Last week, I ran my 4th or 5th Cigna 5K in Manchester, NH. I had to skip the race last year because we were on vacation, and - after my so-so Beach to Beacon effort - I did not have particularly high expectations for this year's event (though I did expect to improve on my 20:3x course PR).
Cigna is definitely an "event" race in New Hampshire. It's the state's largest road race. The prize money - including time and CR bonuses - draws a deep field, including stateside Kenyans who come year-after-year in order to put a few dollars in their pocket as they do a summer road-racing tour.
The overall strength of the field means little to me, as I simply wanted to run a decent race, with no real notion of what that might mean at this point in my training. And so it was that I approached last Thursday's race with no real plan or expectations.
I'd had a miserably tough 8-mile run on Tuesday, feeling every one of the 31 miles I'd run the prior weekend. Wednesday's 5-miler with a couple of pickups felt marginally better.
On Thursday, I got to the Y early and met up with my friend Steve. We set out for an easy warm-up along most of the course, before changing into our racing shoes and setting out on our own for some strides and final warm-up. I timed my final stretch so that I'd finish about 10 minutes before the gun went off, forcing me to work my way through the assembled masses in order to find a spot a few rows behind the fastest runners. I saw some friends, chatted about goals (i.e., made my excuses) and waited for the gun (fired with no warning, a racing-related pet peeve).
I tried to settle into pace to hit the first mile split in about 6:10, with the idea that I'd see how my legs felt and adjust accordingly. Early in the race, I saw a former colleague (an accomplished lifelong endurance athlete) turn and say, "Do NOT let me beat you!" I told him to stay out of my head, and focused on running my race. I was feeling pretty good before the one-mile mark, and my split was 6:12. A good start.
Not long after the mile mark, the race takes a hard left turn. I took a swig of water at the aid station, which helps alleviate the awful cottonmouth I get in every 5K, likely the result of the adrenaline burst when I take off at the start. While Mile 1 is a slight uphill, Mile 2 gives the climb back with a couple of gentle downhill sections. I tried to take advantage of them by quickening my turnover, and I found myself moving up through field. Second mile split was 6:04.
Somewhere in the second mile, my watch got wet, and the screen toggled itself to the Heart Rate screen. I could only see the display showing my HR at 177-180, and decided to let it be rather than fiddle with it to get it back to the usual display of elapsed time/distance/lap pace. One young guy yelled from behind me, "Sir, time?" I shrugged my shoulders and he offered a sarcastic "Thanks." I explained the HR screen and sped up.
My former colleague remained just ahead and to my right, and thought about when and how to make a move on him. I knew if he noticed me, he'd respond, so I tried to stay tucked in with other runners, but the little group's pace did not pick up quickly enough for my purposes. I tried to surge, but didn't seem to gain any measurable ground. I passed a very fit-looking woman, and tried to encourage her to push harder. She appeared to be running out of steam. At this point, my only focus was to keep the old guy in sight and try to make a move close to the finish.
The race takes a hard left with about 0.25-mile to go, up a short, steep hill (which I've dubbed "Mount Vomit" thanks to 2 consecutive years of seeing evidence of such on the side of the road there), where the 3-mile mark awaits just past the top, with a straight shot to the finish. I made the left turn, started cranking the legs for all I was worth, and passed a few people on the hill. The former colleague - always a strong climber - stayed the same distance ahead. I saw the clock at Mile 3 reading 18:3x (not knowing exactly how far back I'd started in terms of my chip time) and for the first time realized that I might break 19 minutes for the second time in my running life. I pushed it and saw the finish clock turn past 19:00, still unaware of the net difference in my time.
I crossed the line, stopped my watch and worked my way to the finish area. My watch read 19:03, with a final mile of 6:08 and a 5:07 (!) pace for the final 0.1+-mile. Official time was actually 19:02, and though I bemoaned the lousy 3 seconds I needed to get an 18:xx time, I could not complain about a surprisingly fast finish, 90-second course PR and a sign that I may be back on track in terms of training and racing.
For his part, the older colleague ran 18:58. My friend Steve hung in for his first post-collegiate sub-17:00, clocking a 16:54 and finishing in the Top 50 of this very competitive race.
At this point, I'm looking to get the weekly mileage back up into the 70's (after hovering around 60 for the past few weeks), with a focus on LT/tempo runs. We'll see how this all plays out when it matters, on 10/10/10 in my third stab at the Chicago Marathon.
Thanks for reading. -ESG/Ron
Monday, August 16, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
That Wasn't Such a Beach, After All
As befits the duality of time, last year's Beach to Beacon disappointment seems simultaneously recent yet long ago. The feeling of knowing that the 2009 race failed to reflect my own perceived fitness and progress as a runner was probably the most significant low in an otherwise very positive running year. Coming into B2B 2010, my personal running landscape looked very different.
2009 was a breakout year for me, with the coveted BQ in May preceding PRs at every distance. The 1:30 half-marathon fell in October. The 19:00 5K fell in December. I did another fundraiser and paced a marathon group along the way.
2010 has turned out quite differently so far, starting with what seemed like a stellar training cycle (72+ mpw for 13 weeks pre-Boston) yielding an unexpectedly poor Boston performance and my first non-PR marathon since taking up the pursuit in 2007. Then came the fun which was Big Sur, along with pacing at Burlington and a couple of underwhelming 5Ks thrown in for good measure. The undisputed highlight of the year was the Vermont 100 pacing experience, but my own racing has been lackluster at best.
Fast forward to goal-setting for this year's B2B. Despite maintaining decent base mileage, I have run precious little "quality" (aka, speed work) since I started tapering for Boston in early April. So, even after what seemed like an encouraging recent uptick in my ability to log some faster running (fueled by a decent track session - 6 x 800m at about an average pace of 6:20/mile - last Tuesday), I scaled back my realistic goals for what has turned out to be my only annual 10K. So, the goals for the day became to break 41:00 or, at the very least, get a new PR for the 10K distance.
The pre-race preparations were the polar opposite of last year. The family and I arrived in Portland early Friday evening, staying with wonderful friends who live just a few miles from Cape Elizabeth. I picked up my bib and shirt, had a wonderful meal and got to bed at a reasonable hour. I left the house at 6:20 am on Saturday, and still had to negotiate traffic, an elevated drawbridge, race-related logistics and a couple of wrong turns. Yet, I found the parking area I wanted and met my friend Joe to do a couple of warm-up miles. The bathroom lines moved quickly, and I found myself lining up between the 6:00 and 7:00 pace signs.
At 8:10 am, we were off and running. My running coach Kevin calls B2B a "sinusoidal" course, and in terms of my splits year-after-year, it appears that he's right. I started the initial downhill stretch fast, too fast really, and dialed it back. By the half-mile mark, though, I knew that holding a sub-6:30 pace was simply not going to work on this day, so I switched from focusing on time/pace to focusing on effort. It was an uncharacteristically smart and disciplined move on my part, and paid off. The splits looked like this:
The best part of this year's race was that our wonderful hostess - a Cape Elizabeth native - brought my family to the race, and I heard my son screaming as we turned into Fort Williams, with about 0.4 miles (and one final hill) to go. I gave him a fist pump and my wife snapped this photo (my daughter took a better one, but we can't seem to get it off her camera):
I'm actually wearing the brand new Endurasoak singlet, as provided by my friends and business associates Amy & Bryan Lane. Also, I wore the Mizuno Wave Mushas with my orthotics, but ended up with blisters on both arches, making the post-race cool-down not very fun.
After the race, Joe and I ran a couple of easy miles, looked for my family, and then ran most of the course in reverse back to the start area parking. It was a gorgeous summer day, with a new PR, a total of about 15 miles, family time and the company of a good guy and runner. Can't ask for much more than that.
I added 16 easy miles on Sunday, and feel like I may be back on track in terms of my marathon training for Chicago, though the time goal will be scaled back from 3 hours to 3:10. The next few weeks will determine how realistic that goal turns out to be.
Thanks, as always, for reading.
Cheers, ESG/Ron
2009 was a breakout year for me, with the coveted BQ in May preceding PRs at every distance. The 1:30 half-marathon fell in October. The 19:00 5K fell in December. I did another fundraiser and paced a marathon group along the way.
2010 has turned out quite differently so far, starting with what seemed like a stellar training cycle (72+ mpw for 13 weeks pre-Boston) yielding an unexpectedly poor Boston performance and my first non-PR marathon since taking up the pursuit in 2007. Then came the fun which was Big Sur, along with pacing at Burlington and a couple of underwhelming 5Ks thrown in for good measure. The undisputed highlight of the year was the Vermont 100 pacing experience, but my own racing has been lackluster at best.
Fast forward to goal-setting for this year's B2B. Despite maintaining decent base mileage, I have run precious little "quality" (aka, speed work) since I started tapering for Boston in early April. So, even after what seemed like an encouraging recent uptick in my ability to log some faster running (fueled by a decent track session - 6 x 800m at about an average pace of 6:20/mile - last Tuesday), I scaled back my realistic goals for what has turned out to be my only annual 10K. So, the goals for the day became to break 41:00 or, at the very least, get a new PR for the 10K distance.
The pre-race preparations were the polar opposite of last year. The family and I arrived in Portland early Friday evening, staying with wonderful friends who live just a few miles from Cape Elizabeth. I picked up my bib and shirt, had a wonderful meal and got to bed at a reasonable hour. I left the house at 6:20 am on Saturday, and still had to negotiate traffic, an elevated drawbridge, race-related logistics and a couple of wrong turns. Yet, I found the parking area I wanted and met my friend Joe to do a couple of warm-up miles. The bathroom lines moved quickly, and I found myself lining up between the 6:00 and 7:00 pace signs.
At 8:10 am, we were off and running. My running coach Kevin calls B2B a "sinusoidal" course, and in terms of my splits year-after-year, it appears that he's right. I started the initial downhill stretch fast, too fast really, and dialed it back. By the half-mile mark, though, I knew that holding a sub-6:30 pace was simply not going to work on this day, so I switched from focusing on time/pace to focusing on effort. It was an uncharacteristically smart and disciplined move on my part, and paid off. The splits looked like this:
- 6:38
- 6:56
- 6:33
- 6:50
- 6:33
- 6:48 + 1:13 for final 0.2+
The best part of this year's race was that our wonderful hostess - a Cape Elizabeth native - brought my family to the race, and I heard my son screaming as we turned into Fort Williams, with about 0.4 miles (and one final hill) to go. I gave him a fist pump and my wife snapped this photo (my daughter took a better one, but we can't seem to get it off her camera):
I'm actually wearing the brand new Endurasoak singlet, as provided by my friends and business associates Amy & Bryan Lane. Also, I wore the Mizuno Wave Mushas with my orthotics, but ended up with blisters on both arches, making the post-race cool-down not very fun.
After the race, Joe and I ran a couple of easy miles, looked for my family, and then ran most of the course in reverse back to the start area parking. It was a gorgeous summer day, with a new PR, a total of about 15 miles, family time and the company of a good guy and runner. Can't ask for much more than that.
I added 16 easy miles on Sunday, and feel like I may be back on track in terms of my marathon training for Chicago, though the time goal will be scaled back from 3 hours to 3:10. The next few weeks will determine how realistic that goal turns out to be.
Thanks, as always, for reading.
Cheers, ESG/Ron
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Witness to History: Vermont-100 Pacer's Report
As some of my running friends know, I have done two unsanctioned "ultra" runs (meaning anything longer than the marathon distance), both of which were private events designed to raise money for different causes. I've also been an official "goal time" pacer at two road marathons. With that background, and seeming to have spent more and more time with ultramarathoners recently, I decided to volunteer to be a pacer at this year's Vermont 100 Endurance Run.
One becomes a pacer in one of two ways: either by arranging to pace a friend/acquaintance, or by volunteering with the race's Pacer Coordinator. In my case, I offered to pace my friend Nate, who declined for reasons of which I'm still suspicious, but who ended up spraining his ankle and not running the VT-100 this year. Knowing no other registered runners, I sent the Pacer Coordinator (a great guy named John) a message, providing a brief "running resume" and awaiting an assignment.
The response from John was interesting:
So, with more than a bit of trepidation, I signed up to pace the faster runner. Little did I know that this "guy" would actually turn out to be Kami Semick, a two-time world champion ultrarunner based in Oregon, sponsored The North Face endurance athlete and 2009 Ultrarunning Magazine Runner of the Year. While not a "guy", there seem to be few, if any, tougher ultrarunning competitors anywhere in the world.
Kami and I connected via e-mail, and spoke on the phone. After a crystal-clear accounting of the mediocrity of my running ability, I included the following summary:
As race date neared, though, I got nervous, but also realized that I would either be able to keep up with Kami, or I wouldn't. The history of ultramarathons, especially 100-milers, is peppered with stories of pacers being left behind. It means the runner is having a great race. There'd be no shame in that. Or so I told myself.
Given the logistics of putting on a 100-mile footrace and potential for confusion, each aid station in Vermont gets a name in addition to a mileage mark designation. Mile 70 brings runners into an aid station called Camp 10 Bears, and requires a medical check, consisting of a weigh-in and quick visual observation of each runner.
Kami's projection would get her to 10 Bears at about 3:20 p.m. on Saturday, meaning she would have been running for 11 hours and 20 minutes at that point. Having gotten to Silver Meadow (aka, Race Central/HQ) at about 12:15, I set up camp and found Nate, who'd nobly decided to volunteer in light of his injured ankle. I got my running gear on and drank and drank Gatorade and water, given that the sun was beating down, with temps in the high 80's. I was a sweaty mess simply from the tent set-up.
Nate drove my car and we arrived at 10 Bears at about 1:30 p.m., looking to get a sense of the scene and to be ready in case Kami was ahead of schedule. 10 Bears also serves as a checkpoint at Mile 47 of the race, and there were many runners coming through at that point. It was difficult to contemplate that they were not yet halfway done.
I found John the Pacer Coordinator, and he scared me right off the bat by uttering 5 simple words: "Kami's killin' it out there!" I gulped and gave him a look, and he clapped me on the shoulder. Nate and his friend Jeff helped me relax with encouraging psych-up talk. I watched the 47-milers come through, many of them looking haggard, hurting, covered in sweat, dirt and - in at least a couple of cases - blood. I watched people collapse on Red Cross cots. I saw people protest as they were pulled from the race, or were forced to drop out. This one little spot in the middle of rural Vermont was now a simmering cauldron of human drame and emotion.
After feeling like we were cutting it close, I found Kami's husband (and sole crew member) Tyson, made our introductions and gave him some of my gear for later. Then, I waited.
The male leader - and eventual winner - came barreling down the dirt road into 10 Bears, waving his handheld water bottles and yelling, "FILL THESE WITH ICE! NOW!!!" He jumped on the scale and was off in a flash. After what seemed like a long gap, four more runners - all male - came through 10 Bears. They were clustered much more closely together.
Very soon after seeing the fifth man come through, all the waiting and anticipation ended. Wearing a bright blue and white The North Face top, tanned and sculpted beyond belief, Kami came into 10 Bears, looking strong and determined. I introduced myself to her just before she weighed in, gave Tyson some specific instructions regarding hydration and nutrition and made an in-shoe adjustment relating to some kinesio-tape that was bothering her arch (the vestige of a twisted ankle from a couple of weeks back).
In what seemed like a flash, we were off.
Kami came to the Vermont 100 with a simple, yet formidable, mission: break the women's course record of 16:52. It thus became my job to help her do it. When she arrived at 10 Bears, she was about 20 minutes ahead of her own projections, based upon a goal finish time of 16:30 (aka, 9:54/mile for 100 miles).
Miles 71-80
The start out of 10 Bears involves a short stretch of runnable dirt road, followed by a long uphill trail in the woods and on lovely old country/carriage roads. I let Kami set the pace, and we chatted for a bit, just getting to know each other. She told me that she "was really looking forward to picking you up." I told her that I do not hear that from women very often, which provoked one of the few mid-race smiles I'd see on this day.
Quickly, I noticed that Kami would walk anything too steep, then would walk/run smaller hills, breaking them up into manageable segments. I made mental notes of her approach all the while.
Several miles into our time together, we came upon the fifth place runner, who had clearly hit a tough patch. We greeted Chris, Kami asked him if he wanted to run with us, and he joined us for a brief stint, before falling back again. As he faded, I asked Kami if I should go back and check on him. She said that'd be fine as long as I could catch back up to her quickly. So, I ran a few hundred yards back (downhill on the trail), checked in with Chris, who thanked me warmly and said he'd be fine (though he was hurting, he still finished in the Top 10). Then I ran pretty hard back up the trail to catch Kami, the first of many times I would end up doing that.
At about Mile 75, there was a small aid station. I learned that describing an aid station in this part of the world as being in front of a farm with a large barn, horses and a pickup truck, was like telling people when I lived in Atlanta to turn at the intersection with the Waffle House and the Baptist Church. It just wasn't specific enough to be helpful. This was the first and only time I would need to relieve myself on the course, and I very nearly ended my ultra pacing debut by electrocuting myself on the farm's fence. I realized my near-catastrophic error just in time. Catching back up to Kami - who was robotically efficient at every aid station - I shared the story, and she asked me whether that really happens. I made it clear that I was not inclined to test the theory.
Also, somewhere before the red, white and blue decorated aid station called West Winds/Spirit of 76, I committed a huge pacer faux pas, misconstruing a course marker. Fortunately, Kami caught it in time, and we stayed on course. I felt badly about making such a dumb mistake, but it all evened out a couple of miles later, when I told Kami to take a hard right, and she went out to the road instead of keeping to the trail just before the road. It worked out fine, and we were back in karmic balance.
We breezed through West Winds, where we saw Tyson. Kami did her thing, getting a new bottle, taking in nutrition and getting more ice to keep cool. Though it was now late afternoon, the air was still warm and muggy, and sweat poured off of us both in buckets.
The next few miles were relatively uneventful, and Kami asked me to let her know when we hit Mile 80. Our overall pace for the first 10 of the last 30 miles was pretty slow, averaging about 12:00 per mile. that pace would not cut it in terms of the course record, so I knew we'd need to pick it up. The key became to take advantage of any and all runnable sections, and I fell in tune with Kami in that regard.
Miles 81-90
This is where we got down to business. While her outward countenance did not change much, Kami became less chatty. It was clear that the day's effort, the heat, the sheer enormity of the undertaking, were all starting to catch up with her. I asked her how things "felt", physically and otherwise. She said, "If you don't talk about it, it's not real." I got the hint and stopped asking.
Now, I want to be clear that my trepidation about pacing Kami was not fueled in any way by false modesty. I was genuinely concerned about whether I would be able to stay on my feet - mostly running and remaining coherent - for what I expected to be about 5 hours. Somewhere around the 3-hour mark of my joining the fun, I started to feel tired. Trouble was, we still had about 14 miles to go at that point.
In about Mile 84, we passed another runner, a guy named Mike who's known as The Fuitarian. He was seemingly incredulous that he was starting to fade, with an ambitious sub-16:00 goal in what would be his first completed 100-miler (he'd dropped out of Western States, I believe, just a few weeks earlier). He ended up finishing 5th, but expressed his disappointment to me the next morning.
After passing the Fruit Guy, we ran by a house with a long driveway and two barking dogs. I was about 20 yards ahead of Kami, and noticed the dogs come running down the driveway. I figured they were contained by an electric fence, and that they'd stop at the property line. Right after I passed the end of the driveway, I heard a nervous, "Uh . . . Ron!" from behind me, only to see a German Shepherd barking pretty intimidatingly at Kami, with a Black Lab barking a little less menacingly. I turned around, ran towards them, and screamed, "No! Go!", with an exaggerated arm gesture. The dogs stopped barking and Kami started running. Finally, I was useful.
Kami was fighting a out of nausea, but Mile 88.6 brought us to Bill's, where the aid station is literally in Bill's barn. Kami had her last weigh-in here, she ate some ginger (and I had some, too) and I ditched my shirt and heart rate monitor with my friend Nate, as I was soaked and couldn't stand the weight, not to mention the smell, any longer. Again, I caught up with Kami and we were off.
At this point, there was no idle chatter. Zero. I figured out how to keep walking graciously each time she needed to pee (a very good sign that late in a hot race). Somewhere around Mile 85, Kami had told me to keep in front of her, and that's where I stayed. She asked me to let her know when we hit Mile 90. We covered Miles 81-90 about 12 minutes faster than we had the previous 10 miles. Though the end was in sight, getting the course record (and finishing before dark) was far from a sure thing.
Miles 91-Finish
It's not easy to describe the experience of the final 10 miles of 100-mile race. Presumably, many reasons lead people to push themselves to the horizons of their perceived limits, not knowing - like Columbus - whether they'll fall off the edge or just keep sailing until they discover unexplored territories. One rarely sees a human being - at least in our more technological and "comfortized" world - stripped so bare, where life is about basic needs and the simple premise of continuing to move forward, towards a clearly defined, but ever-elusive goal.
Well, the last 10 miles were not easy for me, and I can only imagine how Kami must have felt. The most amazing thing was how she continued to approach everything the same way. Walk the uphills hard, push on the flats and downhills; fly through the aid stations. Still, I could sense her growing fatigue, as I heard her shuffling feet start to kick rocks and sticks along the roads and trails. I reminded her to be careful in the woods, which weren't especially technical, but with the light starting to fade, and 90+ miles in her legs, any single step could easily betray her.
We/I had one momentary panic at about Mile 91, where there was a left-right turn that was unmarked. I ran ahead, looked around and sad, "There are no arrows! What the . . .?" Kami calmly told me to look around to the right (uphill, of course), and there was the sight we sought: a yellow pie plate with a "C" written in marker, aka, a "confidence" plate. It was the only apparent marking lapse in my 30 miles on the course.
With that mini-drama behind us, we soon caught the third-place runner, who simply acknowledged - with surprisingly little bitterness - that he was out of steam. The irony - as I learned later - was that his pacer's last name was "Walker". That just couldn't be a good sign. He ended up finishing 25 minutes behind Kami.
We hit a small aid station at around Mile 92, and then trudged along to the last "major" aid station, Polly's at Mile 95+. There, we had a mix-up relating to our headlamps, but in another example of the cooperative spirit of the sport, another runner's crew gave Kami his headlamp, while I waited for Tyson to get mine from the car. I traded my sunglasses for a headlamp and a flashlight, and had to pick up the pace substantially to catch back up to Kami. According to my watch, I ran about 7:00 flat pace to catch back up. I took it as a good sign that Kami was moving so well at that point.
Shortly after I caught back up to her, I felt myself fading. I had pain in my outer left foot, my hips were reaching their limit, and I envied the guys drinking beers and playing horseshoes more than words could say. Still, when - referring to the course record - Kami said, "It's going to be close," I told her to relax, stay steady and that the terrain would decide whether she'd get the record. We were going to run everything we could, controlling only what we could control. She asked for updates at each mile. I gave them to her.
We ran through a huge field, on the road, in the woods, up and down. At about mile 97.5, we passed the guy who was hanging glo-sticks on trees in the woods in order to guide the runners and riders who would be navigating those sections in the dark. I turned on my lights and tried to warn Kami about any rocks, roots or fallen trees.
At about Mile 98, we entered a small clearing and saw a magical sunset, riven with fiery pinks, purples and oranges. It was astonishing enough that when I pointed it out, Kami managed a "Pretty." Later that mile, as we went back into the woods, I saw a huge porcupine on the trail. I slowed down, warned Kami, and waited for the creature to give us some room. I waved Kami on, just as the bugger was coming back towards us, but we ran and did not look back.
We reached the "One Mile to Go" sign, and I almost cried with joy. However, we couldn't go on auto-pilot just yet. The sun was rapidly descending, and the glow of the Silver Meadow race HQ/finish line area was visible, but the course takes a final loop around the area, which often accounts for runners getting lost with less than a mile to go, requiring that they retrace their steps and get back on the course so as to finish "officially". One pacer told me later that his runner finished in 24:03 after losing 5 minutes to getting lost in this area. Fortunately, we did not veer off course.
With a quarter-mile to go, I pointed to Kami to run ahead of me. She said that I should run in next to her, so I fell in beside her, but slowed as I saw the finish line. Kami crossed a few steps before I did, and I came up next to her and made a grand bowing gesture, of the "I'm-Not-Worthy" variety. It was not theater; simply stated, I'm not.
Her final time: 16 hours, 42 minutes and 32 seconds, a new women's course record by 10 minutes, and an astonishing feat on a hot July day. The race had one of its lowest sub-30-hour finishing rates, with only 55% of the registered runners making it in time.
After the finish, I saw Nate, who offered warm congratulations. I was tired, and my foot and hips were screaming at me. I felt dehydrated and almost completely spent. Had the race been much longer, I suspect that Kami would likely have dropped me, as some friends and other runners figured she would do considerably earlier than that.
For her part, Kami was gracious as she was whisked away for photos and interviews. She forced some smiles (unlike me; see photo) and handled the mini-flurry of attention like the seasoned professional which she is. I sat on the ground wondering why and how anyone could actually pull of such an amazing feat of endurance. Days later, I'm still pondering that.
A few minutes after finishing, the collective attention of those gathered in the area turned towards the unmistakable sounds of a runner heaving. Perhaps inevitably, it set Kami off, who had her own such episode in rapid succession. After that, she, Tyson and I chatted for a bit, but she made it clear that she needed to get out of there, returning to their hotel so that she could shower and at least try to get some rest.
I gave Kami a package of Endurasoak to aid her recovery, and we agreed to see each other at the brunch and awards ceremony the next morning.
After lingering around for a bit, I got some food, which had almost miraculous restorative effects, chatted with other runners, pacers, volunteers, crew, spectators, etc. Everyone seemed to have an interesting story to tell, and of course almost everyone was rapt to hear about Kami's course record.
Shuffling back to my tent in the dark, dodging horse droppings all the while, I managed to towel off and change into dry clothes. I found my cooler with a few very good cold beers, which I ended up sharing with various random folks. I returned to the finish line area to watch others come in, though from 9-11 pm or so, more horses than runners arrived. I then made my way to my tent for the final time that night, and tried to get some sleep. My hip flexors would seized up each time I rolled over in a certain way, and the winds picked up intensely as a thunderstorm system passed through the area. It was not the most restful night.
I got up at around 7:00 and returned to the finish area to watch more people finish. I just clapped and whistled for each one, truly amazed and humbled by the accomplishment, whether it took them 16 or nearly 30 hours to cover the distance.
In terms of my own feelings about participating full-bore in such an epic test, I think that I know two things for sure: (1) I will almost certainly run my first official ultra-marathon next year, and (2) It will NOT be a 100-miler. Of course, I did inexplicably subscribe to Ultrarunner magazine within 24 hours of finishing, so maybe I'm already incurably infected with the ultra bug. Stay tuned.
Thanks for reading. -ESG
"Pacer Central", or Be Careful What You Ask For
One becomes a pacer in one of two ways: either by arranging to pace a friend/acquaintance, or by volunteering with the race's Pacer Coordinator. In my case, I offered to pace my friend Nate, who declined for reasons of which I'm still suspicious, but who ended up spraining his ankle and not running the VT-100 this year. Knowing no other registered runners, I sent the Pacer Coordinator (a great guy named John) a message, providing a brief "running resume" and awaiting an assignment.
The response from John was interesting:
I have a guy who wants to run the race in the 16-17 hr range and wants a pacer, and I have runners who are much slower. Let me know if you want a steady run 9-10 min miles with the 16 hr guy (he wants to be pushed but you will still walk the hills probably), or do you want a more leisurely approach? I have people who will end up walking the last 30 miles also. Let me know what works for you and I will pair you up with a runner.Bear in mind that last year's winning time was 16 hours and 30 minutes. I consulted my ultrarunner friends about whether I'd be able to handle 30 miles at that pace on some pretty rugged/hilly terrain. I also checked in with my coach about it. The choice was between a hard effort with someone looking to be very competitive, or what would turn into a long hike, mostly at night, on dirt roads and woods' trails.
So, with more than a bit of trepidation, I signed up to pace the faster runner. Little did I know that this "guy" would actually turn out to be Kami Semick, a two-time world champion ultrarunner based in Oregon, sponsored The North Face endurance athlete and 2009 Ultrarunning Magazine Runner of the Year. While not a "guy", there seem to be few, if any, tougher ultrarunning competitors anywhere in the world.
Kami and I connected via e-mail, and spoke on the phone. After a crystal-clear accounting of the mediocrity of my running ability, I included the following summary:
So, if you're not feeling particularly choosy about your pacer's experience, course knowledge or even about whether he/she would be the kind of person you'd like to spend those last 5 or so hours with, I'm your guy.From the start, Kami seemed extremely nice and personable, very encouraging and confident about my ability to do the job. She sent me a box with a bunch of excellent The North Face gear. As for my friends who know anything about competitive ultrarunning, they reacted with incredulity, saying things like, "I can't believe Kami chose you as a her pacer," or in the case of my friend Joe, simply "OMG!" I replied that she didn't exactly "choose" me; she got stuck with me based on an apparently very short list of candidates. Some of my friends seemed to making friendly wagers on when exactly she would drop me during those final 30 miles (I said not before 25; they posited 20 tops). Given the unknown territory into which I was about to venture, coupled with the irritating hip problems I've been experiencing recently, I was legitimately concerned about coming through for Kami when she needed me.
As race date neared, though, I got nervous, but also realized that I would either be able to keep up with Kami, or I wouldn't. The history of ultramarathons, especially 100-milers, is peppered with stories of pacers being left behind. It means the runner is having a great race. There'd be no shame in that. Or so I told myself.
It All Starts at 10 Bears
Given the logistics of putting on a 100-mile footrace and potential for confusion, each aid station in Vermont gets a name in addition to a mileage mark designation. Mile 70 brings runners into an aid station called Camp 10 Bears, and requires a medical check, consisting of a weigh-in and quick visual observation of each runner.
Kami's projection would get her to 10 Bears at about 3:20 p.m. on Saturday, meaning she would have been running for 11 hours and 20 minutes at that point. Having gotten to Silver Meadow (aka, Race Central/HQ) at about 12:15, I set up camp and found Nate, who'd nobly decided to volunteer in light of his injured ankle. I got my running gear on and drank and drank Gatorade and water, given that the sun was beating down, with temps in the high 80's. I was a sweaty mess simply from the tent set-up.
Nate drove my car and we arrived at 10 Bears at about 1:30 p.m., looking to get a sense of the scene and to be ready in case Kami was ahead of schedule. 10 Bears also serves as a checkpoint at Mile 47 of the race, and there were many runners coming through at that point. It was difficult to contemplate that they were not yet halfway done.
I found John the Pacer Coordinator, and he scared me right off the bat by uttering 5 simple words: "Kami's killin' it out there!" I gulped and gave him a look, and he clapped me on the shoulder. Nate and his friend Jeff helped me relax with encouraging psych-up talk. I watched the 47-milers come through, many of them looking haggard, hurting, covered in sweat, dirt and - in at least a couple of cases - blood. I watched people collapse on Red Cross cots. I saw people protest as they were pulled from the race, or were forced to drop out. This one little spot in the middle of rural Vermont was now a simmering cauldron of human drame and emotion.
After feeling like we were cutting it close, I found Kami's husband (and sole crew member) Tyson, made our introductions and gave him some of my gear for later. Then, I waited.
The male leader - and eventual winner - came barreling down the dirt road into 10 Bears, waving his handheld water bottles and yelling, "FILL THESE WITH ICE! NOW!!!" He jumped on the scale and was off in a flash. After what seemed like a long gap, four more runners - all male - came through 10 Bears. They were clustered much more closely together.
Very soon after seeing the fifth man come through, all the waiting and anticipation ended. Wearing a bright blue and white The North Face top, tanned and sculpted beyond belief, Kami came into 10 Bears, looking strong and determined. I introduced myself to her just before she weighed in, gave Tyson some specific instructions regarding hydration and nutrition and made an in-shoe adjustment relating to some kinesio-tape that was bothering her arch (the vestige of a twisted ankle from a couple of weeks back).
In what seemed like a flash, we were off.
Chasing a Record
Kami came to the Vermont 100 with a simple, yet formidable, mission: break the women's course record of 16:52. It thus became my job to help her do it. When she arrived at 10 Bears, she was about 20 minutes ahead of her own projections, based upon a goal finish time of 16:30 (aka, 9:54/mile for 100 miles).
Miles 71-80
The start out of 10 Bears involves a short stretch of runnable dirt road, followed by a long uphill trail in the woods and on lovely old country/carriage roads. I let Kami set the pace, and we chatted for a bit, just getting to know each other. She told me that she "was really looking forward to picking you up." I told her that I do not hear that from women very often, which provoked one of the few mid-race smiles I'd see on this day.
Quickly, I noticed that Kami would walk anything too steep, then would walk/run smaller hills, breaking them up into manageable segments. I made mental notes of her approach all the while.
Several miles into our time together, we came upon the fifth place runner, who had clearly hit a tough patch. We greeted Chris, Kami asked him if he wanted to run with us, and he joined us for a brief stint, before falling back again. As he faded, I asked Kami if I should go back and check on him. She said that'd be fine as long as I could catch back up to her quickly. So, I ran a few hundred yards back (downhill on the trail), checked in with Chris, who thanked me warmly and said he'd be fine (though he was hurting, he still finished in the Top 10). Then I ran pretty hard back up the trail to catch Kami, the first of many times I would end up doing that.
At about Mile 75, there was a small aid station. I learned that describing an aid station in this part of the world as being in front of a farm with a large barn, horses and a pickup truck, was like telling people when I lived in Atlanta to turn at the intersection with the Waffle House and the Baptist Church. It just wasn't specific enough to be helpful. This was the first and only time I would need to relieve myself on the course, and I very nearly ended my ultra pacing debut by electrocuting myself on the farm's fence. I realized my near-catastrophic error just in time. Catching back up to Kami - who was robotically efficient at every aid station - I shared the story, and she asked me whether that really happens. I made it clear that I was not inclined to test the theory.
Also, somewhere before the red, white and blue decorated aid station called West Winds/Spirit of 76, I committed a huge pacer faux pas, misconstruing a course marker. Fortunately, Kami caught it in time, and we stayed on course. I felt badly about making such a dumb mistake, but it all evened out a couple of miles later, when I told Kami to take a hard right, and she went out to the road instead of keeping to the trail just before the road. It worked out fine, and we were back in karmic balance.
We breezed through West Winds, where we saw Tyson. Kami did her thing, getting a new bottle, taking in nutrition and getting more ice to keep cool. Though it was now late afternoon, the air was still warm and muggy, and sweat poured off of us both in buckets.
The next few miles were relatively uneventful, and Kami asked me to let her know when we hit Mile 80. Our overall pace for the first 10 of the last 30 miles was pretty slow, averaging about 12:00 per mile. that pace would not cut it in terms of the course record, so I knew we'd need to pick it up. The key became to take advantage of any and all runnable sections, and I fell in tune with Kami in that regard.
Miles 81-90
This is where we got down to business. While her outward countenance did not change much, Kami became less chatty. It was clear that the day's effort, the heat, the sheer enormity of the undertaking, were all starting to catch up with her. I asked her how things "felt", physically and otherwise. She said, "If you don't talk about it, it's not real." I got the hint and stopped asking.
Now, I want to be clear that my trepidation about pacing Kami was not fueled in any way by false modesty. I was genuinely concerned about whether I would be able to stay on my feet - mostly running and remaining coherent - for what I expected to be about 5 hours. Somewhere around the 3-hour mark of my joining the fun, I started to feel tired. Trouble was, we still had about 14 miles to go at that point.
In about Mile 84, we passed another runner, a guy named Mike who's known as The Fuitarian. He was seemingly incredulous that he was starting to fade, with an ambitious sub-16:00 goal in what would be his first completed 100-miler (he'd dropped out of Western States, I believe, just a few weeks earlier). He ended up finishing 5th, but expressed his disappointment to me the next morning.
After passing the Fruit Guy, we ran by a house with a long driveway and two barking dogs. I was about 20 yards ahead of Kami, and noticed the dogs come running down the driveway. I figured they were contained by an electric fence, and that they'd stop at the property line. Right after I passed the end of the driveway, I heard a nervous, "Uh . . . Ron!" from behind me, only to see a German Shepherd barking pretty intimidatingly at Kami, with a Black Lab barking a little less menacingly. I turned around, ran towards them, and screamed, "No! Go!", with an exaggerated arm gesture. The dogs stopped barking and Kami started running. Finally, I was useful.
Kami was fighting a out of nausea, but Mile 88.6 brought us to Bill's, where the aid station is literally in Bill's barn. Kami had her last weigh-in here, she ate some ginger (and I had some, too) and I ditched my shirt and heart rate monitor with my friend Nate, as I was soaked and couldn't stand the weight, not to mention the smell, any longer. Again, I caught up with Kami and we were off.
At this point, there was no idle chatter. Zero. I figured out how to keep walking graciously each time she needed to pee (a very good sign that late in a hot race). Somewhere around Mile 85, Kami had told me to keep in front of her, and that's where I stayed. She asked me to let her know when we hit Mile 90. We covered Miles 81-90 about 12 minutes faster than we had the previous 10 miles. Though the end was in sight, getting the course record (and finishing before dark) was far from a sure thing.
Miles 91-Finish
It's not easy to describe the experience of the final 10 miles of 100-mile race. Presumably, many reasons lead people to push themselves to the horizons of their perceived limits, not knowing - like Columbus - whether they'll fall off the edge or just keep sailing until they discover unexplored territories. One rarely sees a human being - at least in our more technological and "comfortized" world - stripped so bare, where life is about basic needs and the simple premise of continuing to move forward, towards a clearly defined, but ever-elusive goal.
Well, the last 10 miles were not easy for me, and I can only imagine how Kami must have felt. The most amazing thing was how she continued to approach everything the same way. Walk the uphills hard, push on the flats and downhills; fly through the aid stations. Still, I could sense her growing fatigue, as I heard her shuffling feet start to kick rocks and sticks along the roads and trails. I reminded her to be careful in the woods, which weren't especially technical, but with the light starting to fade, and 90+ miles in her legs, any single step could easily betray her.
We/I had one momentary panic at about Mile 91, where there was a left-right turn that was unmarked. I ran ahead, looked around and sad, "There are no arrows! What the . . .?" Kami calmly told me to look around to the right (uphill, of course), and there was the sight we sought: a yellow pie plate with a "C" written in marker, aka, a "confidence" plate. It was the only apparent marking lapse in my 30 miles on the course.
With that mini-drama behind us, we soon caught the third-place runner, who simply acknowledged - with surprisingly little bitterness - that he was out of steam. The irony - as I learned later - was that his pacer's last name was "Walker". That just couldn't be a good sign. He ended up finishing 25 minutes behind Kami.
We hit a small aid station at around Mile 92, and then trudged along to the last "major" aid station, Polly's at Mile 95+. There, we had a mix-up relating to our headlamps, but in another example of the cooperative spirit of the sport, another runner's crew gave Kami his headlamp, while I waited for Tyson to get mine from the car. I traded my sunglasses for a headlamp and a flashlight, and had to pick up the pace substantially to catch back up to Kami. According to my watch, I ran about 7:00 flat pace to catch back up. I took it as a good sign that Kami was moving so well at that point.
Shortly after I caught back up to her, I felt myself fading. I had pain in my outer left foot, my hips were reaching their limit, and I envied the guys drinking beers and playing horseshoes more than words could say. Still, when - referring to the course record - Kami said, "It's going to be close," I told her to relax, stay steady and that the terrain would decide whether she'd get the record. We were going to run everything we could, controlling only what we could control. She asked for updates at each mile. I gave them to her.
We ran through a huge field, on the road, in the woods, up and down. At about mile 97.5, we passed the guy who was hanging glo-sticks on trees in the woods in order to guide the runners and riders who would be navigating those sections in the dark. I turned on my lights and tried to warn Kami about any rocks, roots or fallen trees.
At about Mile 98, we entered a small clearing and saw a magical sunset, riven with fiery pinks, purples and oranges. It was astonishing enough that when I pointed it out, Kami managed a "Pretty." Later that mile, as we went back into the woods, I saw a huge porcupine on the trail. I slowed down, warned Kami, and waited for the creature to give us some room. I waved Kami on, just as the bugger was coming back towards us, but we ran and did not look back.
We reached the "One Mile to Go" sign, and I almost cried with joy. However, we couldn't go on auto-pilot just yet. The sun was rapidly descending, and the glow of the Silver Meadow race HQ/finish line area was visible, but the course takes a final loop around the area, which often accounts for runners getting lost with less than a mile to go, requiring that they retrace their steps and get back on the course so as to finish "officially". One pacer told me later that his runner finished in 24:03 after losing 5 minutes to getting lost in this area. Fortunately, we did not veer off course.
With a quarter-mile to go, I pointed to Kami to run ahead of me. She said that I should run in next to her, so I fell in beside her, but slowed as I saw the finish line. Kami crossed a few steps before I did, and I came up next to her and made a grand bowing gesture, of the "I'm-Not-Worthy" variety. It was not theater; simply stated, I'm not.
Her final time: 16 hours, 42 minutes and 32 seconds, a new women's course record by 10 minutes, and an astonishing feat on a hot July day. The race had one of its lowest sub-30-hour finishing rates, with only 55% of the registered runners making it in time.
Post-Finish Reflections and Recollections
After the finish, I saw Nate, who offered warm congratulations. I was tired, and my foot and hips were screaming at me. I felt dehydrated and almost completely spent. Had the race been much longer, I suspect that Kami would likely have dropped me, as some friends and other runners figured she would do considerably earlier than that.
For her part, Kami was gracious as she was whisked away for photos and interviews. She forced some smiles (unlike me; see photo) and handled the mini-flurry of attention like the seasoned professional which she is. I sat on the ground wondering why and how anyone could actually pull of such an amazing feat of endurance. Days later, I'm still pondering that.
A few minutes after finishing, the collective attention of those gathered in the area turned towards the unmistakable sounds of a runner heaving. Perhaps inevitably, it set Kami off, who had her own such episode in rapid succession. After that, she, Tyson and I chatted for a bit, but she made it clear that she needed to get out of there, returning to their hotel so that she could shower and at least try to get some rest.
I gave Kami a package of Endurasoak to aid her recovery, and we agreed to see each other at the brunch and awards ceremony the next morning.
After lingering around for a bit, I got some food, which had almost miraculous restorative effects, chatted with other runners, pacers, volunteers, crew, spectators, etc. Everyone seemed to have an interesting story to tell, and of course almost everyone was rapt to hear about Kami's course record.
Shuffling back to my tent in the dark, dodging horse droppings all the while, I managed to towel off and change into dry clothes. I found my cooler with a few very good cold beers, which I ended up sharing with various random folks. I returned to the finish line area to watch others come in, though from 9-11 pm or so, more horses than runners arrived. I then made my way to my tent for the final time that night, and tried to get some sleep. My hip flexors would seized up each time I rolled over in a certain way, and the winds picked up intensely as a thunderstorm system passed through the area. It was not the most restful night.
I got up at around 7:00 and returned to the finish area to watch more people finish. I just clapped and whistled for each one, truly amazed and humbled by the accomplishment, whether it took them 16 or nearly 30 hours to cover the distance.
In terms of my own feelings about participating full-bore in such an epic test, I think that I know two things for sure: (1) I will almost certainly run my first official ultra-marathon next year, and (2) It will NOT be a 100-miler. Of course, I did inexplicably subscribe to Ultrarunner magazine within 24 hours of finishing, so maybe I'm already incurably infected with the ultra bug. Stay tuned.
Thanks for reading. -ESG
Monday, July 12, 2010
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
Saturday, June 26, 2010
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
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.
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
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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'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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
23 8:18
24 8:30
25 8:19
26 8:11
0.2 1:47
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
Monday, May 24, 2010
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:
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.
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.
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.
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