewed as competitors for the mangoes and had no direct confrontations with this admittedly smarter and faster animal.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">A mongoose skirted across the road ahead of us. In my world, these are fairly rare and summon up</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">12</span></p></div></div><img alt="page14image30498528" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/5bc94278-c377-4fa1-945a-15b420fcec4c" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 15"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">attempts to recall the story of Rikki Tikki somebody. Maria seemed to know it and told me some story about a valiant young mongoose that I have since “misplaced.” I still haven’t called Maria a “goat woman” to her face, but we encountered easily a hundred goats during the run and they provided ample evidence of their capabilities to move with speed and agility on seeming impossible ascents. They also preferred to be uphill from us. Several iguanas had ignored the advice to avoid UVA and UVB rays, and were enjoying the early morning sun. Several horses, mules and even a donkey randomly appeared with little or no clue as to their ownership. Of course there were gulls and other birds, but chickens were also given free range to certain areas. There were more animals, but they have now blended into the collective memory of the run.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Cows? What do you know about cows? No, I mean what do you know about the nature of cows? Do they have personalities? When driving near home, you are generally safer because you think more or less like other drivers do and can anticipate their actions and reactions. This is harder in a different culture. And that is how I viewed the cows that we found in our running path – or should I say the cows that were where they spent every morning as we intruded on their solitude, their space and their breakfast. Goats want to be uphill from you. Do cows? Horses are scared and run away. Will cows? Birds will fly away. Okay, so I know that cows won’t fly away. But when there is a cow – by pretty much all measures bigger than me or even us – standing in front of you, what is it thinking? How do you get into its mind? This was no idle question as we came upon one after another: some on the road and</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">13</span></p></div></div><img alt="page15image30729984" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/2022ce14-3b9a-46a1-92d0-91b766de38df" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 16"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">some just off the road on the lower side that headed down to the cliff over the sea.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Even now I can’t give you any definitive answer. We dealt with each one individually. In fact, Maria and I would sometimes choose different responses. It is worth noting that the cows were individuals and also chose different responses. Some would do no more than stare. Others would snort. Some would start walking away while others walked towards us. More than once we would change sides of the road and seek to run by, only to freeze instantaneously when the cow would turn towards us only a single lane away. In the end, this merely distracted us from the run and a few more miles slipped by. We started the climb up the final hill that really couldn’t compare with the first two. But like Heartbreak Hill in the Boston Marathon, location is everything. With the heat and the earlier hills trying to sap our strength, our comfort zone narrowed on this hill. But we knew that we could conquer this little hill and that we were getting closer to the end, so without much fanfare, we kicked into a lower gear and headed up and over.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Once over the hill we could see the end of the island, but it was not a point but several points as the island widened at its foot (head, since we were running north?) We were puzzled but not concerned. Since everyone had talked about it as the end of the road, we would just follow it to the end. About a mile before the end of the island (about 2 miles after our water had been consumed), we saw a small sign pointing down a dirt road advertising a restaurant at Reggae Beach. So we turned and ran with the chickens a bit until the road</span></p></div></div><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">14</span></p></div></div><img alt="page16image31207200" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/c4c32899-2ae6-4e21-a115-ed300f02001e" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 17"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">divided again. Not seeing a sign, we continued forward and about a half mile later arrived to an empty, isolated and lovely beach. It had 2 restaurants but both were closed at 8:15 AM. We were thirsty, but that would have to wait.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Wait; yes there is a car. It is a mom dropping 2 college-age lovebirds off for an early morning make-out session. We decide to take advantage of them and confirm the name of the beach. Turtle Beach. Oh. Reggae Beach is closed for construction. Oh. How do you get there anyway? Another 1.5 miles, ok. Well, we are runners. We can do that. We have no choice because that is where we plan to meet Eva and have no method of communicating a change. So off we trudge at a vacation pace back to the division in the road and take the other one in hopes that it will make all the difference. We are a few hundred yards down that road when we hear a horn and it is Eva chasing us down. It seems that the taxi driver (a female this time) knew that the access to Reggae Beach had been suspended and came looking for us. I give the credit to Eva, who against long odds, is pretty (&) reliable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The swim is everything I imagined. The beach remains virtually empty until about 10 AM when a store opens and we toss down some liquids. Wilber, the gigantic pig that has relocated from Reggae Beach, moves to a shady spot, pausing to devour an apple offered by the young couple now applying sunscreen. We hop into the van & head back to the room for a quick shower followed by a Roti and beer for lunch and the airport. That is how The Hill became one of my “rave” runs.</span></p></div></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160"></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-47764780859862382382023-08-03T14:08:00.000-04:002023-08-09T17:17:21.619-04:00Always wear a helmet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LLLbKEG-2zqMInChqBFW5lIJNez2_Jmpj0SoaVEJBUXpXzVZWLtEfkEk0hwpzq_HDZV3636ZUc3AsfrzPghhVSfSbSzFloXmHXL4ZpT1-jkiJAZsfyRX_qYKDmXgenP-Zq6aj_8STpk/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LLLbKEG-2zqMInChqBFW5lIJNez2_Jmpj0SoaVEJBUXpXzVZWLtEfkEk0hwpzq_HDZV3636ZUc3AsfrzPghhVSfSbSzFloXmHXL4ZpT1-jkiJAZsfyRX_qYKDmXgenP-Zq6aj_8STpk/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b> </b> </div><span id="save-message-inner"></span> </div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 145"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><b><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;">A</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;">lways wear a helmet</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Travis says that wearing a helmet will make life safer. That might be true for running in certain urban areas on bike paths with commuters or </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">wild inconsiderate riders or anywhere that cars cross through the same intersection, but not today. We met at 7:30AM at a park for an out-and-back long run on a wide trail through the forest with a water break a couple of miles in. Scott was on a schedule and planned to do 18. I said that I would run 14 with him – that was a lot for me given my level of training. My biggest hope was to not slow him down too much.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The run started out faster than anticipated as we met a friend of Scott’s on a shorter run who asked if he could run a couple of miles “with” us, but who immediately set the pace. He peeled off after a few miles and we continued on at a pace that varied with the effort required by the hills. It was a fairly normal day with conversation and comments as well as observations about the huge number of people on the trail that morning – the Team in Training groups had discovered our site.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">About mile 12 we stopped for water and spoke for a minute or two with some other runners and then headed towards the gate. We had run about half of that distance, when </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">Craaaack</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">, bam. At that point we both knew that something was falling our direction. This late in the run I didn’t have much speed or flexibility and I kept a forward course. The noise was on Scott’s side and he was more motivated. He turned left, pushing me forward and out of the way and increased his margin of safety – nearly bowling me over in doing so. A pine branch over 20 feet long and about 6 inches in diameter (when we have a beer, we add an imaginary weight of</span></p></div></div><img alt="page145image300147024" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/b016cb41-48f3-411e-93c1-018c321b2d75" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">143</span></p></div></div><img alt="page145image300147232" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/eda50163-ce63-4687-81b7-60dcdd379e84" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 146"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Always wear a helmet</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">several tons), crashed down parallel to and about four feet from the trail. It made a noise (</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">humor</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">The limb fell exactly beside us as we passed. We stopped and looked and it had been a clean break. Wow, all of our paces and breaks and start time had randomly placed us there when this happened. At the gate I decided to stick with Scott for two more miles and</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;"> contemplate this helmet idea.I </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">am a minimalist when it comes to certain activities. I think that a suitcase should be light. I will eat dehydrated food when hiking because I </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">think that the pack should be as light as possible. I don’t like to wear a watch when running because it is too heavy. But I have another reason.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">None of us is as skinny as we would like but I feel reasonably competent in my ability to judge whether my car will fit in a space or pass in a gap or if my body will slide through an opening. But I have been mistaken. Running along the Charles River away from town and past the JFK Bridge, we turned left to cross the river. I passed a traffic sign hugging close to the pole when </span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">pop</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">. I felt some contact and looked down to see that my watch had caught the pole and broken off from the band. I was uninjured but I realized that I had allowed enough space for my body, but I had not allowed for the watch. Sometimes, I am too accurate fo</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">r my own good or too willing to buck the blame.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">A runner friend of mine decided that his new challenge would be to catch a leaf as it was falling from a tree on an autumn day without </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">breaking stride. This seems easy, but once you start, you realize that the leaves fall faster than you expect, they are already closer to the ground than you think,</span></p></div></div><img alt="page146image299989008" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/30b427b9-f5dd-4157-9d9b-60c2816f8f21" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">144</span></p></div></div><img alt="page146image299989216" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/6eabc924-26e1-4bfd-96ea-496404bab8a5" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 147"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Always wear a helmet</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">vertical and horizontal distances are hard to compare and that aerodynamics can foil your grab. My experience has shown that choosing the right leaf to chase is the key to success. I find one that is relatively close but still high up so that you have time to slow down but don’t need to speed up. Keep it in sight, close the gap so that you </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">reach up to grab it with your dominant hand. The other key is to repeat the above unt</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">il you get lucky.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">I never look straight down when I am running unless I am really tired or the terrain is very uneven. My gaze is generally about 10 feet ahead, </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">and I often don’t see things unless they are out of place. More than once I have seen something that I didn’t want to step in or on only after my forward foot was headed towards a landing. Examples include a variety of snakes on trails, a tarantula in California, a cactus in Mexico, dog poo all around the world, mud puddles, holes in sidewalks, etc. My reaction is always instantaneous and generally correct, but it can cause laughter later. Usually a snake will not move or move only at the last minute. That means a stretch of the stride, an awkward skip and a bit of luck. The poor snake is freaked out and has nothing else it can do except prey (</span><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Italic"; font-size: 11pt;">humor</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">). This is best appreciated alone or when a running buddy makes a sudden weird escape m</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">ovement.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Thud. No, louder. Thuud. No, louder and closer. </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;">¡¡¡Thuuuhhhhhddddddd!!! </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Yes, that is what the squirrel sounded like when it landed on the </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">ground next to us. Squirrels are amazing animals and show no fear as they make leaps from branch to branch, seemingly daring Isaac Newton to redefine his basic laws of physics or at least grudgingly admit</span></p></div></div><img alt="page147image300332864" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/fd1b21a1-a9d3-44b1-afac-95674d36fd2e" width="241.060000" /><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Italic"; font-size: 10pt;">Ravings of a Runner </span><span style="font-family: "TimesNewRoman,Bold"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: 3pt;">145</span></p></div></div><img alt="page147image300333072" height="0.479950" src="blob:https://www.blogger.com/ce4a0222-54ed-42ee-a35d-2090a59ec860" width="223.061000" /></div><div class="page" style="text-align: start;" title="Page 148"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p><span style="font-family: "Garamond,Bold"; font-size: 11pt;"><b>Always wear a helmet</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">their tremendous abilities. I usually just shake my head and wonder how they pull off those crazy acrobatic stunts. Sure they miss, but they always recover and grab another branch. And they aren’t like monkeys that sort of cheat by using their tails. Squirrels just go for it, and they always make it or recover before paying the real price of gravity and falling.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">Or do they? What caused this </span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700;">¡¡¡Thuuuhhhhhddddddd!!!</span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;">??? We looked and a grey squirrel was right beside us and looked more startled than us and it had just fallen out of a tree. Hah, Mr. Squirrel, it is about time. But Mr. Squirrel was different than buttered toast or bread with peanut butter on it; he landed face up and feet down. He looked left and then right and then scampered unhurt and undaunted towards the nearest tree. I saw a few squirrels on another run and they had not learned any lesson about showboating. But I don’t leap between trees and I know that Travis thinks that I would be safer if I wore a helmet. Maybe he is right.</span></p></div></div></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-31313995855702332692012-05-04T09:24:00.002-04:002021-05-02T16:37:18.107-04:00NOT IN BOOK - 55 Miles in 55 Hours in 5 States<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no tape to mark the finish, nor woo-hoo girls to
cheer me on, nor a laurel wreath to put on my head like at Boston. Later, no
times would be posted for me to check my rank in my age group, but there was
little doubt in my mind that I had finished and that I had won. Less than 51
hours ago, I had toed the starting line for what I assumed would rank among my
greatest physical challenges and one that would also test my mental fortitude.
55 miles in 55 hours in 5 states. Five 11-mile runs: one each in North Dakota,
Minneapolis, Iowa, Nebraska and South Dakota. My running buddy Scott was doing
the same, <i>for moral support</i>, on a
trail in North Carolina.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a runner that has never run a distance greater than the
marathon and that harbors few dreams of being elite or an ultra-marathoner,
this represented a significant challenge and one where the outcome was not
predetermined.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>North Dakota<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a great feeling to be a confident runner and to be in
reasonably good running shape, to be able to add a bit more distance on a run in
order to explore an unexpected item of interest or to be able to not worry
about a wrong turn or a slightly longer route, or even to deal with a simple
miscalculation made when planning a run or the inevitable math mistakes made
while running. As I stood on the campus of North Dakota State University, I
felt like I was The Bison. While my training was not what it should have been,
I had reached a good running form, my weight had settled on a good number for
carrying some distance and I had done a short taper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Car door opens, I hop out and turn the GPS on. I am ready to
go, but unlike most of my runs, exact mileage is important and I am forced to
wait for the satellites to search the world and discover me here in North
Dakota. Found. All zeroes on the dial. I think Start and press the button
simultaneously, and the great adventure is underway. It is convenient to be the
star today and have all of the timing tailor-made for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I break immediately into a steady stride. Scott later described
his first run as “euphoric” and I feel good too. Athletes from many sports will
tell you that waiting is the hardest part and that once you start playing or
running or competing, the butterflies and other thoughts go away and the
training takes over. The trail
looks good: great. A few other runners out early on a Sunday morning: cool. Temperature:
I am overdressed for the total distance but the extra shirt and the gloves provide
a comfortable layer so far.
Feeling: pretty good overall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The checklist says everything is great. I am not wearing a
heart rate monitor but my perceived level of exertion seems easy. It is as if I
have jumped immediately to the middle of my run without having to breathe
heavily, warm my muscles or gradually build my heart rate to an aerobic zone. I
feel good and the running endorphins and I are one. Suddenly, I think about
pace. Pace is important in runs. Many of us have a tendency to take all that
accumulated adrenaline and those rested muscles and the excitement of finally
getting going and we run early paces that are faster than they should be and
that exact a price on us in later stages. I glance down and I am running slower
than my everyday pace, but only slightly faster than what I think that my pace
should be at this stage in the race.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Planning your pace on a long run means guessing and hoping
that you are lucky. There is the expected case, the worst case, the case worse
than that and then several more layers that you hope that you never experience.
I know that my pace will be slower than my current marathon pace (which is
already slower than it was just a year ago), but am not certain by how much it
will differ. My intent, even though I am not quite in marathon shape, is to run
the first couple of legs at marathon pace and then let the later legs find their own level – hopefully not
too far above this. I know that I can carry this pace for 11 miles and I am
hoping that the rest between runs will let me hold steady in the later legs. So
I pull back just a tad and think about how easy this run is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Run 1 is for fun. We all can do it. It is a distance that I
have run on average once a week for many years and I have absolutely no doubts.
And by holding back I get to take it even easier. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“North Dakota, I love running here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Minnesota<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afternoon runs are different than morning runs to me. They
just have a different feeling. I do them so rarely that they are kind of
exhilarating in their difference. But the key to this particular afternoon run
is determining the lingering impact of the morning run. Without even waiting
for the gun to signal blastoff, I spring forward from the parking lot of a
Minnesota state park up and down a few hills, making decisions on the fly about
which trail I should actually be following. My legs feel like I ran 11 miles,
but like maybe it had been yesterday and they quickly fall in line. The late
lunch caused by travelling here seems to be a bigger issue, but it distracts me
from the transition of any thoughts of being tired.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Runs can be fun in almost all settings, but this looks like
it is going to be great. The prairie rolls out to my left and there is a rock
cliff to my right. I feel like I have been dropped into a “rave run” location
in a <i>Runner’s World</i> article despite
lacking the speed, good looks, youth or designer clothing of their standard
choices. The air is crisp like a summer fall day on this Midwestern spring day.
A haze obscures the distance and keeps the focus on the nearby beauty. The
flatness of the land lets me see the trail a mile ahead and I run alone
enjoying the run. There is no thought of failure this early – either in this
run or overall. The great feeling grows even better as a light rain falls down,
not so much on me, but all around me. Even though Scott had far warmer days for
his runs, he would later describe the second run not as a challenge for legs
that had run earlier in the day, but as the moment when we both realized that
we might be able to do this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My run ended miles from the start and those last four miles
felt better than the morning miles and I felt my shoulders up high, my feet
bounced off the trail and this seemed like the perfect run. My GPS regularly
beeped another mile and my pace seemed steady: one that I could run all day.
When I crossed 10 miles, I knew that today was fun, that today was easy, that
today I won the challenge and I used a slight downhill to speed up and run it
in strong. “I have 12 hours to rest before I run again so let’s burn off that
last drop of adrenaline.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Minnesota, I love running here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Iowa<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty-four hours earlier I had begun the 55-mile adventure
with a run beside the Red River in Fargo, North Dakota, and now I faced a
much broader Missouri River in northwestern Iowa. Some days when I run the day
after a long run, I feel the previous run when I get out of bed or sit in a
chair for too long at the office. Other days I only feel it once I begin to
run. And so it was today. There was, to use Scott’s terminology – yes, he is
still there on day 2 so I really have little choice but to continue – there was
a bit of an “ouch” moment, when the anticipated pain and suffering hints that
it may visit soon. But the only remedy is to face it head-on and do the
opposite of what pain tells you: run. And so I put the Missouri off my shoulder
and put one foot forward and the other naturally follows and off I go. In 50
feet I feel better. At a mile, I am running a normal stride and it feels little
different than as if I had done a normal run the day before. The regenerative
effects of a little time off for a trained and conditioned body amazes me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the crazy idea of celebrating my 55<sup>th</sup>
birthday with something that had a lot of 5’s first originated, I thought that
I would try to run 1 mile every hour for 55 hours. The idea of night running
with a headlight seemed sufficiently fun alone. But while the mileage seemed
high, the greater challenge appeared to be not really sleeping for 2 days. I
thought that one mile every hour offered the greatest possibility of success. A
much younger Scott & I mulled this idea over, but we also talked about some
of the small relay groups or Run across America or the Sahara or wherever
people would run marathon distance day after day. Could we do that? How long
would we last? What sort of training would it require? From that we considered
the realm of our capabilities and the mathematics of the age and sheer
distance. The obvious answer for 55 miles was 2 runs each of the first 2 days
and 1 on the morning of the last. By running the first and the 55<sup>th</sup>
hours, we could extend the time – pushing that final rest period outside of our
counted hours. So we settled on 5 runs of 11 miles as the best approach, but I
considered it more of a possible idea than a plan. Scott heard it differently.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A month before my birthday, life moved me to the plains and
so any idea of a run together was disrupted. I took advantage of my isolation
and started working myself back into shape with 9-11 mile runs. I had run 55 miles
in one week only 5 times in the prior 5 years and now I was leaning towards
doing it in 55 hours. I decided to add one more story-telling element to it and
do each run in a different state. That wouldn’t qualify me for the 50-state
marathon club, but it was definitely not common.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the date approached and I waivered on my commitment, my
level of fitness, my desire and the general sanity of the proposition, Scott
appeared to grow more and more excited about me doing it - and him too! I considered other ideas
like switching miles to kilometers, or five 5-mile runs in 5 states or one that
was both challenging and fun: running 11 miles on the first five days of May in
5 states, drinking a margarita in each state and finishing on <i>cinco de mayo</i>. Ah but cursed running
buddies say it’s okay to change your plans, but they also cause you to judge
yourself. So here I was on the eastern bank of the Missouri River in Iowa. Running.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Iowa, I love running here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Nebraska<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of a quote from the SW corner of the Cornhusker
football stadium in Lincoln:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>In the deed the glory</i>”
– And this run, when done, would bring glory to Scott and me – self-directed,
of course.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ran about 2 steps before my heart rate jumped up. My body
was tired. My breathing was labored. While Scott had weathered the heat on his
runs, this afternoon was my first taste of it and I had started downing liquids
hours earlier. Scott and I had both talked about how this fourth leg would be
the leg that made the difference. Finish leg 4 and you are home free. Fail to
start it or let it win and it was all over. The first 33 miles had been a
preliminary qualifier to run this leg. There were far fewer people parked here
this afternoon than line-up at Hopkinton. Elite runners? We can all set a goal,
the accomplishment of which qualifies us to think of ourselves as an elite
runner: a person that likes to run and runs, not just those that finish first
at a certain speed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surprisingly, the farther I ran the better I felt. My heart
rate was definitely a few beats per second higher because of the other runs and
a few beats higher because of the heat, all of which translated into a slower
pace. Still the run felt okay and I moved slowly forward. Today’s run differed from the others in
that I was crossing streets, there were curbs and pedestrians and cars. At the
moment that I least wanted to pay attention, it was mandatory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other issue with curbs was that my ankles and lower legs
had grown stiff and lost some of their flexibility and I didn’t want to force
my Achilles or knees to absorb the gravitational blow, so I had to find the
smoothest route at each corner. And watch for cars. And run. So yes, I could
tell that I was tired. One further indication was that some of the turns on the
trail required wide turns. That can be true on the bike if you are riding fast
or a running race where you have speed happening, but at my slowed slog of a
pace, I should have been able to turn on a dime. Still I pushed on and in many
aspects this afternoon run felt better than the morning run: tired muscles now
versus sore muscles in the morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a marathon there is a time when you stop counting miles
up and start counting them down. In each of these legs it had been the same. I
viewed 7 or 8 miles as a magic distance. Once I reached that distance I knew
that I just had a manageable distance remaining and that gave me a mental edge.
So at 4 miles, I only needed to run 4 more miles to just have 3 left. Crazy
yes, but motivating as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I was motivated to finish this run. I still was having
more fun than many others on this sunny day, but a simple action told me that I
needed to get it done. I found myself checking my progress on my watch more and
more often, with the results showing remarkably little change, either in terms
of distance covered, distance remaining or time elapsed. And again I check it
and 47 seconds have passed with a change in distance measured in the hundredths
of a mile. And still I seek that 8-mile mark to start the final sprint to the
end of the current leg. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both the physical and the mental side of runs have a way of
cycling up and down and great runs usually occur when both are up. I had felt
that way in all four runs. Good runs tend to have either side cycle up to at
least partially offset the decline of the other. I managed to slide along this
scale of feeling good and mile 8 disappeared and I found myself on a shady
downhill area with the breeze blowing the leaves on the trees around me and the
green grass bursting out in a small meadow. At moments like these, it feels
good to run and be a part of it all. I suddenly had some bounce back, a
perceived easier and faster pace, and the mental switch from running outbound
to running in. Time and distances evaporate when you feel this way. Sweat is
pouring down my brow and I feel my arms pumping to aid my legs and wait, yes,
there in the distance is a building where I can celebrate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing in the parking lot texting Scott to tell him about
the run, I am cognizant that this run could have gone either way and that I
have luck and a huge base of miles to thank for the happy ending. I am also
nervous about how he might be feeling and how his run might have gone. Nothing
to do but tell the truth. Well, at least part of the truth, because the real
truth is that it would have been so much easier having him to lean on or pace
me or distract me. But I also couldn’t quit because across the miles I knew
that he too was depending on me to help pull him through and push him towards
tomorrow’s finish. We will hurt tonight, but we have done these 4 runs and the
glory will be ours shortly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nebraska, I love running here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>South Dakota<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before, during and after the fourth run I believed that it
was both the hardest physically and the one that would require gutting it out.
I had believed that, but as I took the first step into a strong wind on the
final 11-mile run, I knew the fallacy of the statement. In a marathon, the
common statement is that you run the first 20 to get there and then you race it
home – telling yourself that it is just 10K left and that you do that every day
in training. Just do that last normal run and you are there. But the reality is
often that those last few miles are a struggle for dignity, where your
credibility as a runner is suddenly on the line and where one can, in a single
step, be reduced to surviving the next moment. Everyone looks inside at that
moment for the energy, strength or willpower to make it just a bit further.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I expected the last few miles to be hard, but I also
thought that the magnet of the finish line would propel me forward. I assumed
that my muscles would be sore and tight and changed my stride from short to a
shuffle. I anticipated that my energy store would have already been called upon
and that I would have mild dehydration from the sheer distance of the 5 runs.
All of this seemed within reason until I took that first step and the wind
pushed back. I had been lucky to avoid hilly runs and warm weather, so I
deserved a bit of karmic fairness. So I pushed back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mind was strong. I pushed into the wind and moved
forward. I knew that every step forward was one less step required. I felt the
tightness in my calves. I felt a slight soreness in my left hip that I took
note of but discounted as unimportant for the time being. My only real issue
was that I felt tired in my quads – as I should have after 44 miles. But it was
that mile 18 feeling of a marathon, not the mile 25 feeling. That is, they were
tired, but they were still on my team. They still responded to my command. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My watch alerted me to the fact that I was finishing mile
one and I checked the time to see my pace. It was about 20 seconds slower than
other days for an early mile and normally I would have tried to pick it up just
a little bit. But instinctively I instead slowed down a little: realizing that
the goal today was finishing and feeling good. I patted myself on the back for
my maturity as a runner and pushed on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bit up the trail I pass a large time and temperature sign
seemingly misplaced on the bike trail. 59 degrees. Not bad. The wind makes it
feel cooler but I realize that I am already covered with sweat and sip down
some Gatorade.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trail is built in a flood plain beside the Big Sioux
River and is wide with few people, little development and no cars. I am new to
town but I have now run this section 6 or 7 times and I feel very comfortable
here. I get dropped off on the north side of town and run point-to-point to the
Southeastern side. It is tranquil and geographically similar, adding to my
ability to occasionally miss certain obvious items or landmarks. And it was one
of these seemingly obvious scenes that startled me. I looked left and yes,
about 30 meters from the trail, stood 5 buffaloes (American Bison for those who
know the difference). I thought back about Scott’s story of almost stepping on
a copperhead snake at mile 37 and how I had accused him of hallucinating. But
no, there they clearly stood grazing on the green grass beside a small watering
hole just as they do in the movies. I wasn’t totally surprised by this since I
had seen them in two other spots around town. My question was how I had missed
them on my previous runs. But that was just the beginning. A hundred feet ahead
I am still thinking about the buffalo, but I shift my view and thoughts ahead
and there is a CHEETAH pacing beside a chain link fence. I do a double-take
and yes it IS a cheetah. Too big to be a puma or mountain lion, this is the real
deal and she is actively prowling and testing the perimeter of what I assume
must be her cage. My heart rate had long been elevated due to the running and
the general level of exhaustion, but somehow nature took over and found a few
more beats to spare and I suppose a bit of adrenaline because suddenly my mind
forgets about my legs and ranks survival as its primary task. I survey the pen
and it is a 6-7 foot chain link fence with 3 layers of barbed wire that angle
in and add about 18 inches to the height, some length to any leap, and perhaps
some mental barrier for the cheetah. Still it paces quickly around its
enclosure and I can see the power in its body – oh that I could borrow some of
that for a while. I moved over 2 feet to the far right side of the trail to
increase the distance (in my mind). I breathed quietly and realized that
running upwind meant that the cheetah had not gotten a scent from me until after I
had passed by. And that was my last thought of the cheetah until sometime after
the run. I really missed sharing this with Scott, as a good running partner
could have enhanced the absurdness of the sighting and served as a witness if
called on to testify.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miles 3 and 4 were fairly uneventful. I crossed under a few
roads and imagined that they were wind tunnels, helping me obtain a perfectly
aerodynamic running form. More sessions might be required to really master it.
I now had a slow but smooth pace and it felt almost like a normal run. Much of
running on trails or races is about mileposts and I began to focus on a certain
spot that would mark 4.5 miles to home. Granted, that would still leave me
short. I wasn’t certain of the exact distance from where I had started, but now
I realized that it would be 9 miles rather than 11 and that I would need to add
on at the end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just past 4 miles, I come out of my thoughts to discover
that the wind or the trail had shifted and that it was now more of a crosswind
than a headwind. At mile 4.5, there was no wind. That realization seemed to
encourage me to be faster and I was. The next mile was 30 seconds faster and
much less mentally fatiguing. But then I returned to my 55-mile pace. I met an oncoming runner and had a
strange thought: I had not been passed by a single runner going the same
direction in almost 50 miles, but at my current pace, I was vulnerable to every
level of runner. I wondered how I would react: well, there was no chance that I
would pick up the pace and maintain contact. I certainly couldn’t carry my side
of a conversation. Even the well honored tradition of stopping to tie my shoe
wouldn’t work since I like couldn’t bend over far enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All this helped me maintain a steady pace, an even cadence
and repetitive muscle movement. As long as I could keep my muscle memory
active, the world would be fine. Run. I do it every day. Run. Enjoy the moment.
And I do, even as an unexpected new detour sign appears around the corner. But
I am a runner and a detour sign doesn’t keep me from running, it just alters my
course for the moment. I even find the positive in that I am adding necessary
mileage. The new hills tax me but allow me to recruit some different muscles.
And the eventual return to the trail reminds me that I can now feel the end
coming. My feet have run this ground. My heart and lungs have dealt with this
remaining portion before and my run becomes even more mechanical – providing a
welcome respite from the mental side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next up is the biggest hill of the 55 miles. It is how I had
recently been ending my training runs, and I had intentionally planned to
conquer it at the end and grab a big adrenaline boost for the finish. I turned and immediately felt a strong
wind blowing from top to bottom. I lean forward and my quads push me slowly up
the hill. My pace now measures in the double digits, but stopping is not an
option, and I know that summiting will be the final challenge. I push harder
and just sneak into the single-digit pace world. I am burning all my energy,
but the point has arrived to put it all out there. There is no doubt that I am
going to finish and there is no next run, so I don’t need to leave anything in
the tank. The wind feels good whipping through my hair and cooling me from the
emerging sun. This is why we run: for the physical and mental enjoyment that it
brings. I don’t think about running. I run. I now think about the fun parts of
running, leaving the mechanics to bring me in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ignored my watch for the last mile, determined to think
about the experience, not the pace. Eventually it chimed and I came to a stop;
not really sure what to do. I wanted to share the moment but my running buddy
was a thousand miles away. A phone call later I was reliving his run and my run
and we both had separate and joint memories of a gauntlet laid down and
answered. He had run 55 miles to support my run and help me be a champion for
my birthday, but we both knew that it was a present to himself as well. He is a
champion and worthy of sharing, had they been there waiting for us, the tape to
mark the finish, the woo-hoo girls cheering, and a laurel wreath like at
Boston.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“South Dakota, I love running here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Epiclogue <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Run long and prosper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Total Miles – 2 X 55</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Total Calories – 15,000</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Total Time Running – 8 hours</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time from start to finish – 50:45 hours</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Zoos located near my trail in SD – 1</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="ALL" style="break-before: page; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Considerations for a
Birthday Run<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span>Try not to be old</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span>Live in a country with kilometers</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span>Be born in a month with good running weather</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span>Be careful about sharing a thought no matter how
unlikely it seems</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span>If you don’t start, you can’t finish</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-89867137126220224952011-08-14T11:26:00.001-04:002011-11-10T17:19:49.141-05:00My first time at the Boston Marathon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzn0zXxNObTWq4lWLOl7uiHh4X8qciTjKpdecvlWrXaEvz0m1idf7nlJUuTx2QgYDPpKH-4J-Q8TA740l0DUDaB0-4GDoXGgU7k0OSGLXu_RN0d3AUjVWl2BKbWQmWWW04OfvHqIcvi70/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzn0zXxNObTWq4lWLOl7uiHh4X8qciTjKpdecvlWrXaEvz0m1idf7nlJUuTx2QgYDPpKH-4J-Q8TA740l0DUDaB0-4GDoXGgU7k0OSGLXu_RN0d3AUjVWl2BKbWQmWWW04OfvHqIcvi70/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner"><b>FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</b></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><br />
All of Chapter 11: <b>My first time at the Boston Marathon</b><br />
<i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>B</b></span>oston is a bit of a complicated marathon. Step one for me was to catch the bus to Runner’s Village. A portion of the fee ($130 for 2010) covers a ride in a school bus at a designated time from downtown Boston to Hopkinton for the start of the race. I was going to the start with Maria, who would be running as a bandit, and she had arranged for us to ride a bus that started closer to my hotel. Even then, we rented a car the night before and Eva drove us one mile to the bus shortly before seven a.m. on race day. That let us sleep later and conserve every ounce of energy. I had gotten up 2 hours earlier and gone through my normal pre-race routine. I ate a little hot cereal (grits!), I shaved and took a shower and I struggled to convince my digestive system to speak now or to hold its peace for the next 8 hours. I drank Gatorade and water though I, like most of the other racers, had been hydrating for days now and the sponge in my body could no longer absorb more.<br />
<br />
The buses are not particularly comfortable or uncomfortable, but a utilitarian way to cover the distance. We pulled away from the curb only a few minutes late and there was yelling and applause. Over half of those on my bus from Cambridge were students and charity runners – most running their first marathon and undertrained. Still they had youth and exuberance and did not feel compelled to guard the supply of adrenaline so obviously rushing through their bodies. It excited me to be among them. It was a great distraction to hear their running comments and questions, their one-liner jokes and the camaraderie that they shared – many with others they knew but who frequented a different group on other days. A distraction to make the time seem shorter helped as we covered the 26.2 miles out to the start. We encountered the official buses and cars headed to the same place and yet we kept driving, eventually taking more than an hour to get there. The ride really highlighted how much distance a marathon covers and made comparisons of the speed of the elite runners and the speed of the bus seem plausible. Finally we exited a major highway for the small road leading to the school where we would wait. Of course this is a bottleneck area and police are everywhere directing the buses in and cars elsewhere. Even though we are official, it seems like even our slow progress has totally disappeared. Not that it was a problem for me, but about half of the bus (mainly males) is suffering from the effects of over-hydration and begging the bus driver to not pull over, but to just open the door & let them off. Finally he relents a few guys hop off & run for the woods. Suddenly the road opens and we start to move, leaving them behind to catch up. But once again we stop and all of those that had been lost appear back at the door and climb on for the final half-mile. How much energy they expended that would have been useful later is unknown, but they all seemed visibly happier and began to whoop it up.<br />
<br />
All of the buses converge on a school in Hopkinton and drop off their passengers. Some of the official buses then park in order and collect the drop-bags to be claimed at the finish. When you first step off the bus, it isn’t immediately obvious where to go, but after a bit of wandering, we follow the crowd behind the buildings. There are 2 large fields there for staging and the upper field is designated for those in the first wave and the lower field for those in the second wave. I am in the first wave, but since Maria, as a bandit, is technically in the third wave, we go first to the lower field. It is a party and there are fit-looking people everywhere. I wonder if these are really the people in the first wave. Conversations are easy to start – just ask anyone where they qualified. Geography, speed and hills are the three big topics. The field is about the size of a football field and has a large tarp in the center providing cover for those rainy days. Fortunately today is looking perfect at around 40 degrees with 2 hours ’til start time. The back and left sides of the field are bounded with several hundred toilets. The lines are still manageable, though later they will lengthen.<br />
<br />
Security police are posted on top of the buildings, upbeat music is blaring, an announcer provides briefing material and there are thousands of conversations as some people wander one way and another group heads the other. I had brought a few large garbage bags to use as ground liners to sit on and so we find a semi-vacant spot – okay, you really find a spot near other people that look as cool as you – and plop down. It isn’t particularly comfortable but I am obsessive about guarding my leg energy. The plastic bags were a tip that I read on-line and they would be a necessity on a wet ground. After an hour or so, I begin my journey to the start line. Maria hangs with some friends that she has seen and I head up to the upper field to see what is going on with the wave oners (new word?) I see some skinny and small runners with low numbers and I ask what time gets you a number like that and one responds 2:23:06. Oh. The seconds count at that level I guess and they can’t round off. It is interesting to me that with such a great time, these people really have no chance of winning today. In fact, they are so out of the competition that they have to wait outside with the rest of us rather than get the pampered treatment in a house near the start line that the elites receive. Oh well, it still blew me away as an unfathomable speed and I lavished praise on them and moved along. In fact, since my number was only 10 from the highest number in the first wave, pretty much everyone had a lower number and so I assumed that I was the slowest person in the first wave. Would I later prove that to be true?<br />
<br />
With about 50 minutes remaining, I joined the mass movement towards the start line. I had decided to rely on a person to deliver my post-race clothes to the finish and I bypass the clothing drop-off. Like most first-timers I had no understanding of the layout and I was surprised to discover that it was a mile walk from the fields to the starting area. Oh it wasn’t hard since we were all pumped up, but the waiting and the walking violate some of the basic rules for conserving energy before the race. Just before the corrals is a parking lot on the left with several hundred toilets and people are lined up for a final visit. We are all well hydrated today.<br />
<br />
Suddenly at Main Street there is a crowd. The corrals are mainly to the right. They are roped off areas about 2/3’s the width of the street guarded by race officials that check bib numbers before letting you enter. Apparently you can move back but not forward. It is interesting when the confusion of the crowd has been replaced by an orderly group that includes a collection of runners who have similar speeds. As always, I look around to see what other people of my ability look like. Sometimes this makes me feel attractive and other times old. Vvroooom! There is the jet flyby. Some music and the announcers are talking. I manage a few toe touches. I try to calculate how far I am from the starting line. There is a slight downward grade in the street and I can see heads and heads but it isn’t obvious where they stop and the open space begins. I am guessing a few hundred yards. How long will it take to get there? The ropes between the corrals are lifted and we all shift a little forward. This is the start before the start that always happens when we runners try to get closer so we can start sooner in a crowd.<br />
<br />
There is a countdown and the gun fires and somewhere up there the elite men have started to put distance on me. The elite women started 30 minutes ago before I was even in the corral so I am willing to concede that I will not see them, but I will run the race with the elite men and never see them. With the race now starting, the crowd moves at a slow walk forward. I still can’t see the starting line when everyone breaks into a run. Ten feet later, we are walking again as the empty space has disappeared. But since the seeding has the faster runners up front, some natural spacing occurs almost as soon as each group starts. I have worn some old sweatpants, an old sweatshirt and some gardening gloves on top of my shorts and singlet to the start – no one is asking for a phone number today. The pants came off during the flyover and once I see the starting line I toss the sweatshirt into one of the bins on the side. I am staying to the far left and I continue walking as most others can finally run. I am not wearing a watch and I want to cross the starting line on a whole number (minute) so that my mental math will be easier all day. And so I linger and finally join the race 10 feet from the start and my chip beeps among hundreds of others at almost exactly 6 minutes. Surprisingly I am not the last person – in fact I don’t even feel like I am near the end.<br />
<br />
The Boston Marathon is really a downhill course and this is true at the start. It is deceiving at the start because you have so much pent-up energy, it is hard to know your pace in a crowd and you really aren’t looking that far ahead. It makes for an easy start. We are barely underway when the course passes through a thicket with no houses and few fans. It lasts for several hundred yards and the farther along we run, the more guys are darting to the bushes. Yes, Virginia, we are well-hydrated. But no one stays long and we are all swept along in the excitement. At mile one the fans are screaming and runners are celebrating. It is obvious that for many that this is an event, not a race. I am running next to 3 Japanese men that have cameras and they are taking photos with everyone, runners on the move, fans and each other. I can tell by their bib numbers that they are fast and could be much farther ahead. Another guy is accepting all offers for high fives and swerves from side to side. Others accept the offer for a taste of beer or a sip of champagne. I wonder how they will feel later in the day.<br />
<br />
I had read a suggestion from a runner in a previous year that you should write your name on your shirt and that the crowds would cheer for you. I am not a people person but I did this, imagining that I would benefit from the support late in the marathon. I soon discovered that the law of unintended consequences worked here as well. Almost from the beginning kids, adults, females and grown men shouted, screamed and chanted my name. I acknowledged the first and then the second and the third and … then I realized that this was going to continue all day and that the frequency was increasing as the crowd thickened. Acknowledging each person would require a huge amount of scarce energy resources over the course of 3-and-a-half hours, energy that I would definitely want in that last mile. But I had made the deal and I could be a jerk or I could embrace my part of the implicit bargain. I did. I resolved to acknowledge all cheers for me with a look or wave or nod or anything I could manage. I realized that it would cost me energy but so be it.<br />
<br />
I had a good pace going and the congested first mile rolled around sub-eight. I was weaving through the runners and picking them off one by one even as the distance between the elites and me increased. I looked at the other runners as I passed them and they didn’t seem to be showing much exertion or to be going too fast. I usually get passed early in races and do my passing, if any, later in the final miles. But today, it just seemed like everyone was having fun and running slowly. That’s when it hit me that we had been seeded according to qualifying times and that everybody that I was passing had a faster qualifying time than me and that I was not passing newbies, but accomplished marathoners. Time to check my pace. And I did check it at the next mile marker. I was running just about right and the course had been friendly, so it really was a case of the others running more slowly than usual. Nevertheless, I gave up passing and tried to duck in with a group for a while.<br />
<br />
I saw my first hand-painted sign with the score of the Red Sox game. The Boston Marathon happens every year on Patriot’s Day, which is the Monday closest to the anniversary of Paul Revere’s famous ride and as documented by these words in Longfellow’s poem “On the 18th of April of 75.” The Red Sox play a home game that starts early and until 2007 let out about the time the first big wave of runners passed by Fenway Park. Patriot’s Day is a holiday for Massachusetts state, Boston municipal employees and historically many corporate employees, and the 2 events, at the advent of Spring, combine to make it a festive day. Crowd support is huge and vocal. Unlike many marathons where the viewers are there to watch and support a particular runner and may cheer on a few others, the marathon is on par with a major event like the World Series or the Super Bowl and every runner is viewed as a superstar. Hence, the level of excitement generated when I would acknowledge a group cheering my name was as if a superstar had interacted with them. Of course, a group 30 feet farther up the road would hear the noise and the chanting immediately started again. In any case, the score of the game would be posted every few miles as the innings in the game progressed with our miles.<br />
<br />
The atmosphere is charged for the runners but for the spectators, it is a party to enjoy. All along the route, groups have gathered. There are a lot of churches in the first few miles; some with members offering water or oranges and others trying to convert the runners on the spot. They would probably have better luck later in the day when we needed our spirits lifted or divine intervention. The sideshow is a major distraction for runners (in a positive way) and it runs parallel to the marathon even as they feed off each other. One of the early sites is a biker bar – described in this quote “Even the leather-clad Harley set gets caught up in marathon mania. This rowdy biker bar, located on the left side of the road, is the first major spectator hangout you'll pass. Prepare for at least a hundred leather-clad bikers with their Harley's, drinking beer, cheering loudly, and singing along to a tough-looking guy doing a Black Sabbath cover. Rock on!” Indeed rock on. And yes, that accurately described the scene and energized us early. How could we sustain a slow pace?<br />
<br />
The marathon course is a point-to-point from Hopkinton to downtown Boston and it passes through a number of small towns and villages. Each has its own story and charms and crowds. The course itself is well marked, wide enough, full of volunteers and generally designed for the runners. Aid stations are located on both the right and left sides of the street so that there is less congestion and Gatorade is offered at the first set of tables and then water immediately afterwards. I found the left side a bit less frequented and I ran mainly on that side and grabbed a Gatorade almost every mile. Usually in other races, drinks are available only every 2 miles and so this seemed too often, but I dared not pass many without stopping. The area was already wet and so my shoes would always have a sticky feeling for the first hundred yards afterwards, but by then, I was nearer the next station.<br />
<br />
Mile markers and clocks (remember to subtract 6 minutes!) were very visible and located at every mile along with markers at every 5K. There were also chip readers at the 5K markers that texted our splits to registered phone numbers. I tried to cross these with the foot without the chip first and then the chip a fraction of a second later. I thought that might make my next split a fraction of a second faster and you never know when you might need that. I still felt good and my 5K splits were not too fast and were fairly steady. This was fun. GREG, GREG, GREG. Oh, hey. Roar of the crowd.<br />
<br />
Around 10 miles the initial buzz has subsided and I take stock of my status. I feel good. The pace has been a bit slow and today will not be a PR for me, but I feel that barring a complete reversal, no one from the second wave will pass me. And if they do, they didn’t really belong there. Furthermore, I probably won’t notice, as there are 50 people within 20 feet of me. I am in the sweet spot of the group.<br />
<br />
We enter the town of Wellesley around 11.5 miles. There are fans but nothing out of the ordinary. The college is located at about 12 & a half miles and the noise starts about a quarter of a mile before there. Wellesley is a women-only college with about 2,400 students. These women show up with verve, energy, creativity and passion to sustain the legend prior classes have achieved as super fans of the runners. The area is variously know as “scream tunnel,” screech tunnel” and “throngs of thongs.” They scream, yell and carry signs saying “Kiss me I’m a senior,” “Kiss me I’m Irish,” “Kiss me I’m Italian,” “ and at least one hundred other versions. And there are guys that stop and grab a kiss. What kind of serious runner would consider stopping when we know that this will add to our time. I hope that they practiced this in their training! I wonder if the Wellesley women consider a kiss a success or if it is all show. At almost 13 miles, most of the runners to be kissed are covered in sweat and not particularly attractive. Most of the heterosexual males enjoy the attention, though I have heard comments from female runners that were uncomfortable there. The energy level is off the charts and combined with a moderate descent just in front of campus, we are revved up and our pace quickens. The campus and crowd is on the right hand side and I have been running in the middle of the road. Having my name in large letters on the front of my shirt makes me an easy target to single out. “Go Greg Go! Faster, Greg!” That’s what she screamed (collectively)! I took another step to the left and moved on through the tunnel.<br />
<br />
The excitement of the vocal support was immediately followed by Mile marker 13 and then the marker for halfway. A cheer arose from the runners as we passed it. We smiled and waved and posed for the MarathonFoto people as they pointed and clicked relentlessly. The noise from the chip mat is a constant beep as we sweep through in unison. I have just finished calculating my time at mile 13 including last mile and average mile pace when an eighth of a mile later I face another clock and more calculations. I pass under at (subtracting my 6 minutes) 1:47:06. This is almost 9 minutes off a good half-marathon (alone) pace for me and about 4-5 minutes slower than a good first-half pace. I feel good but I know the famous hills of Newton await me and that it is unlikely that I will run a negative split. Still, this is a fun marathon and I am completely unconcerned about being a few minutes slow in finishing – as long as I am in the general range. And the Red Sox are now winning.<br />
<br />
I’ve only run one marathon without Eva there as a spectator and I have come to rely on her presence as a morale booster and as an energy booster. It also gives me a mental break as I focus on seeing her for about a mile. We had agreed that she would take the “T” (transit/metro/subway) and be near 15-and-a-half miles on the right side. That means that, in order to not miss her (and be depressed), I start looking for her around the 15-mile marker and will plan to give up if I haven’t seen her by the 16-mile marker. Fortunately, she is there and spots me. She steps out just a little about 40 feet before I arrive and makes herself more obvious. She has no camera today so she yells “Go Greg Go!” and this time I believe it. I tell her that it is fun, that I feel good and that I need to hide my name on my shirt. There is no time for a response as she also hands me a bottle with about 6 ounces of Gatorade, which is immediately consumed, and is intended to power me through the next few miles. And then I turn the corner.<br />
<br />
At mile 16.2, as I trail the lead men by about 50 minutes (remember the 6-minute head start!) we runners make a 90-degree right turn onto Commonwealth Avenue and those observant types see a fire station on the left side of the road that serves as the landmark for the start of the legendary hills of Newton. Those that count such things say there are 7 hills and it is a rolling area. The hills are not super steep, but the explanation of their difficulty is their location in the course and the fact that the earlier downhills mixed with speed pound the quads into hamburger meat and suck the juices out – leaving little reserve for the climbs. Most of us have not done enough research to know that there are multiple hills and not just Heartbreak. So each time we climb a hill we are wondering if this is Heartbreak. I had been running reasonably slow and I had trained on hills – both up and down – and I felt fine on the hills. In fact, I was passing people and I felt stronger as I saw others faltering on what seemed normal to me. I went full-steam and suddenly, was surprised when listening to other runners and fans, I learned that we had just summitted Heartbreak – I thought that we still had one more big hill. I wanted to turn and say – “Come on Heartbreak, is that all you got?” but I heard the chant of “Go Greg Go!” And I knew that my focus should be forward. (By the way, Heartbreak was bigger the next time I ran it – maybe they trucked in some dirt?)<br />
<br />
After Heartbreak, the crowds become continuous. Boston College is along the right hand side and the students – this time coed – make a good showing. Our new focus becomes the Citgo sign. We cruise through Cleveland Circle onto Beacon down into the übercool Brookline area. The crowds are thick on the sidewalks and multilayered with spectators having balcony and rooftop parties as we pass Coolidge Corner. I feel that we are finally in Boston but I don’t know this section of town. There are plenty of small ups and downs and the Citgo sign seems to be the same distance away. We have a train moving on the left and some people are staring at us as they move at about the same speed. Weird. The street has narrowed and the crowd is thick. It seems that every step I hear a shout for “Greg” and I nod and wave and acknowledge – but I am now trying to run on the opposite side or in the middle or close behind another runner to obstruct spectators’ view of my singlet. I feel fine running, but my energy level has dipped and conservation becomes a goal.<br />
<br />
Soon, the Citgo sign has disappeared, the crowds are rowdy and I realize that we have passed Fenway and the Red Sox crowd, having seen a victory, has joined the mob scene. The 25-mile marker has been passed. Of all the mile markers 1-26, I think 25 is the one that always has the most meaning for me. The run is almost completed, but there is still just a ways to go. Running “The Last Mile” of a marathon means thinking back about the run, experiencing the present moment and anticipating the end. It can be the most painful or it can signify the nearness of relief from pain. It can require all the energy that you have, or – well it will take whatever energy is left. It can shave a few seconds off your final time or it can add minutes of agony. The crowd around has reached a feverish pitch and I want to share it with them. Still I do that mentally and steer towards the middle. Then we turn on Boylston Street and the tall buildings echo the cheering as the finish line awaits us. We all run as hard as we can at that moment until we cross the line. I can see and feel the seconds ticking away. The clock seems in hyper speed, as the seconds are much faster than me. Cameras are clicking, the crowd is roaring, fingers are on watches (timers) as four people are crossing the finish line every second and upon crossing the line, I (and others) come to an immediate halt. I have run 26.2 miles and that is it. That is what I had in me. That is why the race is not 26.3 miles because how would we ever finish it.<br />
<br />
The Boston Marathon is meticulously planned, but with so many runners operating at similar speeds, the finish line is a jammed and they try to herd us along. There is water and food and a medal of honor, but they need for us to keep moving to make room for those now arriving. We are all tired but sharing a moment. This is an achievement and it is fresh on our minds, like our tired legs. The day has cooled noticeably and sunlight has given way to shadows and a cool breeze. Those with things on the bus head that way and then towards the crowded reunion areas. Not finding my group, I fight my way back to search out a place to hopefully cheer Maria as she comes in (she started about 40 minutes later.) I am wet and cold. I somehow find Travis after a while and steal some clothing. He finds Eva who has been stuck underground on the T for an hour (phones work great, but only above ground). I miss Maria’s finish but we find her in the chute.<br />
<br />
I had a great run and a fantastic experience. Maria did as well. I realized that the marathon, and the Boston Marathon in particular, is not a single story, but thousands of individual stories and experiences of the runners and the fans. We all shared some thoughts and moments and others were unique to each of us. I placed my medal around Maria’s neck and congratulated her and she accepted it. She felt victorious and tired and accomplished. For her, it had been a day of hearing people say “Go Maria Go.” Rock on.</i><b><br />
</b><br />
<b>To read more, </b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-558763514518865862011-04-07T10:18:00.003-04:002011-08-07T10:24:17.175-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428286836801592226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wjI_BmKnkrD0ctbd9Oi25hLWarNqNUVb1mLYuAbEr3HAU17Olor0ux_gwiKsn58YLs2KatQ6I8wzPQkdJU2BwOj3OHxtpAaQRs2OuTO7d3catGHoRC_mLEzChDtbbHhsIATYUABP9ZY/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" style="display: block; height: 309px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Ravings of a Runner </b></i>- the new running book of stories told by a runner to you. It is as if your running buddy alternated between a coach, a friend and crazy guy zoning out somewhere in the run.<br />
<br />
Learn parts of how one person views marathon training, track workouts, running challenges and triathlon training. Learn which way to run around the track, how many long runs you should do for a marathon and which part of the triathlon you have a chance to win.<br />
<br />
Hear his take on some of the biggest races including the Boston Marathon, the New York Marathon, the Marine Corps Marathon, Wildflower Triathlon and the local Turkey Trot. Travel to foreign countries and run like a local.<br />
<br />
This is a positive running e-book not overflowing with ego or putdowns. It will make you lace up the shoes. As one reader said " I got sore feet from reading this."<br />
<br />
<i><b>Ravings of a Runner </b></i>is available in - I have limited control on prices but these are no revenue prices for me - paperback ($8) at Lulu, free as a PDF for IPad, electronically $.99 on the<a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11"> Ipad at Ibooks</a> , <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle version is $.99</a> and PDF/ebook form (<span style="color: #cc0000;">FREE</span>) at Lulu or <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">here on Google Books</a>. No one is getting rich from the book, but it can help enrich your runs and conversations. Share it with a training buddy and then have a book club discussion on your next run.<br />
<br />
But wait that's not all. There is an attempt to include humor, puns and vague references in the running book. Be the first on your trail to own it and then seek out each attempt.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a></span> at IBooks app <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div></div><a href="http://www.lulu.com/commerce/index.php?fBuyContent=8572661"><img alt="Support independent publishing: Buy this e-book on Lulu." border="0" src="http://static.lulu.com/images/services/buy_now_buttons/us/blue.gif?20101109133100" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-18438099811341762482011-04-07T10:10:00.000-04:002011-04-07T10:18:04.300-04:00Goodie Bag, Goody Bag or a Virtual Goody BagWant to add something of real value to your virtual goody bag for your race? Coupons, pamphlets and flyers given by the other running sponsors will have greater impact if your virtual goody bag has real value for runners. So include Ravings of a Runner. The book is available for free as a PDF that works on Ipads or computers to be included in your virtual goody bag. You can put the pdf on your flash drives, or website or email it or just provide a link.<br />
<br />
Rather have a paper flyer for a goodie bag for the runners? We have some printed so let us know how many you need. Each one will allow the runner to download a free book to help inspire them on their next run.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-33324739063082489782010-10-19T13:33:00.006-04:002011-08-07T10:27:03.784-04:00Marine Corps is flat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcsAhZB3euQaHagcMDpUF_5AgvvYW9uCjuhbmt_sAzs1VnlV25UJxFqdqsKHsFAOhRBNUSZmCRiDV74ZoI8Mot4vD5leKe4BQd4g0pGX9WpnweT8pyczcDvK5vz74-Nb5Q0hbtqy7Tp8/s1600-h/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcsAhZB3euQaHagcMDpUF_5AgvvYW9uCjuhbmt_sAzs1VnlV25UJxFqdqsKHsFAOhRBNUSZmCRiDV74ZoI8Mot4vD5leKe4BQd4g0pGX9WpnweT8pyczcDvK5vz74-Nb5Q0hbtqy7Tp8/s320/Order+Ravings_3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span id="save-message-inner"></span> <br />
<br />
<style>
@font-face {
font-family: "Garamond";
}p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin-right: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoHeader, li.MsoHeader, div.MsoHeader { margin-right: 0in; margin-left: 0in; border: medium none; padding: 0in; font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; }span.HeaderChar { font-family: Garamond; font-weight: bold; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }div.Section2 { page: Section2; }
</style> <br />
<div class="Section1"><div><table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" vspace="0"><tbody>
<tr> <td style="padding: 0in;" valign="top"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 37.1pt; page-break-after: avoid; page-break-before: always; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 51.5pt;">“M</span></div></td> </tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>arine Corps is flat.” “ Like a pancake”. “ Fast and flat.” That’s what I had always heard about this race. It also is considered a good race for beginners and it’s become popular to the point of selling out at the opening of registration to rival the great music acts. All of this had me preconditioned to want to run the race, to live the experience and to have the ability to (false) humbly say, “Yeah, I ran Marine Corps.” But the impetus came from my running buddy Scott, who had run the year before and used most of his talking time from three weeks of runs before the marathon and another three weeks afterwards telling me about it. He talked about the crowd, the expo, the historic sites, and most often about </i><i>The Awakening, a 100-foot statue of a giant embedded in the earth, struggling to free himself, The most visible part is a 17-foot right arm and hand that climb above the observer. Scott enjoyed the marathon as a run and he enjoyed the tourism benefits of the course. Needless to say he had a good time in his mind and on the clock.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Immediately after the race, Scott talked a lot about us running the race together. We had run Chicago and Raleigh together in previous years, but neither really worked out. Eventually we split up and ran separately. But this year would be different. We would train hard. We would be ready and Scott would use it to qualify for Boston. But as time went by and we ran more sparingly in the off season, the conversation turned to Scott running Marine Corps. He didn’t push me and I am not one to commit to a race half a year in advance. I like to train generically for a marathon and if I am feeling good, choose a race 3-4 weeks out. That is getting harder and harder to do in this age of runners and the popular fast races no longer accept any runners as the race date nears.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I was interested in participating and so I checked out the details at their site; the date to register, the hotels nearby, the cost and where I might finish in my age group. (Because 500 or 502 makes a difference!) I did see that they had made some changes to the course, but DC is flat. That’s it. When registration day rolled around, Scott excitedly and dutifully signed up. This gave him a target and motivation. Immediately, his commitment to running was reinvigorated. He made a plan that had different types of runs, different distances and in general the schedule that would not only prepare him to run, but that would prepare him to run well. My job was to keep up.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>And so I tried. Our weekly mileage crept up. My alarm clock sounded more often and at earlier hours so that we could get a run in before work. We began to see more and more of Umstead Forest as the long run added another mile or two. Scott was strong and getting stronger. He had motivation and energy. He took responsibility for hiding Gatorades on our route the night before a long run and recorded the distance, the pace and with that new GPS, even our elevation changes. The runs were social with few periods of silence, but they were also serious training sessions with an undeletable archive of data. I feared having a slow overall time and so we could never slack off. Or we did slack off and had to face the irrefutable evidence at the end of the run. The GPS was not like our mental excuses that allowed us to easily explain away being passed. The best of course is “Oh I am doing a long run and they are just getting started.” Or “They are a different age group or training for a shorter race” or “They run at college” or “Yeah but I am better looking/smarter/have more money” or even the sophomoric humor about their mothers being fast.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I ran along. Scott was proceeding in his training according to schedule. My schedule for training is less formal and generally available only after the race when I can tell you what I did. I have 2 basic goals for marathon training. I want to run at least 40 miles per week for ten weeks and I need to build up to at least three 20-mile training runs. Scott was on pace to do that and even though we ran together at most twice per week, our mileage charts pretty much mirrored each other. He would be ready and I would be ready.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>See, I had decided to register back on the first day and see how it played out. I view the costs of a marathon as high, but I am willing to pay for a place and then forfeit the entry fee if I am not ready to go. But I felt ready to go and I felt it unfair to Scott to keep a secret any more. Being cognizant that this was really his race, and not wanting to ruin it, I told Scott that I had registered and asked if he minded if I ran. There really is only one answer that you can give and I worried that I might force him into acquiescence. But that is my personality not his. He reacted enthusiastically and our pace must have dropped about 30 seconds per mile as he highlighted the benefits and then reviewed the logistics. The challenge was on. The gauntlet had been laid down. We would not only run together in D.C., we would race together. Scott wanted a P.R. and maybe I could run the pace with him for part of the way.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Once the announcement had been made, I decided to raise the personal stakes. I started telling more people and arranged to visit a college buddy and his family for dinner and a sleepover two nights before the start. We had only one long run remaining and in the first crisp air of autumn, we did that at too fast a pace. Not that it hurt us because we were Men of Steel, The Few, The Proud, hardbodies that could run endlessly. Our runs had rhythm and the miles clicked away in training. We were peaking mentally and we, well at least I, was dragging my body to the party. My weight pulled into that pre-marathon range that I quote the rest of the year. I fueled it with healthy food and stoked that fire with cookies and wine and anything that I wanted because we were invincible. When I ran by, people said, well I imagined them saying, “that guy is a runner.” Of course I am sure that they included Scott when he was with me – and probably when he ran alone as well.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Eva is a great travel partner and a wonderful supporter at any race. She puts in the miles walking and understands the thought process of the never-to-be-famous midpacker that I am. We were close enough to D.C. that we headed up a couple of days early. Scott would come up the following day in his own car. His logistics were different than mine. He had reserved a hotel near the start and finish line for the convenience and practicality. I was too cheap for that and we planned to spend one night with friends and the pre-race night in a hotel in the suburbs. Two miles after leaving our house, Scott calls the mobile and starts asking where we are, am I excited and oh, by the way, he isn’t going. Long story short, a medical issue had arisen that halted all running until treated. (Turned out to be minor and he ran a different marathon 2 weeks later). Wow. What a shock and a disappointment. I can only imagine how he feels since as I mentioned, this was his race. So off I go to run this alone.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Upon arriving, our plan was to get a good lunch somewhere in DC and Eva excels at this type of search. And our first hour included decent food, a cold beer and Eva patiently inquiring about this or that part of the marathon. She was DD and allowed me to rest my legs. I need any small advantage possible. From there we searched for the marathon expo. This is a big race and there is a lot for sale. It is held next to the football stadium and requires only a few blocks of walking from the parking lot. My priority is not to wear my legs out from standing too long on concrete or shopping. Fortunately, the Marines are like a military group and Operation Quick Visit is well organized and we fly through the pickup process. I munch on and drink samples of enough things that I am guaranteed a digestive issue, but it is two days early. I stare at shoes and gloves and gel and try to decide if I need or want anything. I get a sales pitch massage from a salesman for The Stick. It feels really good on my calves. Then, like most of my shopping experiences, I decide to leave without buying anything for myself. Eva and I do buy a running T with what we think is a funny statement as a Christmas present. Fifty-eight shopping days left.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I get my first clue of a minor surprise as we head to our friend’s place in Arlington. The road we took was part of the first few miles of the marathon and it looked like a pretty steady climb. Not ridiculous, but it was not a pancake. I mentioned this to them and they sort of nodded. No sympathy there. They did however have a lot of questions that I don’t really have an answer for: do you eat special foods? (No, I don’t carbo load), etc. Fun, but no answer about the hills. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Saturday was a down day with minimal walking: lunch with friends and their baby in Georgetown, a movie, lots of reading and the best pre-race meal ever: Vietnamese </i><i>pho which in addition to tasting great had my carbs (I eat them, I just don’t insist on it), plenty of salt for sweating and liquid for prehydration. I hadn’t ever considered a ramen-type noodle soup as the ideal meal, but even the one-block proximity to the hotel was a plus. Everything is going my way. I am going to be blazingly fast.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>When I run at home, most of my runs start at the end of driveway and end nearby. For races of any length though, you have to have some sort of a plan. The biggest issues occur at the confluence of a long run like a marathon and a large crowd. Marine Corps says “Aye Aye, sir!” to both of those. I am lucky in that Eva is willing to get up early and drive me to a convenient point. For the 8 AM start, we decided that she would drop me off at a Metro station two stops from the start line at 6 AM, and at 5:55 AM I am crossing the street with a few other runners and headed underground. There I discover a line two deep of people waiting for the next train. It pulls into the station, the doors open and a hundred million people are waiting. Well, maybe fewer, but the car was jammed with young attractive fit runners. What a great but startling sight at 6AM on a Sunday morning. Isn’t life wonderful?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>We exited </i><i>en masse near Pentagon, the designated station, and formed a large migration to the staging area. It was probably a good three-quarter mile walk and there was no empty space during that walk around the Pentagon. Number one (and two for some) on everyone’s must do list meant a long line at the Port-a-Potties. The advance to the front of the line was gradual and there were people searching for friends, eating Gu and Powergel and bananas, people changing clothes or dropping off clothes for the post race. I had a discussion with the female runner in front of me in line about wearing a GPS. I find that even a Timex adds too much extra weight for me to carry and here she, a female that weighed at least fifty pounds less than me, was wearing the gigantic Garmin. I know from my runs that you hardly notice the weight unless the battery is dead and then it adds five pounds. But it is her race and I keep my opinion to myself. And then her mobile phone rings! I do an inventory and she has the phone, the GPS, long pants and a jacket, a headband, multiple gels and a fanny pack. Immediate judgment: she’s the kind of girl that you might want to marry, but you don’t want to run with.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I am rushing now because I found out the time from my new friend’s GPS and confirmed it with her phone: 20 minutes to the start. Where is the start? Another half mile or more of walking gets me to the back of the multitude and I want to move up closer. Guys are running off to the bushes and I see some markers for paces. Music is playing as the jets provide a flyover. I hear the Marine Hymn and remember some of the words from elementary school - </i><i>From the Halls of Montezuma…. I see a big sign that says 3:15 and I look for the 3:30 pace group. Maybe I will run with them. I touch my toes quickly as if there is any hope of truly stretching here. People are everywhere. It is going to be a crazy start. There’s the 3:30 sign. It is jam-packed around that sign. I give up on running with that pace group. I am on my own. Bang. Here we go. Well at least some of the people up front are moving. We start walking, and then shuffling. Now the race has started. </i><i>Semper Fi, runners, </i><i>Semper Fi.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Crowds help control the pace at the beginning of marathons and help us refrain from starting out too fast. That is good, as long as it doesn’t cost me more than 30 seconds because I don’t want to have to make up time. I want time in the bank. But I stick with the program and spend a lot of time thinking about my running so that I avoid stepping on and being stepped on. Later in the race I will focus internally, but this early I am alert and considering the surroundings. I notice the tombstones in Arlington and a wave of patriotism flows through my body and I mumble an expletive. First mile marker shows that this slow pace didn’t really cost us much time: a good indicator that in an unobstructed course, I might have sprinted out. The crowd has begun to spread out a bit. I start to search for a pace, passing a few, trying to draft for a moment behind others and just listening to the conversations friends are having. This is the run portion of the marathon. The race, if there is to be one today, will come much later.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Miles two and three do indeed climb, but the elevation gain seems less pronounced than it did in the car and the crowd and the stored-up energy from weeks of tapering push me up and over it quickly. At mile three, the pace quickens as we head down towards the Potomac and on across the Key Bridge into Georgetown. I associate Key with the National Anthem and spend somewhere between a fraction of a second and two minutes thinking about the words and the tune. I need a different song stuck in my head. Random thoughts pop in. We are in Georgetown and we really haven’t seen anything yet on the course. My pace is fast for me. The downhill made it seem easy and I am in the flow. Somewhere in this area we run on a ramp with a forest on one side and the river on the other. I feel a slight urge and have to decide whether to stop here and hit the side of the road as hundreds of other males and the occasional female are doing, or to wait in hopes that the official port-a-potties exist and aren’t overwhelmed by demand from runners that are polite (a guaranteed time consumer) or take the chance that I won’t need to go until after the race – a very possible scenario in a dehydrating race. I pull off for a pit stop and wonder if I can be as fast at this as Paula Radcliffe. I didn’t really need to go but I feel more comfortable now.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>There are a few more hills around here but I ignore them because I am feeling good. The sun is out so the temperature is pleasant if a little warm for a race. My singlet isn’t rubbing, shorts feel fine and no issue with my shoes. I focus inward on my normal runs, but uncharacteristically, I am hyperaware during my marathons. Not necessarily about buildings and landmarks, but how I feel, how I am breathing, who is around me, what is the best angle for a corner, how do I position myself for the aid stations.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Around Mile 10 we start to see signs of the tourist areas that make this race famous. I am still feeling strong and my time seems neither too fast nor slow. The inclusion of the landmarks creates turns, but it also distracts briefly from the perceived effort. We head down from the Lincoln Memorial on a wide road with lots of runners but plenty of space. I glance to my right and I realize that I am now running with a group. I spend a minute listening in and trying to discern their relationships. It must be a pace group. I ask and yes, I am running with the 3:30 pace group. That worked out nicely. I ask a few questions about what pace they had been running. Some pace group leaders run every mile at the same pace, others run some miles fast to make up for a slow mile. Others plan on negative splits that most mid-packers can’t handle. Others, and these are the worst, merely run mile 26 at whatever pace they need to make the time and those that can’t run mile 26 at 5:45, oh sorry. You need to train more. I can’t remember the answer that I got, but it satisfied me. That is my target and so I decide that I should run the next 5-7 miles with the group and see if I can hang.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I try to engage a couple of people in conversation but I am a strange man crashing the gates. I hear someone yell that the White House is off to the left and I look at that potent symbol of power and almost instinctively wipe the left side of the face with the middle finger on my left hand. It is not so much a message to the inhabitant as my feelings about where the federal bureaucracy has failed us. Subconsciously knowing the risk of alienating fellow runners and Homeland Security locking in on my chip, I weave through a few people and duck into the crowd. I look around and none of the other runners seem familiar nor can I find the pacer carrying the banner. Have I fallen off the pace or did they lose the banner? How can someone expect to keep a steady pace with a flagpole in his hand? Do they do special strength training? I have a hard time carrying a water bottle on my runs. After fifty feet of looking around while trying not to trip any of those other big feet near mine on the pavement, I cast a glance backward and they are a hundred yards back. Have they changed pace or am I just running too fast and destined for a flameout? I hope that the search-and-rescue team is ready. I decide that I feel good, that I obviously have been running a faster pace just to catch up with them and that there is no pulling back. If we are going to run together, they had better catch up with me. I know that might happen later but it is too early to surrender. Off I go, passing a few more people for emphasis. Beep beep.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>As we head by the Smithsonian I hear Eva shouting my name. She is amazing at picking me out of a crowd. Sometimes I wonder if she is an undercover agent or if she buys information from Rapleaf. It gives me a boost and I shout back that I want one of my partial Gatorade bottles. I put about 9 ounces in the bottle so that I can drink it immediately and not have to carry any extra weight – remember my paranoia. She agrees to meet me on the other side of the mall after our quick tour of the Capitol. In no time we are there. The crowd of spectators is much larger here than anywhere we have been and I know it will be hard to pick her out – if she can even cover so much ground in such a short time. But there she is on the right-hand side handing out the bottle and saying what a great pace I am running. What an energy boost. Soon enough the Gatorade is gone, I am refreshed and we are headed to Potomac Park. This is a junk mile section of the run. There isn’t much out here. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I lock into a pace and feel as strong running as I ever have. This young woman in a royal blue sports bra runs stride for stride with me at about a 7:15 pace for 2 miles as we did the loop. She looks like a runner. She looks fit. She looks fast and while our bodies bear no resemblance, she conveys those traits to me and that is how I see myself. I am not sure where she drifts away; ahead or behind, but we finish a complicated maze and step onto Memorial Bridge headed to Crystal City. The wind is gusting as we cross and it takes a bit of extra energy. For the first time, even as the wind blew, I feel the wind come out of my sails. My natural rhythm has disappeared and I start thinking about rhythm and pace. By the time we cross the bridge, I am laboring. But just 5 miles to go. All marathon runners are taught to know they can run 5 miles, Heck, we do it almost every day. Just hang in there.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I linger at the aid stations. Crystal City is modern and we seem out of place. While that is interesting, I have to consider it as I start digging in for the reserves. Don’t let a great race suffer for lack of willpower. The crowds are back and screaming for everyone. Back at the Mall, most fans are really there in support of a particular runner. These might be here for that reason as well, but they have been partying and they will yell for the sport. A few get in the way as they cross the street. They would have been easy to avoid on another day, but we are all losing the ability to make quick stops or changes in direction. Fortunately there are really few and my mental state has magnified the risk. Oh god, is this a long mile. Suddenly as if reading my mind, (and she is a much faster reader than that) Eva is standing just to my side and pushing another Gatorade bottle into my hand. I mutter thanks and trade some of my kinetic energy for the larger level of potential energy in the “juice.” I don’t feel a rush of energy but I am a few hundred yards farther down the road. We have made a U-turn and we are headed towards the Pentagon. I look for a place to toss the bottle and fortunately narrowly miss a mom and child. Luck is on my side. Let’s run this baby home.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>By the last mile, you are counting down, not up. I think this shift occurs for me around mile 18, but it is in full force by the marker at Mile 25. I ignore the point .2 until the marker at Mile 26 and then I focus on the finish sign. Your focus is all about bringing everything that is left to the table for a strong finish or even just a finish. Distractions are now unwelcome as they only add to the level of work rather than masking it. But as I struggle along staring at my feet and the few runners now directly in front of me, I think for a moment to look up and see where we are. I am unprepared for Arlington National Cemetery and the row after row of tombstones for men that have given part of themselves for us. Without thinking, I know that my pain is so much less than their family members. </i><i>Semper Fi, buddies, </i><i>Semper Fi. Let’s shut up and finish this. It is fun after all.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>And so I run for the finish line and we pass the turn. They needed extra distance and we had a down and back spur. Who planned this? Well, it can’t be far. Running at a slower pace means that it takes longer to get to the destination. That seems obvious but it doesn’t reduce the disbelief that it is so far away. And then finally we head past the Iwo Jima statue and even though I know that it is a replica of an iconic photograph of the replacement of the earlier flag, I am happy to see it. One last thing to do and that is the hill. For some reason not obvious to the majority of the participants, the organizers felt the obligation to make the last quarter mile sprint to the finish at the steepest hill in the course.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>I didn’t ever see the 3:30 pace group again and I had no way to verify the results afterwards, so I don’t know how they finished. Despite my claims of being hyperaware, they easily could have passed me on both sides and I would have been unaware. I slumped over after finishing and tried to help the volunteer remove the chip from my stinky shoes, but it was just an insincere gesture on my part. I accepted my participant’s medal and gingerly ambled to the goodies area. I drank a lot and ate a little and wondered how best to reunite with Eva. I am sure we had a plan, but what was it? If only I had run with a cell phone. As always, Eva had the sharper eyes and found me. She had parked a block from where she had dropped me that morning and directly in front of a burrito restaurant. That being the closest way and a great post- race idea, we walked on over.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>Scott is a better fan than I am. He tracked my 5K splits. He wanted to hear details about the prerace, the course, the music, the weather, etc. He wondered if I had been as impressed by the giant hand coming out of the ground as he was. He was incredulous when I said that I hadn’t seen it. He found images online and sent them over, hoping to jog my memory, but I am a runner, I don’t jog! A couple of weeks later, proofs from Marathon Foto arrive and one has a straight-on shot of me running almost in the shadow of this large hand. Another photo from this area shows the people around me in that area and there is no female runner in a royal blue sports bra. Had I imagined that she showed my ability to run? Hyperaware? Right. </i><i>Semper Fi.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">The Awakening</div></div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 11pt;"> </span> <br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 9pt;">was moved several months later to its current home in Maryland. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<b>To read more, </b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"> - 99 cents</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160"></a><br />
<br />
</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-3948563146907605852010-01-11T18:39:00.007-05:002012-05-04T09:36:10.823-04:00What readers (runners) have said:<span style="color: #cc0000;"> Send us your comment</span> to RavingsofaRunner (at) gmail.com <br />
<br />
Ernesto: "Your races - so vividly described in the book - made me join you and imagine running alongside you all the way, so that when a race ended, ... I ended up with swollen feet."<br />
<br />
P said: "Has even spurred my lazy bones to get back out on the trail."<br />
<br />
M. wrote: "I got up and went for a run immediately."<br />
<br />
J. wrote: "I wanted to read more and I wanted to run. I finally put down the book and went running. I ran faster than normal because I wanted to hurry back home and read some more."<br />
<br />
S. said: "Finally a runner that has interesting stories and training tips for normal runners." <br />
<br />
Oh and a couple of people have said some things that I am not going to repeat here. But hey, ....<br />
<br />
And then the really negative one that I am not putting here (you can see it on Amazon) which among other things voiced frustration at not knowing who the characters are. That was a conscious decision that I made and here is the response I placed on Amazon: <span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> <i>The book is called "Ravings" and attempts to offer a collection of running stories that accomplish 3 specific objectives: (1) hopefully to help motivate you to run and discover/create your own stories, (2) offer some training advice in the context of a specific story and (3) stay positive - no runners are put down regardless of their abilities.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><i>The collection is intentionally not chronological. Characters are not identified so that you can substitute your own running buddies and partners and so that the stories can be age-agnostic (hopefully interesting regardless of the storyteller's age). The stories switch constantly between present and past tense - almost stream of consciousness - just as I would tell it to a running partner.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><i>The stories are best for beginner to midlevel runners that hang with the middle of the pack and view running as fun - just because.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><i>Scrambled? Perhaps. But so are my runs and triathlons, and my friends and family and my training. That is why I run. It fits right into life. Read one story at a time and then tell me one of yours.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><i>Thanks again. And for those that need to know: Scott = running buddy, Eva = significant other, Maria = daughter & running buddy & Travis = son & running buddy.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><i>Run long and prosper.</i></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-79288801198453553532010-01-11T18:15:00.004-05:002010-02-25T17:31:14.903-05:00Contact Info:I'd like to hear <b>your</b> story. You can write to me at:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">RavingsofaRunner</div><div style="text-align: center;">at</div><div style="text-align: center;">gmail.com</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6994022540301575603.post-91859508879550094702009-02-25T16:55:00.026-05:002011-01-14T15:44:47.609-05:00Free Ebook - PDF document<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order paperback now at Lulu $8</a></div><div> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004IZLEMQ">Kindle edition - 99 cents </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false"><span id="save-message-inner">FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">Free at Google Books </a><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span id="save-message-inner">Now <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/ravings-of-a-runner/id365490872?mt=11">available for IPad</a> at IBooks app</span><span id="save-message-inner"> </span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
Free Ebook - That means that it is a PDF document that can be read on computers and many readers and phones. Choose PDF link on top right side at Google Books.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=v6zf1SA2xMQC&printsec=frontcover&dq=ravings+of+a+runner&source=bl&ots=xeWr9tXypj&sig=rx_0J4tTiFHxRjN5zyXKVLXtiPs&hl=en&ei=3foTTe3HGsX6lwfXksnTDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CEUQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q&f=false">DOWNLOAD FREE COPY NOW</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">If you have read the ebook and want a copy, or prefer another source for the, you can visit:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/ravings-of-a-runner/7967160">Order a regular book at Lulu</a><br />
<a href="http://www.lulu.com/commerce/index.php?fBuyContent=8572661"><img alt="Support independent publishing: Buy this e-book on Lulu." border="0" src="http://static.lulu.com/images/services/buy_now_buttons/us/blue.gif?20101109133100" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red;">New</span> - <span id="save-message-inner">Now available on Kindle and for IPad at IBookstore app</span><br />
<br />
You can also write to me at RavingsofaRunner (AT) Gmail.com and I can email you a pdf - whatever makes you feel comfortable.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Please write me & tell me what you thought of the book/stories - I would really appreciate some feedback - good or bad as long as it is honest and considered.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com