Qualifying for Boston

Qualifying for Boston

When Maria moved to Boston for college, I casually mentioned that maybe I would run the Boston Marathon and visit her. At that 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.

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.

Ravings of a Runner 99

Qualifying for Boston

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.

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.

What would I do differently in training for this race? That seems to be a straightforward question

Ravings of a Runner 100

Qualifying for Boston

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 101

Qualifying for Boston

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 17th run in Boston. Oh well, one step at a time.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 102

Qualifying for Boston

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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 103

Qualifying for Boston

the perfect temperature for a marathon. My lucky streak continues.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 104

Qualifying for Boston

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 105

Qualifying for Boston

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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 106

Qualifying for Boston

we try to maintain the pace for as long and as far as we can. And that is exactly what did.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 107

Qualifying for Boston

average an 8:40 and break 3 hours 30 minutes. Not a problem today.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 108

Qualifying for Boston

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.

I had qualified for Boston. I had 9 weeks to get ready. But first there were pancakes to eat.

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!

For more on qualifying times, see

http://www.runhardrunfun.com/2009/06/boston- marathon-qualifying-times.html

Robbie Crusoe

Robbie Crusoe

Once a Runner is a novel that illustrates the hard work and dedication that is required of an elite runner named Quenton Cassidy. He drops out

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.

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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 64

Robbie Crusoe

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.

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” (pun) 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.

Ravings of a Runner 65

Robbie Crusoe

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 66

Robbie Crusoe

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.

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.

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? I needed an alias and in this morning heat, I would never be

Ravings of a Runner 67

Robbie Crusoe

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.

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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 68

Robbie Crusoe

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 69

Robbie Crusoe

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 70

Robbie Crusoe

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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 71

Robbie Crusoe

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...

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.

P.S. Eva arrived without incident shortly after we did and had her own fun experiences to share.

New York Marathon

  

 Chapter 4: New York Marathon

“N

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, IªNY, even the karaoke standard of “New York, New York” 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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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^nd. 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.

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. (humor) 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And so I leave by taking the Queensboro Bridge, better known to me as the 59^th 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.

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.

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^nd 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

To read more, 

Order paperback now at Lulu $8

Kindle edition - 99 cents

FREE PDF FOR IPAD or COMPUTER - EBOOK here.

Free at Google Books

Now available for IPad at IBooks app  - 99 cents

That Big Hill

That big hill

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 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.

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.

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.

Ravings of a Runner

1

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.

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.

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.

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.”

Ravings of a Runner

2

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!

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner

3

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.

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.

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?

Finally, the perceived lack of oxygen from the altitude (we were now hundreds of feet above sea level

Ravings of a Runner

4

– 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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner

5

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner

6

starting at sunset – which came early just to step up the challenge.

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.

“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.

We notice small landmarks: there’s a driveway, here’s a mark on the road. Soon we arrive at the small

Ravings of a Runner

7

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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner

8

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?

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner

9

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.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 10

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.”

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.

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.

Halfway down the second hill, the road curves

Ravings of a Runner 11

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.

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.

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 (sic) 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.

A mongoose skirted across the road ahead of us. In my world, these are fairly rare and summon up

Ravings of a Runner 12

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 13

some just off the road on the lower side that headed down to the cliff over the sea.

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.

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

Ravings of a Runner 14

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.

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.

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.