The Short and the Long of It

Introductory Comments (aka, background whining)

Assuming there remain any "regular" readers, I should apologize for my lack of recent posting.  Part of it is that things have been pretty busy, but mostly it's due to the running malaise in which I currently find myself.

There are a few things going on, but the main problem is that I just don't feel "right" in my running.  My hips have been bothering me since before the Mount Washington debacle.  And, last Thursday/Friday, my lower back started to hurt for no discernible reason.  The most obvious reason for this problem is the fact that I have ditched my orthotic inserts in an effort to run "naturally", thinking/assuming/hoping that I could train myself out of needing whatever pronation-correction assistance those 2.2-ounce inserts provide.  In terms of other possible contributing factors, I have wondered whether the high-mileage buildup to Boston, followed by running 3 marathons in 6 weeks has essentially hamstrung my ability to go back to training the way I would like.

Mini-Race Report (aka, "The Short")

On July 3rd, I ran a little 5K (<200 runners) in Mid-coast Maine.  From past years' results, I might have had a chance to win it, if no one really fast showed up, and I was having a good day.  This year, I pegged the eventual winner just from how he looked warming up, and figured it may be a race for second place.

I had a nice long warmup on the hilly course, as the morning went from coolish and cloudy to warm, muggy and sunny in a typical Maine instant.  I changed into my "fast" shoes and lined up a couple of rows from the front.  Incidentally, the entire race reflected the spirit of the $5 registration fee, so the start was confusing, the course turned out to be a bit long, and the awards ceremony a bit underwhelming.

Almost immediately, I found myself in the top 20 or so runners, trying to find my pace and dealing with the automatic cottonmouth reaction I have in 5K races.  By the half-mile mark, I was likely in the top 10 and took a quick swig of water from the aid station.  That was all I needed to eliminate that awful dry-mouth feeling.

As expected, the leader took off and put a lot of real estate between himself and the second wave of runners.  When I saw him heading back after the turnaround, he was several hundred yards ahead of the second-place pack.  I was a bit behind that pack, and decided at the turnaround to move up so that I could a chance at second place.  I surged a bit, passed a couple of people on an uphill and then kept the second-place guy in my sights, with two other guys running stride-for-stride with me.

The rest of the race proved a frustrating exercise, as I worked my way up to third, but could not close the gap on the second-place guy (who, frustratingly did not look especially fit, nor did he look like he was working that hard, though he did look back a lot).  The two guys near me and I kept trading places, and I'd pretty much resigned myself to being 4th with about a 0.25-mile to go.  The guy behind then found another gear and blew past me and the third-place guy.  I ended up 5th overall in 19:39 on my watch, with no age-group awards. Last mile was the fastest, and the final 0.17 came out to an average pace of 5:38.  So, it was a decent effort, and my hips never locked up, though I did feel limited in terms of my turnover when I was fighting for a better place.  Overall, though, I was satisfied.

Recent Training (aka, Slogging Through)

I followed the 5K with 12.25 hot hilly miles on July 4th, where the only notable incidents were the chafing by my CamelBak and the fact that some jerks in a pick-up truck slowed down to heckle me.  I couldn't hear everything they said, but the phrase, "F-in' faggot" was pretty clear.  I simply cannot understand what would cause anyone to hurl such hateful words at a person who's merely doing his own thing.  It rattled me more than it should have, but I guess it's an unfortunate part of the rural running experience.

Last week, I managed 59 miles, but had trouble with any fast running.  I had no choice but to adjust the schedule my coach provided:

• Monday - 6M easy on the trails
• Tuesday - 10M with 1.5M at tempo(-ish) pace; Heat index was over 100, so I did this run on the treadmill, which was awful in its own right
• Wednesday - 8M easy, with 8x20 secs strides
• Thursday - 7M easy
• Friday - woke up with the sore/stiff back; did 6.6+M, instead of the 9M with 10x400 at 5K race pace
• Saturday - 7+, mostly on tough, hilly, technical trails
• Sunday - 14.5+ miles; supposed to do the last 4M at current marathon pace (about 7:05), but managed 7:20 pace for 1.5M before my whole hip area protested

A Vermont-100 Preview (aka, "The Long of It")

The next big running adventure on the calendar is this weekend's Vermont 100 Mile Endurance Run. I signed up to be a volunteer pacer, meaning that I would be assigned to accompany a runner for the last 30 miles of the 100-mile undertaking.  I'll post more about this separately, but suffice it to say that I now find myself assigned to an internationally accomplished female ultrarunner who's seeking to break the women's course record.  In a flash of revelation, I went from fearing that I would be walking with someone for 8 or so hours, to fearing that I won't be able to keep up, despite my runner's 70-mile "head start".  Oh well, we'll see how that goes.  Regardless of what happens, it should be interesting, challenging, inspiring and a nice break from training and my own chronic running-related concerns. 

Happy summer running, everyone. -ESG/Ron

I Came, I Saw, I Conked Out - Mt. Washington Road Race Report

The Mount Washington Road Race has achieved cult-driven, quasi-mythic status among a select group of masochistic runners who wish to exert their will over the Northeast's highest peak.  At 6,288 feet, the summit of Mount Washington's primary claim to fame has been as home of the world's worst - or at least most unpredictable - weather.  The foot race traces the auto road for 7.6 miles, and, according to the official course description, "has an average grade of 11.5% with extended sections of 18%, and the last 50 yards is a 22%'wall'".  The race begins, though, with a 300-meter downhill, just to make things appropriately perverse.  It's such a popular undertaking, that thousands of people get shut out every year, thanks a lottery system which selects the 1000 lucky (?!) winners who get to slog their way up a course that slows the average entrant's running pace by 60%.  I put off entering this race, in light of the comment I heard from a past participant, who told me long before I became a runner, "The first mile was the hardest thing I ever did.  Then it just got worse."  That description echoed in my mind for years before I took the chance and entered the race.

So, in 2010, I was one of those 1000 entrants, getting the opportunity to take part in the 50th running of the race.  I had hoped to make my ascent within some semblance of respectability, perhaps in the low to mid-1:30's.  I'd have been satisfied with anything under a 1:45.  As with any and every race, I never considered that I might not make it to the top.

I had been feeling a certain sense of antipathy towards MTW.  I did not alter training, my training, save for a single mountain run one week out.  I climbed about 1500 feet in 3.5 miles and felt surprisingly comfortable doing so.  I figured that while I had no reason to expect great things from myself, I would at least be able to sustain a half-marathon-type effort as I inched my way up the auto road.

It bears mention here that I've been feeling sort of "flat" since after Boston, and that I've endured a pervasive sense of hip tightness during attempts at fast running.  This tightness coincides with recent efforts to shed the prescription orthotics which I've been wearing consistently since 2008.  It's been frustrating to feel like I'm hindered by nothing more than a "range of motion" issue, rather than by running fitness, per se.  More on that shortly.

The weekend started with a nice drive up to Jackson, NH with my friend Dan, a veteran of MTW and a great guy with whom to chat about running and life.  We arrived at the epicenter of race weekend, the Eagle Mountain House, where we got our packets, shirts, etc. and mingled with some of the country's top mountain runners.  We also watched the first set of inductees into the MTW Road Race Hall of Fame.

We got to my friends' Jim & Chris' wonderful mountainside home, and were treated to a delicious pasta dinner, good company and lots of positive pre-race talk.  As the sun set over the mountains, including Mount Washington itself, which was visible from the house, I laid out my gear and prepared for the next day.

Dan and I left the house to meet another Jim and his girlfriend Lindsay, with whom we had orchestrated the labor-intensive and logistically complex "ride-down" process.  We had breakfast, and then headed towards the base of the mountain.  Linsday left us driving my car, and she planned to meet us at the top to drive us all down.

Many folks were concerned and thus complaining about the weather, as it was a very warm day.  Even at 9:00 am, an hour before the start, it was above 80 degrees, though not particularly humid.  I lingered around, did an easy mile warm-up run on the trails and got into race mode.  I was more excited than nervous as we lined, and took my place about a quarter of the way into the assembled mass of humanity.  As the announcer warned us about the volume of the imminent starting blast, most of us covered our ears.  The boom came, and we were off.

I started out at what I'd describe as "fast training" pace, knowing that I could not risk redlining early in this race.  I had decided not to look at pace, time or distance, setting my watch instead to the heart rate display screen, and seeking to keep my heart rate in the 170-172 bpm range (which corresponds approximately to my half-marathon heart rate).

The first mile went fine.  I stayed steady, watched my HR climb steadily and tried to get into a steady rhythm, a common piece of advice from mountain veterans.  I thought I was accomplishing that, but somewhere in the middle of the second mile, I felt that all-too-familiar hip "lock-down" sensation.  It's tough to put into words, but it's like the ligaments and tendons connecting my thighs to my hips have rusted, so that they move slowly.  It doesn't cause pain exactly, just an unshakable sense of tightness that makes it nearly impossible to keep up my leg turnover.  I've experience in road races before, but when it happens on a relatively flat surface I can slow down and usually work through it.

As I approached the end of the second mile, I broke my "don't-walk-'til-tree-line" vow.  As I walked in an effort to collect myself, I realized that the tightness was only worsening.  I tried running again.  No dice.

I ran and walked until about the 2.5 mile mark, and then realized that the steep pitch was too unforgiving, and that the best I could hope for was a seemingly interminable 5+-mile shuffle to the summit.  Deciding that wasn't what I'd registered for, I did something extremely tough for me: I stopped and dropped out.

I ripped my singlet off in disgust and started the walk of shame down the mountain, while the bulk of the field still worked its way up the mountain.  I happened to see Dan, and then Jim so they'd know not to wait for me at the top.  As Dan went by, I actually had a momentary change of heart, and decided to chase after him, to see if he could somehow pull me to the top.  He never heard me, and I didn't catch him.  As it turned out, though, he was hurting himself, and pretty much shut it down shortly after I saw him and walked to the summit.

When I reached the bottom, I wallowed for a bit before going for an easy run on the trails.  Even slight uphills were bothersome, so I finally just packed it in for the day, disappointed with myself.

I sat under the big tent, out of the scorching sun, talking to a couple of other wounded warriors.  Lots of people succumbed to the heat.  I couldn't help but feel like I fell prey to a lack of internal fortitude.

It was particularly frustrating to have this attempted conquest linger as unfinished, since I'd planned to run it once, wear the shirt as a badge of honor and simply check this ridiculous pursuit off "the list".  Now, of course, I have to head back next year, though my friend Jim, who's run the race about 17 times (and who ran quite well last Saturday), is plotting an unofficial run later this summer.  If I can get to the top on my own two feet, I'll likely consider that "close enough" and move on to other, less harshly vertical, challenges.

As a postscript to the disappointment of MTW, I have sought the help of a new chiropractor, one certified in Active Release Techniques, aka, ART.  Many runner friends swear by the painful sessions, and - after two such torture treatments to date - they've not exaggerated the pain part of the process.  I'm waiting on the gain.

In other brief running news, I have formally hired a coach to get me to Chicago, and have volunteered to be a pacer at the Vermont-100.  More on those two topics later.

Thanks for reading. -ESG

A Better Pacer than a Racer?

Having enjoyed my first pacing experience a great deal last fall, I soon looked at other such opportunities for this spring.  I exchanged e-mail messages with the Keybank Vermont City Marathon Pace Leader Coordinator, and my expression of interest became an invitation, which became an idea, then a plan, and - finally - a firm commitment. Of course, I had not thought things through in terms of how I might feel after Boston 2 Big Sur . . .but, hey, sometimes planning is overrated.

I had thought of heading up to Burlington alone, find a cheap place to crash for the night, run the race and come back.  However, when the kids heard that I was returning as a pacer, they begged to come with me, since they'd had an amazing time (which was not exactly my experience, at least not during the race) in Burlington in 2008.  As it turned out, my wife had to work, so I took the kids and our baby-sitter to Burlington for the weekend.

We left home on Friday mid-afternoon for the almost-3-hour drive to Burlington, and I scrambled to get all the kids' stuff together for the weekend.  This is a key piece of information, because it led to my forgetting my custom orthotics at home, a realization which caused me considerable angst when I unpacked my things at our hotel on Friday evening.

SATURDAY AT THE EXPO

Saturday's plans involved my hitting the Expo and hanging out at the Skirack booth for a couple of hours so that prospective 3:40 "pacees" could ask questions.  A few did, but I filled my time in a couple of ways.  I chatted up Endurasoak, an amazing recovery bath soak made by Oasis Recovery Systems (in the interest of full disclosure - it looks like I'll be working with the company).  I "test drove" some Aline inserts to address the orthotics issue.  They felt a bit odd by mile 3 of an easy run, so, after much agonizing about whether to run in untested over-the-counter orthotics (what's that maxim about "Don't try anything on race day"?), I went over to the Structural Management booth, where I spoke with Dr. Tim Maggs about taping my feet, and where I met U.S. running legend Greg Meyer (see pic above).  Greg won the 1983 Boston Marathon, the last American to do so.  After Dr. Maggs graciously (and without charge) taped my feet, I asked Greg if we could get a picture.  He graciously put his hand behind my back, only to proclaim, "This guy's still damp", as a good Samaritan snapped a couple of shots with my phone. I made a sort of lewd remark, and he laughed and sent me on my way.  Nice guy, not at all full of himself, and completely accepting that his running days essentially ended 13 years ago after moving a piano for his ex-in-laws.

During the expo, I also had an "It's-a-small-world" moment with a Mizuno rep who was working at the Skirack booth.  He and I had a few mutual running friends and I helped hook my new running coach up with his fall relay team. Cue the theme songs and the dancing international dolls.

On Saturday evening, we ended up having dinner at Troy's lovely Burlington home.  I'd "met" him via RWOL friends who post on Facebook, too.  It was nice to put social media to good use for a change.  Troy graciously invited my whole gang to his pre-race pasta feed, where we also met other RWOL posters and made new running friends.  We all discussed our goals, our most recent races, our injuries (if applicable), etc., but mostly, we ATE.  We brought a peanut butter pie (becoming a tradition before my "fun run" marathons) which was one of the best things I've ever eaten. Ever. Troy captured the image for posterity.

As you can see from the pic to the right, I was wicked stylin' in my taped Vibram Five Finger-sporting tootsies.  Didn't matter as I tucked into that pie, though.

So, after letting the kids take a swim back at the hotel, we all turned in, me with bright blue kinesio-tape holding my feet and my psyche together.

I drank Gatorade, ate pretzels and watched soccer and track on the TV before dozing off sometime around 11:00 p.m.

RACE DAY/PACE DAY

After another fitful pre-race sleep, it was nearing 5:00 am, and I was up. I ate some food in my room, then in the lobby and then went to Starbucks for some coffee.  I arrived at 5:55, and the baristas watched me pacing (already with the pacing) outside before unlocking the door at 6:01 a.m.

I ordered my Venti Gold Coast and returned to the hotel.  I got my final things together and made it to the first shuttle bus pickup, so that I could settle in and answer more questions from nervous runners.  Being one myself not that long ago (like, in April), it was mostly a joy, though the kooky, insidpid, uber-obvious questions did also flow.

As I wandered around Battery Park, I heard my name.  It was BetJet from RWOL, seeking her redemption BQ attempt after succumbing to the heat a few weeks back.  We chatted and I wished her well, thinking I'd likely see her on the course.  Then, I met a friend of a local running friend, who was looking for me just to say hi.  From there, I did my bathroom business, and just took in the scene, which is one of my favorite things about marathons: the bubbling cauldron of nervous energy and anticipation which is the starting area.

At one point, two women stopped in my path.  One came over to my side; the other snapped a couple of pictures.  The one next to me smiled sheepishly and said apologetically, "I'm just soooooo excited."  It was quite cute actually, and made me feel like a B-list (okay, C-list) rock star for a short while.  I later commented that the real hallmark of success is the photo with the pacer after the race.

More people asked me questions, about pacing and myriad other things.  With mixed success, I tried to curtail my wise-guy replies.  Some folks made that damn-near impossible.

As the start time grew near, I actually used my newly-discovered Pace Leader influence to cut the long bathroom lines, since I needed to mill about near the actual starting line long enough so that people could find me.  Yes, it's true: power corrupts. ;-)

With the start inching closer, I made my way to the starting area, waving my sign for all to see.  A group started to form, with a number of people introducing themselves, asking (more) questions, and simply biding their time until the speeches, music and other fanfare passed.  The wheelchair runners were off at 8:00 am, and the runners followed about 4 minutes later.

About 45 seconds after the starting gun, our group was across the line.  I was now pacing a marathon for the second time in my running life, and - quite honestly - did not know what to expect.

Miles 1-6

1-8:43
2-8:08
3 8:12
4 8:05
5-6 15:57

The course makes it a tad challenging to find a rhythm in the early going.  The combination of the crowd, an uphill first mile and several turns meant that I knew it'd be a slow mile.  I'd hoped to be behind by 15 seconds, but it was closer to 20.  I tried to head off any concerns by telling the group that we were exactly where I'd hoped we'd be (the first of numerous little white lies I'd spout throughout the day).  After the first mile, I settled into a groove, but I could feel myself running too fast.  I'd cruise along for a bit, check the  "average lap pace" and realize I was anywhere from 10-20+ seconds ahead of the goal 8:23 pace.

That said, I also knew that the second half had the biggest, longest hill on the course, and that it was pretty muggy and getting warmer.  In other words, it was a strategic decision to put a little bit of time "in the bank".  I only hoped not to burn anyone out, but the fact is that a pacer can't run the ideal race for every single aspiring "pacee".  So, I did the best I could.

Mile 7-Half

7-8:20
8-8:26
9-8:23
10-8:24 

10-mile split - 1:22:43
11-8:23
12-8:28
13-8:24
HALF - 1:48:51

By mile 7, I seem to have found the pace groove.   There's a nice group around me, we're joking, everyone is in good spirits.  There's a triathlete running his first marathon, who's clearly a wise guy.  I was worried that he was talking too much, too soon. Same thing with a young Canadian guy who'd cornered me before the start.  When he was high-fiving the crowd in the early stages, I was not encouraged.  By mile 7, he'd fallen well behind us. 

I encouraged those around me drink early and often, as I can tell it's deceptively humid and muggy.  There's an unattractive highway out and back part of the course,which does yield one benefit for mid-pack runners: it allows us to see the leaders as they hammer their way along the course.  We cheered, continued to crack wise and focused.  Then we took a long but not too steep uphill back into town, and the group seemed to be holding together.  Some folks would drift away and come back.  The picture below may have been taken at around Mile 8, and appeared in the Burlington Free Press (at least online) on Monday.  Good thing I have the sign, or you might not know it was me.

At some point, RWOL forumate BetJet showed up alongside me, offering a cheerfully warm greeting.  Not long after, I noticed an ache developing in my left foot.  It got worse for a while, then just leveled off.  I warned the group at about Mile 10 that if it worsened, I'd have to drop out, since I couldn't risk fading and ruining their race.  I tried to alter my gait just enough to minimize the pain (on the outside of my left foot), and of course I wondered if it was due to running sans orthotics.

After a couple of miles, I just kept going, with the foot no better and no worse, and we hit the halfway point almost exactly where I'd hoped we would be, with an official split of 1:48:51.  So far, so good.

Miles 14-20

14-8:28
15-8:25
16-8:38
17-18 16:57
19 8:17
20 8:20

20-mile split 2:47:06

After a stretch near Lake Champlain and some beautiful homes (one fellow runner said, "You'd think they at least have the help out cheering for us."), we headed back towards the start/finish area along a congested bike path.  The pace seems to be just about right, and we prepare for the "Assault on Battery", with Taiko drummers and large crowds cheering us up the long hill.  I try to stay smooth and relaxed, reminding the troops to "run tall".  I can sense the group thinning behind me.

After Battery, we run north towards another winding neighborhood.  There are some slight hills, but regardless of the terrain, this is the toughest stretch of a marathon: a lot of ground covered; a lot yet left before the finish.  It's time to focus and help these folks meet their goals.

Miles 21-Finish 

21-22 17:22
23 8:18
24 8:30
25 8:19
26 8:11
0.2 1:47

The foot was achy, the group had thinned (with some runners having gone ahead), and stomach woes were percolating.  A stalwart of a runner named Mike, early 50's from the Albany area, was running stride for stride with me, and - most importantly - was able to keep talking comfortably (a sign that we wasn't working too hard). So, at the end of Mile 20, I handed him my pacer sign and hit a port-a-potty.  I took care of business, loosened my left shoe a bit, and then take off to catch back up, running about 7:00/mile pace to do it (which, interestingly, didn't feel any worse than 8:25+/-).

I caught the group, saw my friend Joe's girlfriend Kim struggling a bit, and tapped her on the shoulder to offer a word of encouragement. 

Mike stuck with me, and I urged him to go if he felt good.  As a result of giving back some time with the pit stop, I started to get a little nervous about cutting it too close, so upon hitting the 24-mile marker, I stepped it up just a bit and got back under pace.  At the Mile 25 marker, I called out to anyone within earshot that we have 15 seconds to spare, and I sped up again.  Vermont has a very cool results interface that provides data not usually found in the marathon results page.  One interesting statistic is that in the final 6 miles, I passed 100 runners, while 14 passed me.  Sounds about right for a pacer.

Finally, as we enter the park, I tried to get the crowd into it.  I waved the sign and pumped my arms.  At Mile 26, I slowed down to a jog, continued to work the crowd and tried to "pull" anyone in the vicinity across the line in under 3:40.  I see the clock turn past 3:40, but I know we're under.  I let a mini-wave of runners go by me, and I cruise across the finish line in 3:39:35 chip time (overall average pace 8:23).  As an aside, that 9 minutes faster than when I "raced" the same course 2 years earlier.  Other than my foot hurting and just wanting to drink lots of cool liquids, I felt pretty good.

POST-FINISH

Overall, Vermont City is a very well-organized race, but one criticism I would offer is that the finishing area is not well laid-out. Immediately after crossing the line, things get compressed quickly. The food lines don't move very quickly, and there's no obvious place to sit or get some rest.  I had trouble finding my drop bag, which delayed being able to find the kids, since I needed my phone to contact them. 

So, I milled about a bit, and enjoyed talking to a few people.  I saw some folks I know.  Others came up and thanked me for pacing, including one emotional young woman who started crying, repeating "I can't believe I did it" over and over.  I know the feeling and congratulated her, noting that her tears were a clear sign of proper mid-race hydration.  A couple more people found me, including one woman who'd gone ahead of the group after about Mile 10, running 3:33:xx.  She gave me a VERY warm hug and kiss.

Finally, the kids found me, and the sun was beating down.  We all had smoothies and gathered ourselves to check out of the hotel and head home. Before we could leave, though, a tan, lean older man started talking to our babysitter.  We weren't sure what he was saying at first, but it turns out that he had just run his marathon in 3:58, at AGE 73.  We chatted in a combination of English and my awful French for a bit, and I learned that his name is Albert Miclette, and that he holds virtually every Canadian 60+ age-group distance record, including 100 miles.  Mr. Miclette runs between 70 and 135 miles per week when training, and says that he's never injured.  Those are the types of people who inspire me to push harder and to enjoy every minute of being able to propel myself through this world on the power of my own two feet.  Oh yeah, he won his age group. ;-)

One we returned to the hotel, I took a long soak in Endurasoak while sipping an intense local smoked double porter micro-brew. That was nice.  The drive home was relatively easy, and the feeling of stepping outside of the bubble of self-absorption which is the usual training/racing routine was very satisfying.  I hope to continue to pace one or two events a year, while still pursuing my own marathon (and beyond?) goals.

Thanks for reading. -ESG/Ron

Seemed Like Good Idea at the Time: A Big Sur Race "Review"

As I begin my second race recap of the week (but posted quite belatedly, as you can see), I was thinking that since the second leg of the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge was not really a “race” for me, it did not warrant a traditional “race report”. Instead, befitting the higher brow nature of Monterey and its surroundings, this write-up will be a “Race Review”. For those who must know the numbers, I finished the 2010 Big Sur International Marathon in 3:51:xx. So far, I’ve raised a little over $3,000 for the Christopher & Dana Reeve Foundation.

Big Sur was the culmination of a long period of anticipation, planning and – of course – training, dating back to last September when the BSIM organizers promoted the idea. I’m not sure how or why I thought it would be advisable to do two marathons a mere six days apart, but I jumped on the B2BS Bandwagon before you could say “inadequate recovery time”.

What follows are some areas of “review” of the BSIM experience.

PRE-RACE EXPO

It’s almost unfair to judge any pre-race expo right after Boston, which may be the king of such events. Big Sur had the basic race-related fare, plus some bonuses such as Vibram Five Fingers. Also, I actually met the owners of RaceReady, makers of my favorite marathon shorts (with highly functional/versatile mesh pockets). Steve got stuck in traffic, so I was able to play a voice mail he’d left me for one of the volunteers in order to be allowed to pick up his race packet and Bib #.

Overall, a decent little Expo, with a fair number of tasty samples, including Clif's new "Shot Rox", delicious protein-packed malted milk ball-style spheres. All the race-related volunteers were very kind and helpful.

RACE WEEKEND DINING

Regardless of what any distance runner says, a HUGE part of becoming a passionate devotee of the sport is the fact that we can eat and drink with relative impunity (well, at least in terms of weight gain).  So, it was a pleasure to be in an area with excellent restaurants, and to be there with fellow running friends who like to eat.

I basically ate my way from my arrival to the race (and afterwords, as you'll see below).  I met online running pal RunningRadi at Steelhead Brewing Company near SFO airport right after touching down on Friday.  On Saturday night, I met my friends/budding business associates Amy and Bryan at Fishwife, where I indulged in Mojitos and the delicious Caribbean bowl pictured below:

On Saturday, the Reeve Foundation treated us to a thank-you brunch at First Awakenings, where I had what may have been the best pancakes ever, a couple of huge raspberry/coconut/granola beauties accompanied by turkey sausage.

Saturday night's dinner involved meeting up with a whole crew of Boston 2 Big Sur kooks at English Ales, a brew pub in neighboring Marina, a bit removed from the Monterey marathon crowds.  The bitter ales were delicious; the food, not so much.

PRE-RACE LOGISTICS

A point-to-point race along a coastal highway is going to require that runners leave early. In our case, Steve and I had to awaken at 3:30 in order to make our 4:15 pick-up. Within that window occurred one of the more surreal moments of the day, aka, the Starbucks Drive-Thru Conundrum.

The hotel where my friend Steve and I stayed was kitty-corner from a Starbucks. I'm not generally a national chain patronizing kind of guy, but I like Starbucks' coffee and I think they are less evil than many mega-corps. So, wondering how I might get my mandatory pre-race caffeine fix, I actually called the Starbucks on Saturday night to ask what time they would open on Sunday. Lo and behold, the assistant manager tells me that they'll be open at 4am because of the marathon. Yippee!! We're all set. So, with a 4:30 bus departure in mind, Steve and I walked over to Starbucks a minute after 4:00. The doors were locked, but there were baristas inside. 

A guy leaning against a car in the parking lot yelled to us that the Drive-Thru window was open.  So, we walk over to the Drive-Thru, looking like escaped mental patients who might be hallucinating a car, only to be resoundingly rebuffed by the German-accented Starbucks employee.  She shut us down completely, until our friend with the car, Orlando, drove around and ordered our coffees.  More runners had arrived by this point, and we would pass Orlando money from the passenger's side window, which he'd give to the coffee Nazi inside.  She would hand him change and the drinks, which he'd pass back through to us.  A farcical exercise in hyper-technical, illogical corporate rules enforcement.  Might have made a tad more sense to unlock the doors!

SETTING/COURSE

Hands-down the most beautiful road marathon course one could imagine. Every bend in the road yields another glorious panorama, on a route marked by the ocean, mountains, rocky cliffs, lush green fields . . . all served up on a perfectly clear and relatively calm day (there was very little wind). Add in the goofy mile markers, with silly images and funny inspirational messages, and you get a fantastic course. The course beauty is a good thing, given that there is very little crowd support; still, the volunteers were excellent and the aid stations well-run and plentifully-stocked .

Some assorted views:

RUNNING COMPANY

I could not have asked for a more fun, positive, quick-witted group of running companions. Steve, Amy and James made it a joy to be pounding my still-tender body for a second 26.2 miles in less than a week. It was also fun to be running “easy”, such that chatting up complete strangers was very manageable, and rewarding. We talked to the drunk guys; a guy with a bizarre Mohawk; old guys; young women; brightly dressed runners; some who were loving life; some who were hurting. A pleasantly different take on the customary race experience.

HOSPITALITY OF LOCAL HOST

The only thing more impressive than the location/design/décor of our host James’ awesome Pebble Beach home was the warm welcome extended by all four members of his family, plus the two loving (albeit incurably crotch-sniffing) dogs.

The pre-race group run – a painful 4 miles – was a nice introduction to the scene, but the main event at Casa James was the pizza and beer fest after the marathon. We were treated to the freshest, best tasting pizza napolitana I’d ever sampled, expertly made in his authentic outdoor brick oven (made and designed by his own company).

Add an enormous Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cup cake to the mix, and we had all the makings of a splendiferous post-race celebration.

HOSPITALITY OF PRESUMED CELEBRITY RUNNER HOST

A certain uber-running author/celebrity was the nominal host of the Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge. Apparently, however, when one reaches a certain level of renown, one loses the ability to have an authentic human interaction, instead relying on a few phrases to be employed whether context allows for them or not. To be clear, I found “Ultramarathon Man” to be a good read, inspiring and motivational for a budding distance runner. However, the “50/50/50” follow-up, turning what should have been an amazing adventure into a media circus and supposed training manual, was – in a word – lame.

RACE-RELATED SCHWAG

The Boston 2 Big Sur Challenge resulted in a couple of extra pieces of race-related schwag, including an extra clay/ceramic medal and a custom Asics fleece jacket commemorating the experience. Love the medals; like the jacket.

CONCLUSION

When asked about this latest running silliness, I've replied simply, "I'm glad I did it and I'm glad it's done."  Of the 497 months which I've lived on this Earth, April was probably the most physically and emotionally draining of them all.

I think that next year's fundraising endurance stunt will need to involve a single ultra-distance.  I'm thinking (just thinking) about entering a 100K ultra, and adding 8 miles before the start in order to get to 70 miles, since my father would have been 70 in April 2011.  Maybe the American Lung Association will benefit from the effort.  At this point, though, honestly, I just don't know.

Prepared for the Hills, but not for the Heartbreak: A Debut Boston Race Report

All right, as I’ve done in the past, I will spare my faithful followers the need to wade through umpteen pages of self-absorbed prologue in order to find out the only thing anyone else would find worth knowing: I finished the 114th Boston Marathon in 3:20:41, barely re-qualifying for next year and completely botching my first attempt on the world’s most historic marathon course.

Here are the splits:

1          7:31

2          7:03

3          7:02

4          7:00

5          7:09

6          7:00

7+8     14:13 (missed a mile marker)

9          7:02

10        7:06

11        7:10

12        7:04

13        7:12

HALF  1:33:24
14        7:12

15        7:29

16        7:16

17        7:46

18        7:53

19        7:47

20        8:13 (cramp!)

21        8:55

22        8:30

23        8:50

24        8:55

25        9:00

26        8:28

26.2     1:40

The full story follows.

INTRODUCTION

On Monday, April 19, 2010, the 15th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombings and what would have been Adolf Hitler's 121st Birthday, I was fortunate enough to be one of 26,000+ participants in the 114th Boston Marathon.  It was the culmination of a journey that started with an offhand remark at my 30th birthday in 1998, which led me to take up distance running in 2006, qualifying for Boston in May 2009.  The Boston Marathon is not just a race.  For me - and many, many others - it's an "event", an experience largely unparalleled in the world of participatory sports.  The Boston Marathon makes dedicated recreational runners feel like superstars for a day.  For me, it was a very special weekend, though the joy I'd hoped to feel was tempered by my father's death exactly two weeks before the race.  Nonetheless, I mostly relished the experience.

THE EXPO

Big city marathons all begin with a major Expo, where exhibitors set up displays, ranging from the massive apparel/shoe sponsor (in this case, Adidas) to more offbeat products like "energy-balancing" bracelets and customized mp3 ear buds.  There's also food, free samples, and running celebrities.  As an avowed and incurable gear-head, I tried to restrain myself at the Expo, and managed to do so pretty well.  I got the kids t-shirts, bought a couple of things that were a great deal (like 2 pair of Sof-Sole socks for $5) and got my picture taken with three running celebrities, each of whom is know for something very different.

I first ran into Antonio Vega, sponsored Mizuno athlete and current U.S. Half-Marathon Champion.  I only learned later that his father is a native of Chile. Antonio will be making waves in U.s. distance running for the foreseeable future, as evidenced by his 2:13 Boston Marathon debut (and new PR).


Then, I met up with the "Mayor of Running", Runner's World's Chief Running Officer Bart Yasso.  We chatted briefly, and then I went on to meet a true legend.


Roger Robinson is far and away my favorite running writer.  He covers the history of the sport with unparalleled knowledge and is a fantastic writer to boot.  He also happens to be married to Kathrine Switzer, the first woman to run Boston with an official bib number, a true pioneer of women's running and athletics in general. Roger was an elite runner for 30 years, but really distinguished himself as a Master's Runner, including a shocking 2:18:44 personal marathon best at age 41.  We chatted for a while, and though I kept trying to leave graciously so as not to monopolize his time, he kept pulling me back and regaling me with just one more story.  I enjoyed every second of our conversation, the highlight of the Expo for me.

I made sure to pick up the Adidas race posters (which have the name of every registered runner embossed on them), and made my way home for a dinner party my wife was throwing.

The weekend was off to a good start.

THE 3:20 THREAD IN THE FLESH

After taking it easy and spending time with my kids on Saturday, I had the pleasure of hosting many of the regular posters to the Runner's World Online Marathon Race Training Sub-3:20 thread.  It's an eclectic group of men and women who've developed  an amazingly close bond in pursuit of marathon improvement.  The group boasts people from different parts of the country (albeit with Texas being over-represented), different professions, different sexual orientations and different athletic abilities.  Yet, running brings everyone together, gives us all something to talk about and bridges cultural, religious, education and political gaps like a magic balm.

We had a great lunch, laughing and getting ready for the race.  Afterwords, I left with one of the group members to spend the night at the house he rented in Boston.

After eating a big pasta dinner, I ended up coughing myself to sleep, waking up every couple of hours.

PRE-RACE

The alarm went off at 4:45 am, a harsh awakening for a 10:00 am race start, but such is the scheduling of point-to-point races where runners have to be bussed out to the start.  Steve, Nick and I got our things ready, waited for Kevin to join us, and made our way to Boston Common to board the buses to Hopkinton.  Things went fine, the crowds moved quickly, and soon we were among the convoy of school buses slated to deliver us to the Athletes' Village, being transported in a bus nicknamed, "The Green Turtle".  Not exactly the image a racing marathoner might choose, but that's what we got.

Mingling among the runner masses in the Athlete's Village was a highlight of weekend, finding and chatting with friends real and virtual, old and new.  A few of us laid out a couple of tarps and we just talked and laughed until it was time to get ready.  I donned my nearly-Day-Glo orange regalia, applied BodyGlide, ate and drank my fuel and headed for the start corrals.  It was cool enough to make it tough to decide what to wear at the start, but I opted to leave my layers behind.

En route to the corral, I made one final bathroom stop, and was in line when the military jets made their customary flyover.  That last bit of business having been taken of, and it was off to the start corral.

THE EARLY MILES

Though I did not declare a public "A" goal for this marathon (a good thing, as it turned out), I had hoped to run 3:03 (aka, 6:59 pace) if everything went well, but - more realistically - 3:05:xx.  My next goal was to come in under 3:10, and my third goal was to run a new PR.  I figured that my training rendered these very reasonable goals.

I arrived at Corral #7 with less than 5 minutes to go before the gun went off.  I found a spot in the corral, asked loudly whether anyone else was looking to run 2:45 with me, and then waited for the announcer to let us know that we were soon up.

The gun cracked in the distance, and – about 6 minutes later – I was actually off and running in my first Boston Marathon.  Having lost my pace band in the Athlete’s Village, I decided that I would let the sizable pack of runners around me dictate the first mile pace.  I consciously tried to stay smooth and relaxed, not over-running the first major downhill, until I felt like I found a rhythm.  That feeling did not come quickly or easily, and the first mile passed in 7:31.

I waited for things to open up, for the running crowd to dissipate a bit, but that didn’t happen, at least not for a good long while.  I increased my effort slightly, and started looking for openings in order to go in between more conservatively pacing runners.  I settled into a low-7:00 pace, ticking off miles of 7:03 and 7:02, at what seemed like a reasonable effort.

At the Mile 3 mark, I decided to check my heart rate to see how hard I was working.  As I touched the bezel on my Garmin in order to toggle to the heart rate display, I realized that – in an uncharacteristically boneheaded move – I had forgotten to put on the heart  rate monitor strap.  I later compared this flub to a woman forgetting to put on her bra before running (though, as my wife pointed out, such a woman might notice before running 3 miles).  So, as a person who’s used to having regular HR feedback during a run, I was now flying blind in that department.  I told myself not to panic, just to remain smooth and steady, using the downhills and staying focused on the task at hand.

I was enjoying myself, dividing my attention between the runners ahead and the spectators on either side of me.  I took an occasional pull from my Gatorade bottle.  Everything seemed just fine, as I continued to marvel at the fact that I was really, truly running the Boston Marathon.
Somewhere around Mile 5, I saw what looked like an overgrown Smurf come tearing out from the woods to my left.  I did not recognize the person wearing baggy full-length blue coveralls as a runner. The screams of “Go Mario!” and “Hey, it’s Mario”, as well as the fact that the guy paused briefly to adjust his fake mustache gave away that I was running with someone in costume.  People seemed to enjoy the display, though I found it a tad disrespectful.

The next few miles clicked by, as follows: Mile 4 in 7:00, Mile 5 in 7:09, Mile 6 in 7:00, and I passed the  the 10K mark at 44:20.

I soon tossed my Gatorade bottle along the ground towards a garbage can, apologizing to the spectators as I did.  I was preparing to take my first gel at Mile 7, and had accomplished my aim of not slowing down for the early, more heavily congested aid stations. I pulled out a Gu Roctane Blueberry/Pomegranate and prepared to suck it down.  It went down easily enough, and I drank a full cup of water afterwards.   The mile splits were looking good, I was feeling fine and I was looking forward to seeing what the day would bring. Miles 7 and 8 (I missed the 8-mile marker) totaled 14:13 and Mile 9 was 7:02.

Around Mile 10, I saw a running acquaintance who I know from the Y, who’d started a corral or two ahead of me.  We chatted briefly, discussing how we felt and what pace we seemed to be holding, and then said goodbye as we went our separate ways.  I was drinking every other mile, alternating between Gatorade and water. When I crossed the timing mat at Mile 10, I heard the loud beep which made me think  about friends and family who’d said that they would be tracking me online during the race.  I was pleased to be running strong at that point, and thought about how all the hard training was paying off then and there. I covered Mile 10 in 7:06.

THE MIDDLE MILES

Miles 11 and 12 (7:10 & 7:04) were largely uneventful. My nervous, excited anticipation grew as we approached Wellesley and the famed “Scream Tunnel”.  Thousand of college-aged women stand on the right, holding signs (e.g., “I majored in kissing”, “I won’t tell your wife”, etc.), cheering and screaming their heads off.  One tradition which has grown out of the women’s presence is to “Kiss a Wellesley Girl”.  I had thought about whether I would participate, and decided that I’d only have one first Boston, so I should make the most of it.  I worked my way over towards the women, and put my, sweaty, unshaven cheek  out while slowing down.  They did not exactly appear to be fighting over who would get the honor, until one Indian-looking woman puckered up and planted a light kiss on my right cheek.  I smiled and moved on.

I hit the half-way mark at 1:33:24 (Mile 13 in 7:12), feeling good about where I was and how my body seemed to be faring.  I could feel my feet starting to take a beating (was it a mistake to race in the 7.5 oz. Mizuno Wave Ronins?), but overall, things were looking good.  I figured that I could give up 3 minutes in the second half and still break 3:10, which I would have considered an excellent Boston debut.

Gel #2 came out at Mile 14, and I slowed to a walk at the aid station so that I would get every drop of water down my throat, lest I repeat the mistakes of my last half-marathon which landed me in a port-a-potty and blew my chance for a PR.  For some inexplicable reason, though I ran Mile 14 in 7:12, things got harder not long after that.

I felt my effort level increase, and realized that I was bleeding time, covering Mile 15 in 7:29.  I told myself that the lapse was mental, and thus focused and regrouped, so that in Mile 16 I got back roughly on pace, clocking 7:16 .  That revival was short-lived though, with Mile 17 passing in 7:46, so I thought about my strategy, in particular as it would bear upon  my number one goal: to finish strong at Boston.  That change led me to decide to back off the pace in the hills, then speed up again after cresting Heartbreak, adjusting my goal yet again, yielding maybe a 5-minute PR.

The hills were tough, but I felt that the effort I expended was about right, with Miles 18-21 ending up as follows: 18-7:53 , 19-7:47, 20-8:13, 21-8:55.  I missed the statute of John A. Kelly and didn’t really know when I’d reached Heartbreak, but did hear the voices yelling that we had just crested it somewhere after Mile 20.  Although things were tough and my goals required a few on-the-fly adjustments, I was convinced that a strong finish still lay ahead.  After all, I'd trained for that, and it was time to put the training to work.

HEARTBREAK HILL & BEYOND: AKA, WHERE THE REAL HEARTBREAK HITS

After Heartbreak came the moment that would determine what kind of debut I would have in Boston.  My feet hurt, and my hips felt fatigued (that hard-to-describe “tightness”, which I had not experienced in training, was back).  Still, I figured that with all the miles I’d run in the buildup to this race, I should have plenty of strength to carry me  through to the end.  Unfortunately, though, it was not to be.

No sooner had I tried to drop the pace hammer than my left hamstring cramped violently.  I hobbled off to the left side of the road, thinking that this could be the end of the day.  I put my left foot on the curb, stretched and started running again.  Several times I tried to step it up; each time my hamstring said, “Don’t think so, hotshot”. The point was non-negotiable.

And, in what seemed like an instant (but which was obviously a culmination of many factors, starting weeks before the race), my dreams of Boston glory evaporated.  I was sentenced to hobbling along at what felt like a crawl, 8:30-8:45/mile pace.  Even at the slower speed, every few steps led my left leg to buckle a bit as my hamstring twinged.  My feet went from being achy to being acutely painful, and I felt blisters on each foot (neither of which was an issue in the same shoes and socks throughout training).

Somewhere in Mile 22, I believe, I started to do the math, and realized that I was now in “Fallback/Everything’s-Gone-to-Hell/Goal-C” mode.  In other words, I was in danger of failing to re-qualify for the 2011 Boston Marathon.  With that unattractive prospect now at the forefront of my semi-delirious consciousness, I went into a survival mode.  I would occasionally test the leg to see if a faster pace was available, only to be rebuffed each time by the hamstring.  I was tired, and hurting, and in danger of giving up on myself, sensing with each passing step that any chance of re-qualifying had gone up in smoke.

Suffice it to say that the last few miles of a marathon do not constitute the ideal laboratory to put one’s math skills to the test (especially when those skills may be suspect even on a good day) .  But I kept looking at my watch, thinking about how much time I had left, converting (well, trying) to kilometers, counting backwards from 3:20.  As each mile and kilometer marker ticked off, the approaching finish line also represented a painful reality:  was not going to break 3:20.  Mile 22 went by in 8:30 ; 23 in 8:50 ; 24 in 8:55 and 25 in 8:28.

Finally, we’d made the last two quick turns, and I was trudging (think of the exact opposite of “gliding effortlessly”) down Boylston Street.  The crowd roared; the Finish Line in all its splendor loomed in the distance.  I passed the 26-Mile mark, and looked at my watch: I’m not going to make it.  Still, I decided that I had not suffered for the last hour-plus to fritter away my chances to re-qualify by giving up then.  So I “pushed” it, somehow getting back to a 7:00-ish/mile pace, covering the final 0.2 miles in 1:40.  I crossed the line with every fiber of my hips and legs threatening to seize up completely.  I fumbled with the buttons on my watch.  I eyed a couple of runners in wheelchairs with nauseated envy.

I finished my first Boston Marathon in an official time of 3:20:41, re-qualifying for next year thanks to the BAA’s generous 59-second grace period.  The 18 seconds to spare means that I used 99.8% of my allotted re-qualification time.  How’s that for cutting it close?

AFTER THE FINISH

For all the grandiose splendor of Boston, the post-finish was underwhelming.  While I understand the need to keep runners moving at the end, things seemed spread very far apart.  In addition, the Nissan lunch bag with a couple of modest munchies was less impressive than what most 5Ks offer in terms of post-race grub.  I was shuffling along, on the far edge of going into a full body cramp, and I had to find my gear bus, then backtrack to change into dry clothes in a tiny dark tent.  I headed over towards the massage area, tried to go in, only to be thwarted by a guard who pointed to a line seemingly extending around the block, telling me to queue up at the end.  It reminded me of the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralph tries to see Santa in order to ask for his Red Rider BB Gun.

I started thinking about how my friends might have fared, and looked up to see Nick standing in front of me, precisely as he was on the phone telling Steve that he hadn’t seen me.  I fought back tears and nausea as we worked our way back to Boston Common to my car.  We ambled around in the garage until we found the car and headed to the rental house where Steve graciously said we could shower and rest up before dinner.

The rest of the day, I felt raw, disappointed, humbled and a bit sad.  I was genuinely happy for all of my friends who’d had a good race, but the veil of self-pity prevented me from experiencing any sort of post-race euphoria.  My family came down to join us for dinner, a plan which clearly stressed out my wife, and we got home late and put the kids to bed at almost 10:00 p.m., less than ideal on a school night.

Oh . . . and I realized that I'd signed up to do another marathon on the other side of the country in 6 days.  Yeah me . . . or not.

SO . . . WHAT WENT WRONG

The line between diagnosing the causes of a sub-par performance and making excuses for oneself is a fine one.  Based upon my training, I had every reason to believe that a 3:0x marathon was well within reach.  Since things went quite awry from that expectation, I have to ask, “What went wrong?”  I’ll omit the “It was just a bad day” explanation, as it is useless and unsatisfying, at least in terms of avoiding a repeat down the road.  Below is a list of ideas, in no particular order.  Should my dear readers have any further insights, I’m all ears.

• Stress – My father’s death was hardly the way to kick off a marathon taper; carrying around the weight of grief and stress had to affect my ability to give 100% come race day
  
• A Cold – I had a cold, marked by sinus and chest congestion, for about 10 days before the race; while I did not feel it affect my breathing during the race, it also could not possibly have helped matters
  
• Cumulative Fatigue – Despite what I considered to be a stellar training cycle, I know I did not arrive at Boston well-rested.  I never really caught up on sleep, and may not have recovered completely from such heavy training volume.  I might want to re-visit the idea of running 100+ days in a row
  
• Nutrition – I’m also not sure I did a particularly effective carbo load, and will look into that before the next time I race a marathon
  
• Overestimating Race Fitness – This is the scourge of inexperienced distance runners, and I'm ashamed to have to include it on this list.  Having had no solid tune-up race, I went into Boston semi-blind In terms of knowing my marathon fitness.  While I thought I could sustain a sub-7:10/mile pace, it turns out that I was wrong, at least on that day

As always, thanks for reading. -ESG/Ron

Closet Sandbagger?

This is a brief post to unburden myself about several recent charges that I am sandbagging about my Boston "A" goal.  Far too many friends - both real & virtual - are suggesting that I should try to break 3 hours in Boston.  One went so far as to pledge $5 per second under three hours.  That's $300 for a 2:59:00.  While it's tempting to try to be a hero, I KNOW that doing so would almost certainly result in a disastrous latter stage of the race.  As well as training has gone, and many miles as I logged, there exist no objective indicia to lead me to believe that I could sustain a 6:52/mile pace for 26.2 miles.

As I've said before, given the choice, I prefer to "enjoy" the final 10K at my first Boston, even if it means that I finish feeling like I could have run faster.  Sub-3:00 is the current goal for Chicago, which is flat, comes on the heels of summer training (i.e., when conditions around here are most favorable) and where a final death march has become a time-honored tradition for me anyway (2-for-2 there).

So, I'll truly be satisfied with anything under 3:10 at Boston, and would very much like a 10-minute PR, which would be 3:07:41.  Beyond that, I've got an idea of what a good day might bring, but I'm not declaring it publicly.  While that seems to frustrate some (which I find quite entertaining, actually), the reason is that if I announce a stretch goal, I know I will try to hit that goal no matter what, ignoring any early indications that it's not going to happen, and thus setting the stage for the very blowup I'm seeking to avoid.  If, on the other hand, I give myself a little latitude and keep that stretch goal close to the vest, I will feel far more free to adjust as needed and will likely salvage a good result.

Adding to my reticence is the fact that I still don't feel great physically: my runs have been lousy this week, and the cold I've struggled through has morphed into a nasty cough.  Add to that the emotional weight of still grieving my father's death, and I truly do not know what Monday will bring.  I'm hoping that I'm passing through a dark tunnel, and will find myself on the other side on Monday morning, buoyed by great weather (it snowed this morning, incidentally), the collective energy of other runners and spectators and the realization of a longtime dream.

When new runners ask about how to improve at the marathon distance, I preach patience and consistency about all else.  Why would I not take my own advice as I prepare for the biggest day of my running life?

-ESG/Ron

NOT Part of the Plan

So, by 9:30 a.m. EDT on Sunday, April 4, 2010, I had reached the "tapering" portion of training relatively intact.  Tired, a couple of random aches, all sorts of race-related issues on my mind . . . sure.  But, early Monday morning came the sobering news which - while not completely unexpected - still hit me like a punch to the stomach: my father is dead.  Just like that.  So, what follows may be some somewhat random ramblings, part tribute, part gripe, but likely much cathartic drivel.  Thanks for your indulgence.

COMPLICATED MAN . . . COMPLICATED RELATIONSHIP

For as long as I remember, my father and I experienced more interpersonal friction than familial harmony.  The reasons for that are nuanced and plentiful.  He was always (at least in my mind) the voice of "No", the strict one, the one who seemed disappointed in and critical of my behavior and my choices.  When the chips were really, truly down, though, he was there for me, but on a day-to-day basis, we seemed to clash on issues big and small, be it politics, expectations as to how sons should treat their fathers (and vice-versa), diet and health choices, financial management, etc.  I could make a long list of those types of squabbles, but there's nothing to be gained from such an exercise.  And, to be clear, I wasn't a completely innocent victim in the whole ordeal.

Since my father's death, many concerned friends have offered words of solace and consolation.  Those who've wished me peace & strength have helped a lot.  One college friend observed that on the few occasions when he met my father, he'd seemed very proud of me.  That also helped.  But, those who - albeit with the best intentions - have said things like "celebrate a life well-lived" or "find comfort in all the positive memories" . . . well, let's just say that those comments have not made me feel much better.

It's very difficult to articulate how one feels after losing a parent.  In this case, the natural emotions and pain are complicated by the very complicated nature of my relationship with my father.  As I wrote elsewhere recently, when a parent dies, the child immediately feels that much more alone in the world.  A constant presence in my life for 41+ years is now gone forever.  It shakes one's foundation.

But, in terms of my own situation, what makes me the most sad is that the way things were is now the way they will always be.  In fact, the last conversation I had with him occurred about a week before he died.  His last words to me were the following: "Please let me know how soon you can come down again, since there are still a few things I'd like to say to you."  Try letting that echo within your psyche for a while.  Yeah, kind of harsh.

The hope that my relationship with my father would continue to heal, improve and grow is no longer.  And I am filled with feelings of regret, sadness, anger, remorse, disappointment, fear, emptiness, etc., as well as with love.  And, I am scared to death of being an inadequate husband and father myself.  I don't just want my kids to know I love them; I want us to know and understand each other, in a profound and real way.  I don't want to talk "at" my kids; I want to have a give-&-take with them.  The same is true of my marriage.  I want to grow closer to my wife as we age together, not feel like the pressure of modern-day life is driving us apart.  And, of course, I find myself sometimes paralyzed at the thought that I will repeat my father's mistakes.

I'm feeling kind like a bit of a wreck, and I'm not sure what to do about it.

ON BOSTON

So, today I look back one week and think about what may be the saddest day of my life.  Then, of course, I look ahead one week, and hope to be experiencing one of the happiest.  The Yin-Yang-iness of this is not lost on me, but I'm having trouble seeing the Boston light through the darkness of loss.  My Dad didn't really "get" the running thing, and so saying that he "would have wanted" me to do well at Boston and continue raising money for the Reeve Foundation would be a stretch.

But, I do think that Dad would have wanted me to stay focused on something in which I've invested so much of myself, to give it my best shot, and to be satisfied with the final time, so long as I put forth an honest effort.

My training was "in the bank" before my Dad passed away (I did 71+ miles the week before and nearly 50 last week, taking my first rest day since Christmas).  Physically, therefore, nothing has changed (save for getting a nasty cold which is still lingering).  In terms of being in the right place mentally/emotionally, though, I'm feeling a bit less-than-optimally prepared.

So, I'm taking it one day at a time (really, not in the cliched sense) and trying to deal with work and other non-running issues.  I'm trying to view the "Boston 2 Big Sur" double as a well-earned reward for dedication, discipline and sacrifice, all the while doing something good for a worthy cause.  I just need to figure out how to channel my sadness and grief in a productive way.  I trust that I have the strength to do so, but won't know for sure until I put one foot in front of the other for a couple of 26.2-mile runs in six days.

Thanks for reading and sharing my journey.

-ESG/Ron