An Incondite Adventure

We All Have Bad Days (Just Don’t Make Them Your Last)

2012-02-05T07:43:00.000-07:00

Near-death experiences on the triathlon circuit.

There were many opportunities to call it good today. The signs were all there to pack it up and go back to bed. I didn’t listen to them, and if I had, I would have missed out on one of the most sobering moments in my career.

Although the race was only a scant 28 minute drive from home, a 6:00am departure was barely enough to get to the line on time. Registration for the race cost me 1 hour of standing there. In perhaps the slowest line I have ever been, the clock clicked closer to 8am as I inched toward the front. Once I got within sight of the table, I had to dash the 400m back to the car for cash. The day license for the race was 70 rand; I swore I had paid that online. After my panic-stricken sprint for a half mile to get funds, I arrived back at the table, thankfully before my spot was up. Having only brought 70 rand – enough for the license, I was informed that I had paid that online, which would have made my sprint worthless were it not for the timing chip rental of 80 rand, 10 more than I had on me. After some smooth negotiation, I was able to register for less and get marked up.

The race was delayed long enough for me to drop my bike in transition and use the toilet, though the line was too long for a sit down experience. Unfueled, heavy, and under hydrated, I wadded into the water, hoping things would improve. They didn’t. At the gun, I hit the start for the interval timer rather than my stopwatch. So for the duration of my swim I was treated with 8 seconds of beeping every minute. Sound sure carries underwater. In the end, I climbed out of the lake with no idea of my swim time.

A quick transition and I was out on the road. Splat! One Gu packet fell from my new tri top onto the ground. Cursing, I stupidly thought I could scoop it up on the next lap. A mile later the lone remaining Gu packet fell out of the other pocket leaving me without for the rest of the race. I saw those damn packets smashed each time I passed. Cursing this time at Profile Designs who was responsible for not only my lost Gu but my constantly slipping aero bars attached to my handlebars, I rode on. It was a four-loop out-and-back course and each loop was slightly rolling with a strong headwind on the way back in. Instantly after mounting the bike, a sharp stomach pain hit me and stuck with me the rest of the day. It didn’t debilitate my ride so much as suck the life from it. While I held a decent pace (~23.1mph), I did not make the progress I hoped and lost some spots to competitors I normally might outride. My pedaling lacked life and I was content to just ride to the finish, hoping the run would go better than the rest of this day had gone.

It didn’t. Right away the stomach cramp became a sharp side stitch worthy of high school cross-country camp after a summer of no running. The entire 10k was spent speeding up until the cramp bit and then backing off till I could run without it hurting, and adjusting from there. No slouch on the run, I still moved well, and split a 42 flat run, which, minus the issues, could have been much faster. All in all my time was acceptable and I know I could have done more. I actually walked away from the race feeling like I hadn’t really even pushed that hard. But it wasn’t over yet.

Due to the large number of races occurring, athletes must leave their bike in transition until all competitors have cleared the course. This meant an hour or more of sitting around, sweaty and cold. The timing chip had sliced a nice gash in my ankle and I started to shiver, again cursing anyone and anything that got me here. I changed and walked to the car to wait out the bike issue because the sky had just opened up and the rain was coming down in a spray of icy water. As I moved back up the course, a runner was screaming “Medic! Medic!” so I naturally looked around to see a cramping or puking runner. What I saw was much worse.

Already halfway across the street, I doubled back to where two others surrounded a fallen male runner. But cramping he was not; his body was limp and he was face down on the pavement. I picked up his head off the ground and we pushed him to his back. He was very cold. There was talk about moving him out of the rain but there was a more immediate problem – he wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. My hand was on his neck expecting to feel the rapid heartbeat of a dehydrated or exhausted man. I felt nothing and he was completely unresponsive. My head was spinning trying to think back to the training on how to deal with this and things seemed to move in slow motion. I felt incapacitated – too ignorant to know what to do. I looked around hoping for medics but none were in sight. The two guys agreed to start CPR and one started pushing on his chest. The other yelled at him not to do that and cupped his hands in a straw-like formation and tried to blow into his mouth, as if he didn’t want to touch lips. The first yelled at him that no air was going in and started doing chest compressions anyway. The other said it was supposed to be 30, not 5 compressions. I looked back and forth between the two as if at a fast-moving tennis match, although the contestants appeared to be two retard monkeys vying for who could screw up the 3-step CPR they teach to prepubescent teens desiring to become babysitters.

Maybe it was the cold head in my hands or perhaps the shock of the thought of no pulse meant he would die, I finally snapped out of it. I yelled at the guy to push more and faster and for them to keep going. My only thought – aside from where are those freaking medics!?!? – was that bad CPR was better than no CPR. I should have done it myself but maybe I didn’t want the responsibility of trying and failing. What was the right thing to do? Could I let this guy die and live with myself? I don’t know. In spite of our futile efforts, the man gagged, his white tongue protruding from his purple lips, and heaved a breath like those people with sleep apnea. I held his wrist and felt a strong pulse. We pushed him to his side and heard another gasping breath. The bumbling, chunky medics had somehow unwedged themselves from their chairs (did I mention that we weren’t more than 200m from the finish line, though out of sight, and at least 5 minutes has passed?) and arrived. I backed out of the way and handed the guy’s sunglasses to a bystander friend of his. Not knowing what else to do, I walked away, thinking if he was going to die, I wasn’t going to watch while the medics administered oxygen and he faded into nothing.

An hour later I had my bike and grabbed a medic. She said he was awake when they sent him to the hospital and should be fine. It really puts the race in perspective as some things just aren’t worth it. So this guy Greg and I both had a rough race. I am just glad it wasn’t the last for either one of us. My time and place? Who cares? I was just glad to walk back in my front door.

Rolling 2012

2012-01-29T04:29:00.000-07:00

The comeback trail, troubles with poop, and exciting news that will shake up all the plans.

After returning from Tanzania, rested from the climb and the first half of training, I am now in full swing with my training. Mostly I have 3 swims, 4 rides, and 4 runs per week, give or take. A typical week is a swim on Monday, a swim and cycle on Tuesday, a cycle right into a run Wednesday, a swim then run workout on Thursday, and off on Friday. Cyclelab, a country-wide club, does rides of about 47 miles every Saturday. With relative ease, as riding in a pack is, I bang out almost 50 miles with ease, plus whatever I do before or after. I have been backing this up with a run of about an hour. Then Sunday I do a long run and then hop on the bike for a spin ride. Lather, rinse, repeat.

That is, unless I am racing. Starting in late January, I race a marathon, triathlon, or cycle race 6 times in 8 weeks. The roads here suck for running and riding (traffic and hills) so the best indicators of fitness and just simply getting in the distance come at organized events. Plus when a marathon costs $10 and a triathlon not much more, why not take advantage?

Recently, I did a marathon in Pretoria. Originally, I had planned to run a fast race, getting an “A” qualifier for Comrades and testing my speed. But with only 3 weeks since the break, I decided to chill out and get in a solid run that I could recover from. Out smart, I crossed halfway in just under 1:33. A solid pace. Toying with my talent, I dropped the pace for the next 10k, blowing by people. But the last 10K of the course was largely uphill and I slowed, not horribly, but enough to even out the pace. At no time was I pushing for sub-3 hours, and I settled nicely to a perfectly even split and a 3:05:52. Caught 22 people in the 2nd have of a small marathon – many of who were many minutes ahead of me – and was caught by no one. That’s how I roll.

The battles of the past have returned (See Feb, 2010). What I thought was a stomach flu going around now appears to be similar to my disastrous 6 months of 2009-2010 that kept me less-than-competitive for half a year. It isn’t as intense; my performance is not as effect, but the same full feeling consumes me along with the gut pain. A self-induced expulsion fest did not cure it (as it did in 2010) and I have gone back to the doctor for the blood, scans, and poop tests of old. For now I train through, hoping for a solution and praying for safe resolution.

Things are going well. I nearly ran a Boston qualifier (new standards) on nothing (18.25 miles per week over the preceding 8 weeks of training). Not to be fooled because my log lies in a box in a basement somewhere, but I know I wasn’t doing this kind of training for Ironman ’04. Not 50-60 miles rides backed by runs. Not the intensity in the pool. My times in the water are dropping like a rock. My latest 2K time trail converts to a 1:06 Ironman swim. My rides are becoming faster and more comfortable, and I can keep it together on a run. In ’04, I had run 4 open marathons. Now I have nearly 40 under my belt and know what it takes to keep the momentum going. The next month will be hard on the body and mind, but the homestretch looms for Ironman 2012!

And now, the chain in the cogs. I got into the Western States Endurance Run, a 100-mile jaunt through the mountains of California in June. After many, many years of entering the lottery and being denied, this year, with my Ironman, trip to Germany, and conferences in the summer, I got in when I least wanted to. But how can one turn down a ticket to the most prestigious ultra in the world? The only problem is that I cannot possibly dedicate myself to both events. Nothing can sacrifice my training for Ironman (April 22). But then that means I have only a few weeks to transition myself into ultra running and the Comrades (June 3). The Comrades now becomes a training run for WS100, and I have 3 weeks to recover and maintain for WS (June 23). It is going to be a crazy 12 weeks!

In order to survive this roller coaster, I have solicited the services of Chase Pack Consulting, a group led by Michael Trahan, former college athlete turned ultra runner. Michael provides pacing services, spiritual resolution, diet and training advice, and overall justification. Under his tutelage I will emerge from this SNAFU of completion successful.

Training From August to Jan 29

	Cumulative Distance	Cumulative Time
Swim	68550m	28:36:02
Bike	1202.9 mi	71:06:11
Run	533.8 mi	73:49:01
Core	N/A	13:45:00
Lift	N/A	6:00:00

Kilimanjaro and the Roof of Africa

2011-12-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

How to make climbing Kili harder:
1) Have surgery on your eye the morning you depart
2) Go to work after that
3) Fly over night
4) Do the hardest route
5) Carry your own 35lb pack instead of having a porter do it
6) Have a hole in your air mattress so you sleep on rocks

A small cist on my eyelid had to go so I started my trip with some surgery. Pulse rate on the table = 40bpm and went to 46bpm when they cut open my lid. Got dressed and went to work. Finished that and went to the airport for an 11:50pm flight. Worst flight ever! I sat in the middle seat with the guy on my left a loud talker (and a spitter) and the guy on my right stank. These two became buddies and talked across me, even high fiving each other at some points in front of my face. When I hunched over my meal to keep saliva out of it, they talked on my back. They each had 4 beers (not to mention whatever they had before getting on the plane) and stayed up all night. I just wanted to rest. After 3 hours I just crawled over them to another row. Landing at 4:40am was no better; a mad dash for visas that are processed randomly. Then you go outside to wait in a long line only to go back inside through security. Get your pass and then upstairs to, you guessed it, security. I sat in the airport, caught the flight to Moshi. It was excellent seeing the summit of Kili above where we were flying.

The first look

In the down time at my hotel, I met my guide, Silvano. We got along well until he told me to pack my day pack with camera and water and the porters would carry the rest. I told him no, I would be carrying, and he was skeptical. But I won (because I am the client).

How I knew my route was harder than the others
1) When asked which route I am doing and I respond “Umbwe”, people wince.
2) I took a Land Rover to the trailhead; others took a bus
3) I was the only one to sign in for my route that day; other routes can see 25 per day.

The first day was about 8k of hiking and an elevation gain of 1,000m. My boxed lunch eaten, gear sorted, and porters already on the hump, I shouldered my pack. Immediately it started to rain. We slogged uphill in a river of water for several hours. My pancho could not cover my bag and me so I opted for the bag, figuring if it were dry then I would be dry, eventually. My guide kept saying “pole, poly” (pronounced polly polly meaning ‘slowly, slowly’ in Swahili. At first, I thought it was super slow, but by the end of the day, I realized that it made it possible to hike forever. Muddy and soaked to the bone, 4 ½ hours later we got to camp and ate.

Camp 1 (2940m)

That night we slept at 2900m, and it was the darkest I have ever known. There was no light. I could make out nothing in my tent – no shapes, no color; with no light within miles and a cloudy sky it was something to value.

The route

Camp 2 in the cloud (3900m)

The next day was the “short day.” The exciting part was a Class 5 scramble up about 50ft of wall. With the heavy packs it was pretty sketchy, and the route was bolted for people to be roped up. There was a longer way around, but this was an adventure. The porters waited at the top to see me make it (or watch me fall, if that were the case). 4+ hours of hiking up a very steep section of trail was miserable. The rain started toward the end and I resumed my usual state of dampness. I suppose I was irritated that it wasn’t faster. Our camp was stuck in a cloud on a barren plateau. I was not impressed. People would roll in every 15 min or so yelling for their team in the fog. Barranco Camp sat 1,100m above the first camp and 8k away. It wasn’t short.

On the third day, I awoke to a much better view. What was socked in a cloud to my right was now a long view to the valley below. To my left, a beautiful peak with the summit beyond. In front, Barranco Wall, a large slab of rock that was our route.

Once clearing the wall (again, an exciting scramble), there was a lot of hiking along the valley floor. We hit Karranga Camp after about 2 ½ hours of hiking. But we would not camp because it was only a couple of hundred meters higher than the previous camp.

After lunch, we kept going up to the Barafu camp making it a 6 hour day. All in all, we did about 15km and gained about 700m. I was feeling very strong and seemed to only be doing better as we climbed. Altitude was not a factor and I was getting better at carrying my heavy pack. Still, I was glad to be done. But rest was short. It was summit night.

Dinner in high camp (summit beyond glacier)


High Camp (4600m)

The summit was beyond our view but we did have a nice glimpse of the glacier on top. Dinner and some rest; I can’t say sleep. At 11:30pm you drink your tea and dress up for the midnight departure. I was very warm early on and had to take off my hat and gloves while most everyone I passed was sewn up in Gore-Tex. Even though I started later than many others, soon I was leading the pack up the mountain. Things were good for a couple of hours as we went pole, pole. The trail of headlamps behind me was nearly as beautiful as the stars in the sky. At that altitude, many miles from civilization, we could see a mix of galaxies and planets that painted the black canvas of the sky. I moved well for 2 hours, and then, suddenly, things went bad.

My head was spinning, my stomach sour. Was it the altitude? I had performed well up till now. Was it my calories? I only had a protein bar for “breakfast.” For the next 2 hours I slogged behind Silvano, placing one foot in front of the other, never looking up. Every step sucked and I struggled significantly. We pushed up the steep wall to Stella Point (5700m) and things started to get better. Stella is essentially the top as there is only a gentle summit ridge remaining.

Sunrise from the Roof of Africa

We rolled on up the ridge. The summit was 400m away. Then 300m. Suddenly I was sitting on a rock, wishing my life was over. People started passing me, which had not happened all climb. I was no longer first; in fact, now I was yelling at Silvano for toilet paper and he threw me some baby wipes. Well equipped, I squatted amongst the rocks. I can’t tell you what came out because it rolled down the mountain and out of sight. Instantly, my life was better. Within a few minutes, I was on the summit! Uhuru Peak, 5890m, 5:35am!

My stay at the Top of Africa was brief. In order to wipe my tukus, I had to take off my glove. Now my hand was frozen solid. A few pictures were snapped and we bolted back down to Stella Point as the magnificently orange African sun was on the rise. Unfortunately, the next 90 min were torturous scree-gully descents with me sliding, falling, and skidding back down the mountain. The sun was now up and I was started to soak with the layers of clothing on. At 7:45am I crash landed in my tent at high camp. I had a little over an hour to eat breakfast, pack my gear, and get my body to stop hating me. Then we were off.

Death in high camp post climb

Down, down, down we walked, quickly but still with a lot of weight. I had to carry water, my gear, and I didn’t eat any of the snacks I brought because the meals were so large. My pack weighed about the same as it did when I left. Silvano paid me props by telling me he thought I would do the first day and give up my pack. Then he said he thought there was no way I would keep it after the second day. He said he had never had a client carry all their own stuff before. I told him I wouldn’t do it any other way. Carrying weight makes it hard and hence better training and simulates future climbs. We stopped in the Millennium Camp for a $4 Coke (which I bought for Silvano since the average Tanzania lives on about $3/day) and continued down to Mweka Hut (3100m), the last camp on the route. Although only a couple hours from the gate, we stopped. It had been a long day and it was going to cost me about $55/night extra for every day I got off the mountain early, so one day faster was enough. I got there from high camp in 2.5 hours, a route that normally takes 4 for the solid guy. I laid around, ate, and slept.

Last camp, Mweka Hut (3100m)

A coke and a smile with Silvano, my guide

And then I paid for it. Climbing with weight, summiting, and bolting down the mountain with weight so quickly caught up with me. I felt like I had just finished an ultramarathon. My quads were shot, and my legs screamed with every step. Within minutes of our departure I was dripping in sweat and near tears with pain. Everyone went past me, and not just porters. Finally, when two German women (one of them….older) went by, I told Silvano enough was enough. He reassured me that the pace was good and that I was the only one carrying all my gear, but I had had it. We picked up the pace; it hurt like hell anyway so why not get down. I gritted my teeth and pushed on, and soon we reached a road. From there, I even jogged a bit and was to the gate 2 hours after starting. After signing out and jumping in the Land Rover, my time on the mountain was done.

Overall, my experience was interesting. The route was not difficult as technical climbing can be, but it was not easy. I made a challenge for myself and it was worth it. One of the interesting finds was that from the pictures, Kili looks like a flat hill. In fact, it was miles of jagged peaks and dozens of valleys. Even the summit was a rounded mass distinct from the rest of the peak. The mountain was very beautiful and extremely well maintained. The trails were well groomed and the camps cleared (of course not without its garbage). It carries my recommendation for pretty much anyone to hit up – from those looking for some adventure straight from the job to a serious climber needed one of the seven summits. Holds a little something for everyone. And now my appetite is whet for something bigger…

Four Races in Five Weeks

2011-12-11T11:42:00.000-07:00

You know how to train? Race 4 times in 5 weeks. It will do it. Coming off the Soweto Marathon and the triathlon, I rolled into the Momentum 94.7 Cycle Challenge. Last year I was hurting for the ride. This year, we were better off. Because I was seeded, I started at 7:03 in the morning, hours earlier than last year. Plus, it was cooler and overcast. Whereas last year I struggled up every hill, bonked hard, and cramped over and over. This year, I cruised in my group, moved to the front by halfway, and blasted up the long hills that killed me last year. When I hit the highway, I rode in a large peloton doing no damage to my legs. I stopped near the end of the road to pee and get drinks. So from 20k out, I rode alone trying to hammer back to where I was. I caught rider after rider and sprinted to the finish. I finished 8th in my wave of 500, and in under 3 hours for the 61 mile effort. I was very pleased…the perfect ride.

With three races in three weeks done, it was fitting that Thanksgiving was a week off. A few rides and a couple of hour-long runs and I can’t say I rested. So why not come out for another race? The BSG Energade Sprint Triathlon was a good place to start. The swim was only 600m but it was in a river with a current. While I can’t say I tore it up, something happened that rarely does for me in the swim; I passed people! Of course, I was in the 30-50 age group. My transition to the bike was quick.

On the first few hundred yards of the ride, I sailed past people. Then a couple of guys came up and we packed up. It was a draft legal race, which means we could ride close together to reduce the wind. We took turns pulling at the front, with me directing the pacing. A group of 4 of us dropped rider after rider. I hopped off the bike with another fast transition.

My run was flawless. I scooped up runner after runner, 32 in all over the 5K course. No one passed me. I logged the 11th fastest run but I question my split (I had 50 seconds faster on my watch, would have put me as the 5th or so fastest). I was 22nd overall, not including the elites. It was great practice for transitions and open water. 1:06:55.

I threw in another 2K time trial in the pool and banked a 36:34, my fastest yet. That equates to about a 1:09:30 Ironman swim, so I am happy with that. With drafting, a wetsuit, and no turns to make, I am hoping this is an indicator of getting closer to my goal.

I am off to Tanzania to climb Kilimanjaro, go on safari, and hit the beaches of Zanzibar. Training will take a hit – will be non-existent – for two weeks, but when I come back it is great training and diet for the month of January. Plus, a little surprise thrown into the mix.

Training from Aug 1-Dec 11

	Distance	Cumulative Distance	Time	Cumulative Time
Swim	4000m	43900m	1:35:00	19:44:57
Bike	60.6mi	848.8mi	3:31:13	49:23:24
Run	25.7mi	380.4mi	3:35:25	52:46:37
Core	N/A	N/A	1:00:00	12:15:00
Lift	N/A	N/A	0	5:45:00

Africa's Toughest Triathlon

2011-11-13T12:25:00.001-07:00

Or, the race that never happened.

When all is said and done, the history books will be written, but I won’t be in them. My second race in two weeks (there would eventually be 4 races in 5 weeks) went very well but no one will ever know. Because when anyone goes to look me up, they won’t find anything.

Backtrack several days: It is hot, smoldering, and my whole family is with me. We shot up to Pilanesberg, this time not too look for animals but to stay close to the start of the race at Sun City. The parking lot was full but the start line was a 2-mile-ride away. Once in transition, I looked left and right, only to see that no one had on a wetsuit. Hmm. This was news to me. So I kept mine in the bag and set up my transitions, shocked at how many of these little routines were unfamiliar to me. After all, it was my first triathlon in exactly 7 years.

My swim was atrocious. From the start, I was kicked, punched, and pushed under. Each time I came up for a breath of fresh air, I swallow a pint of lake water. Saying a silent prayer to survive this swim and not get giardia, I swam wide of the first buoy to stay out of trouble. This caused me to be a bit too wide and by the time I made the final turn, I was content to just draft behind people on the way in. Stomach full of water, I lost all motivation to dig deep. I cleared the water in about 25+ minutes which I considered decent considering my lack of effort and getting ripped by a ton of people.

I was in and out of transition surprisingly quickly. What was not so fast was the mount line for the bike was about 700m from the transition zone, and up a huge hill. It turned out that my decision to have my shoes already attached to my bike (rather than putting them on in transition) was a good one. I shot past people attempting to run up a brick path, pushing their bike, in bike shoes with cleats on them. Most walked. Finally, the summit crested and the long decent of the first hill (at 36mph) behind me, I turned on the open road and began the cycle leg for real. A stiff headwind hit me in both directions on the out and back course (how is that possible?!?!). The course likened to Kona, Hawaii as the terrain was rolling, the landscape barren, and the wind heavy with heat. I blew past some better swimmers and was also passed by a few people on some sleek tri bikes. At the end of the first loop, we had a 2K climb up a long hill that again had some walking their bikes before shooting down again for the second loop. The second loop wasn’t as fast but still solid. Again the long climb to the top capped off by the dismount and 700m run down the hill to transition again. My average of about 20.8mph was seriously lowered by the long runs in and out of the zone but all in all, a 1:08:30 for 25 mile bike was great.

My transition was great despite not having zip laces yet. On the jog I immediately was sweeping up loads of runners. I caught nearly 40 in the first 2K. But the course was very hilly and soon things got very spread out. A runner I caught early on teamed with me to roll through the halfway point of the race. My goal was to make 7K and see what happened. I did and things got tough. The next 2K was uphill in stagnant, jungle air. My life ground to a halt. I crawled through the last couple of K and after several minutes into the final K I started counting down the steps. Since the last K took about 9 min, I would say it was mismarked. It hurt and I collapsed at the finish, content to lay there for several minutes before reuniting with the family. The bike down to the car and walk back up for breakfast was torture. But I survived.

So all in all, I had a decent swim pace for me, a solid bike, good transitions, and overall a great run (a run that was slower than I would have liked but faster than much of the field). In unofficial results I had the 9th fastest run for men. But due to a timing error, none of it is available. I will never be able to see what place I was in during each event or how many people I caught. It is lost in the African wind. But a hugely solid performance for November in the midst of other racing. I am stoked.

Soweto Round 2

2011-11-07T09:27:00.001-07:00

My intention was to include the 2011 Soweto Marathon in a longer blog of a month full of races. But this event was just too bizarre to exclude from its own write up.

After parking and peeing in the trees, just like last year, I got into the corrals, which were back loaded. I inched toward the start line and found myself pinched off to the left between the fence and road. Literally, I was standing in a rock garden. To my left, a fence. To the right, a road. Ahead of me, a tent and wall for the announcers. All around me, well, people, but intermixed within the sea of humanity where cacti. Many, many cacti, about 3 feet off the ground, and sharp. I looked all around, and no one else seemed perplexed by this. My mind jumped ahead 5 minutes to when the gun would go off and I saw myself plowed face first into this spiny monster. Just as I started to push and inch my way toward the road, the gun went off. Amazing, the first time overseas a race starts on time.

Since I am writing this, you can be sure I was not the victim of a deadly cactus accident, but within feet of crossing the starting line, I was tested with even more challenging obstacles. Because of the grotesque amount of questionably intelligent people who toe the line of a marathon only to walk the moment the gun sounds, I was forced to run on the median, which was cobbled brick and, really, more cacti. To add insult to injury, people had lined up in the wrong corral (10k’ers in the marathon corral and vice versa) and were now making a mad dash across the median, and across my path. Now, this would be semi-acceptable if the openings to the start line didn’t have big signs indicating which way people should head.

Once out of the mayhem of rocks and criss-crossing idiots, I pulled over for a quick pee. After all, I had taken about 3 minutes to cover the first quarter mile so now was as good as any for a break. Ankle rolls, being cut off, and jumping over 3-foot-deep channels of water runoff, I rejoined the road. Now, I am not kidding when I say this: I am nearly a mile into the race and the crowd parts ahead of me to reveal five bovine-like creatures coming straight at me. When I ran with the bulls in Pamplona I wasn’t as intimidated as this. How these large ladies managed to get this far down the road 1) ahead of me (even with the poor start and pee break) and 2) without realizing that they were supposed to be in the 10K (which was headed the other direction) was beyond me. I yelled. “Jesus Christ!” and leapt to the side of the road, into another rock garden, and into a tree. They mooed in response and the race went on.

I can’t stress enough how funny I find the water stations here. Again, they use sachets of water sealed in these plastic baggie-like things. But they are easily dropped by the volunteers when handing to runners. So each time you go through a water station the sachets end up on the ground. When they get stepped on, 8 oz. of water explode into the air, soaking the victim’s feet and showering others with liquid. D-day comes every few miles as it is like the beaches of Normandy which these bombs going off.

The highlight of my race was running a good portion of it with Lindsay Anne van Aswegen, 3rd at the recent IAAF 100km World Championships. Ironically, Andrew Henshaw, a guy I had run with in Colorado, finished 3rd for the men in the same race. It was almost a sign.

Despite the excitement and chaos, it was a really hard race. I would have to say it was one of the easier first halves – mostly downhill. I clicked off 5k splits around 21:00. But after a first half in 1:32:30 (and staying totally slow having run 3:07 here last year), it got tough. A combination of 11-30 miles per week of running going in with monster hills, rising heat, and a very casual approach to the day just about killed me. I lost interest, slowed to about 23:00-24:00 per 5K and luckily, hooked up with some guys who wanted a sub-3:20. I shine with I have people to pull to the line. So I backed them off on hills, held pace through water stations, and dragged two guys to the line in just over 3:16. This race is painful and not for greenhorns. But I made it, and kicked off my month of Sundays – Marathon, Olympic-distance Triathlon, and then the 100k bike ride. I toyed with a long ride over Thanksgiving, but at this point, I’ll be ready for a rest.

Scares on the African Highveld

2011-11-05T00:14:00.002-06:00

Let me tell you about my ride. I roll down the first street, and within 3 miles from home I come to a stop light. I roll through and along comes a taxi cab on my right. Soon he is drifting left and I lock up the brakes, skidding all the while. Slowly the cab drops off the edge of the road into the shoulder. I am leaning like a cycle sprinter into the cab as it drags me off the road into the ditch. After glaring, I ride on.

Rolling past the Lion Park, I catch a glimpse of giraffe, ostrich, and zebra. My fun soon ends when I turn on the highway that is two lanes and a 3-foot drop off from asphalt to dirt. A semi roars up, honking at me. I scoot over. He honks. I ride the edge. He honks. I pray. He honks and blasts by, never moving over an inch, despite no oncoming cars and a whole road to work with. After swearing, I ride on.

By now my neck is getting sore. I put my chin to my chest to stretch out. It is a welcome relief. But riding like this is not very smart so my head lifts back to the more common position. When it returns upright, there is a large SUV in my lane, going about 65mph, and not more than a few yards. The jackass just had to pass these cars in front of him and cared very little about who might be in the way. Panic sets in I yank the wheel left, sailing into space before landing in the dirt shoulder, thankfully without Blowing a tire. My hatred and curses fly in the wind back toward a yuppie that will never hear them. Even more fortunately, after surveying the land ahead and behind me, I realize I have landed on the only 10 feet of rural South African shoulder that isn’t filled with large dirt mounds or raging canals of runoff. The adrenalin fades, feet clip back in, and I ride on.

Thus completes my 50 mile ride.

Several days prior to the ride, I did a time trial at the running club. After 2.8 miles there, I set out in front by more than a couple minutes. Running solo I held a decent pace for 4K. Then I really tired. The end was not impressive. But I crossed in 19:05 on a course that is so hilly I say it is worth 15-20 seconds over 5K. Then I jogged 2.8 miles home. It was a very good result for the time of year, total lack of intensity, and the miles per week (12-30) I have been doing. Two days later, I finished a 50 mile bike ride that neither felt long nor hard. I am getting there.

Where Are My Shoes??!?!?!

2011-10-23T08:03:00.004-06:00

Last year I pulled off a sub-1:23 half marathon early in the training. I went back to the same race looking for a good performance. Unfortunately, the weather was crap, the course was just as hard as ever, and I struggled like never before. After about 5K, some stomach cramps hit and grew steadily worse for a while. Soon I was slouched over in a death shuffle. It has been a while since I have hurt this bad on a run. Yet when I crossed the line in 1:25:49 (6:32+/mile) I felt better.

My swimming has really picked up. Perhaps it is the previous experience in the water before or maybe it was all the videos and reading. At one point, this guy was coaching others at the pool and made a comment to one of them. Till that point, I never thought about the fact that my hand was 90° from the bottom of the pool. Once I turned my hand down, I gained more power. Even after the week off with the arm injury, I still had some good improvements. Not only am I finding it less than awful to be in the water, but my 2K time trial improved from 39:20 to 37:35 (a 1:45 improvement). That translates to a 1:11:30 Ironman swim. More work to do, but lots of time. My arm is at about 85%.

Now, to the good stuff. We are in Hermanus (near Cape Town) at a beach house. It is 2am. Sarah is saying, “What are you looking for?” I say, “What?” “What are you looking for?” she repeats. “Who are you talking to?” I ask in a purple haze worthy of Hendrix. Sarah points to the floor where there is a faint light and a black mass. Taelyn (2-year-old daughter) sometimes gets out of bed and lies on the floor. But no answer. Maybe it is my dad looking for my computer (by my bed). He has become obsessed with Burn Notice. No answer. I start to get up and the figure rises, definitely not Taelyn. Down the stairs it goes. I yell for my dad and there is no answer so I go to his room where he and my mom are in bed. Yep, someone was in our house. I shoot to the girls’ room and find them both, thankfully, asleep. My pops and I creep downstairs to find the house empty but the back door open with glass shattered on the ground.

After pulling the ADT alarm and greeting the security, we start to look around. My backpack was on the counter but is gone, along with my Comrades jacket, my mother’s REI fleece, and both ours and my parents’ digital cameras. My wallet with all credit cards, driver’s license, PADI card, and R1200 ($150) is gone and my phone too. Worst, in my backpack were my sunglasses, my computer mouse, my GPS watch, our family’s four passports, and our car keys. Why are missing the car keys a big deal? Because we only have one set, and they are the electronic kind that can only be ordered by the dealer from France, cost $300, and take three weeks to arrive. My car, our ride home, and my parent’s transport for the rest of the trip is sitting in the airport parking (at $11/day) with no way to move it.

Outside the broken window is a half-drank 40oz. of beer and on the ground a 5” knife. Thankfully, the dude did not bring the knife in the house. Security was cool, and told us this has been happening a lot, and that “squatters” break in, take stuff, and make off down the beach to their camp where they will sell the goods. Finally, the police arrive 45 minutes later and start to fill out a report. As realistic as the next guy, I know we aren’t going to find this burglar, but at least act like you care. These guys hardly say a word, take my statement with contempt, and one cop’s eyes are so bloodshot that he either was roused from a deep sleep or is drunk off his rocker (let’s not rule out both). They could not seem to understand that I do not live there. They keep asking if the house is insured and other questions, ignoring that I am renting the place! They are true to the task, though, as a call comes in about a stabbing and they tell someone else to do it. Their statement is on lined paper where the guy ad-libs what I say and he has me sign it. At the end, the last line say, “I agree this to be true, and hereby declare that I did not give permission for anyone to break into my house.” I think it is a joke. Who is in the house? Where is all my stuff? Call the cops! Someone broke in guys! What? Oh, yeah, I forgot. I did tell someone to break into my house, at night, and steal my items. Sorry for wasting your time.

Tallying up the damage, we were close to $2000 in loses. The cameras, jackets, watch, sunglasses, wallet, and cards could all be replaced. Sadly, we lost all of the pictures of our trip and our kids on the cameras. Some time on the internet could replace the credit cards and driver’s license. The passports required a trip to the consulate and a lot of money. What was worrisome was getting our work permits replaced in time to leave and return for our Tanzania trip in December. It was a major hassle (4 months) to get them originally so we hope this time will be better. The car key was a different problem as leaving a car in the airport for a month is costly, the key is costly, and being without a car in a place where you really can’t walk or bike to places is tough.

In the end, everyone was safe, and that was the main thing. These people don’t have much, so they commit crimes that get them cash or things that can be used for cash. I can understand that. I don’t blame them for what their life has become, but I am none too happy about it considering it was my items and safety in jeopardy. The feeling of having someone in your home, taking your stuff, and near your children is unnerving to say the least. But what really gets my blood boiling is that the guy took my running shoes. My used, dirty, smelly running shoes! I missed out on a run in a great place because of that. I hope they guy caught a foot fungus, and I hope it itches, bad.

You'll Have to Call Me Lefty

2011-09-25T22:22:00.012-06:00

Sometimes when it rains, it pours. Training has been less than ideal with the staff retreat planning and starting work. The surprise volleyball appointment just made things tighter and I had to drop from focused training to a series of base work. I got smacked with a terrible cold and chest infection that hurt me for 10 days. Then I screwed up my arm.

I was playing volleyball with the high school team. After jumping in cold to serve repeatedly, we then did a hitting drill. For the remainder of the week, my arm was quite sore. Then on International Day, on the first play of a kickball game, I whipped the big red rubber ball at a 6th grader and heard a pop. My arm hurt like hell. The next day it was on fire. I went into the doctor who gave me a cortisone shot in the ass and sent me to the hospital where an ultrasound revealed no tear. However, even a week off volleyball, swimming, and lifting (with drugs) and it still hurts very bad.

Training through September 25^th. Swimming and lifting have taken a hit with the arm injury.

	Cumulative Distance	Cumulative Time
Swim	13500m	6:19:20
Bike	359.7 mi	21:25:29
Run	167.82 mi	22:27:22
Core	N/A	4:30:00
Lift	N/A	3:30:00

It hasn’t been all illness and injury. I have been doing weekly time trials with the jogger. Four straight victories at 5k and 8K pushing two kids. Have some of that. My weight, which was a grotesque 158.5 lbs in late July, dropped to 154.3 by September 1st and by month’s end I am looking at 151.5 lbs. Again, I am not preoccupied by weight but I love to see the results of the work put in. I am stronger up top than I have been in years (likely the last Ironman) and shaving the fat will only make me more efficient.

The real satisfaction has been the bike. I don’t have the log from the last Ironman but Sarah confirms that I wasn’t on the bike that much. Not that I have been Team BMC or anything lately, but I am getting 1-2 shorter rides during the week and another “longer” ride of 30 miles or so on the weekend. This is a good start. I took this momentum to Clarens, a small mountain town to do a nice loop of the lovely Golden Gate Highlands National Park.

Rising early, the cold smacked me in the face like an underage partier mouthing off to a bouncer at a club. It was fricken freezing to say the least – my guess is 40 or slightly colder. Good thing I packed my arm warmers. After a couple of very steep kilometers, I hit my first turn, a dirt road. Whelp, that is over. I turned around to do an out-an-back in the park, forgoing the loop. The problem was my hands got too cold on the downhills. The body heat was generated well on the ups, but every time I got over 15mph (which is anything not a hill) my digits ached like in a Michigan winter. Several times in the first hour I could be found on the side of the road, hands shoved in pants, begging for my crotch to return warmth to my finger tips. When my hands weren’t the problem, it was my forehead and toes. Thankfully, the route was largely uphill on the way out.

My turnaround was at 28 miles out. After descending for several miles prior to this, I just laughed knowing what was coming. A monster category 3 climb awaited, yet it was probably the best 20 min of cycling I have ever had. Legs pumping, lungs heaving, blood boiling, I shot up this behemoth while Sarah grabbed some video (what you won’t catch on film are the screaming kids in the car). The final part of the route was predominately downhill, and I hit over 50mph on the bike, while riding 35+ on some of the “flatter” portions. It definitely made me see why the first half was so hard (see the profile below). But any ride where you see zebra, ostrich, antelope, and wild horses is a good one.

I also did some running there and was joined by three local men for over a mile. It still amazes me the people in other parts of the world who come out and run with a total strangers. If that doesn’t make you feel like you are in that scene in Rocky, nothing will.

So peep this video. It is the first in a series of documentation of the training I am doing for Ironman. Sarah asked why this song (Public Enemy’s He Got Game). I don’t know, maybe it was the beat, the mix of old school and “new” (1998) school. Maybe I just got game. So enjoy.

The profile for my 51.5 mile ride in Clarens, going over four Cat. 5 climbs, one Cat. 4, and two wicked Cat. 3 climbs. (or look here)

Tri Training - The First Month

2011-09-04T12:11:00.000-06:00

Taking on a new training program can be pretty exciting. But I don’t recommend an Ironman plan without having adequate time. Time is something I have not had. Since moving back I have been very busy with work, going in sometimes 6 of 7 days. Not to mention a staff retreat outing that took many hours, was stressful, and made me miss some training. With that behind me I am on my way.

Thus far, I have been putting in about 2x/week of core to focus on the strength. A better core will help in the water and also on the run after hours of work. I have also been lifting about 2x/week. Nothing heavy; just the high rep/low weight for chest, shoulders, and back. I want to get stronger for the swim but I know the extra bulk will not be beneficial to lug with me on the bike and run. So balance is key. My bike has been about 2x/week on the trainer and once/week on the road for a longer ride of 20-25 miles or so. The trainer sucks as I pedal the whole time and at a much slower pace than the same effort would give me on the road. I am getting in 3 runs a week of about 4-7 miles each. It is a bit low but my first marathon isn’t until November, and I can manage pretty well on the run, so I am looking to use time an energy to build a base in the other two sports.

The bummer is that I had to take on coaching boys HS volleyball this term. So three nights per week I am staying late at school and missing out on some valuable training and rest time. I have accepted this and figure that a long base will work well for me.

After a few weeks in the pool, I am getting myself together. I started with 500m days and couldn’t do more than 250m in a shot. Then I got up to 1000m and was doing 500m at a time. My first time trail came after about a month of this and I did 2K straight after having not even gone half that far. I rocked out a 39:23, which is equivalent to a 1:15:00 swim for Ironman. I am stoked. I swam 1:13:00 my first Ironman and I am close to that pace already. I want to improve on it.

My bike hasn’t gone as well. Optimistically, I entered a 98K race. It was only just over twice as far as I had ridden so far, so why not do it? Well, first because I came down with nasty chest infection and spent the weekend in bed. I hauled my butt to the race and realized that I forgot my gloves. Gloves are sorely needed because South African roads are essentially gravel laid over glue. It hurt. I also forgot my Gu’s so I had no energy supplement. Not a good day. I couldn’t really stay with the pelotons that I wanted, but it was a decent effort. I held about 22.8mph over the first 27 miles and then faced with a turn I decided to head to the finish for the shorter race. The last 4 miles were killer and I ended the 50K ride in about 1:30:00. So it was a decent day despite the setbacks.

I have decided to keep a Cumulative training distance/time for the program. Here is my effort from August 1 to Sept. 4.

	Cumulative Distance	Cumulative Time
Swim	9000m	4:09:20
Bike	190.5 mi	11:20:34
Run	90.72 mi	12:07:22
Core	N/A	2:30:00
Lift	N/A	2:15:00

Insane Summer

2011-08-03T23:03:00.002-06:00

After a week off running post-Comrades in South Africa, I landed in Michigan ready to train. But I didn’t just want to run. I wanted to be Insane! So I started doing the program called Insanity by Beachbody (the producers of P90X) that incorporates the total body workout without machines or weights. Just you and the ground to get ripped. On the first day I almost died. Day 2 was hell on Earth; my hamstrings were so tight I limped through a run. Day 3 got slightly better and soon I could do the workouts without crying (though still lost about a gallon of sweat per session). It was a super intense workout and coupled with the occasional run afterward I was molding into good shape quickly.

Just a taste of the 40 min daily program.

After a brief spell running, I missed several days of training due to a trip to Las Vegas where I took a good 5 years off of my liver. Then I headed out west to Eugene. There is little more in this great world that gets a runner wanting to train than visiting Track Town, USA. I jogged into the trails and hills of Hendrick’s Park, pausing briefly to visit Pre’s Rock. I also did a good loop of Pre’s Trail and, of course, kept up my Insanity. But the best part (aside from the plentiful Pacific Northwest microbrews) was the fact that USA Nationals were at Hayward Field. I had my seat in the East Grandstand, 5th row, 1500m start line. I witnessed some really excellent races, caught up with some old friends, and sat amongst some of the great coaches of the nation. It was a great trip. But not over until I headed to Seattle for a conference, with more Insanity, and more beer.

The trees and hills of Hendrick's Park

A bit of Pre's Trail

Pre's Rock

Enough said

On a whim, Sarah and I late-entered into the Volkslaufe race in Frankenmuth, a race she hadn’t run since early in college. 5K was just way too short for me, but the prizes in the age groups were Bavarian beer steins and how could I pass up the opportunity? A relatively quick first mile for me passed in 6:02 and a strange thing happened – I got faster. The second mile was rolling and I moved past some people and although I felt tired going into the final mile, I never felt sore. It was too fast for my lungs but the legs were solid. I rolled up on a college kid with half a mile to go but let him kick in as I had no other gears. Although I thought I could break 20 minutes, I crossed in 18:11, good for 11th overall and 1st in my age group. I don’t think that was all too bad considering the following: 1) It was my 2nd 5K of the year (and 2nd in the last 5 years), 2) I ran Comrades a little over a month prior, and 3) I ran 12 times since starting back running. No too shabby at all.

Two First Place Age-Groupers!

A wedding and a week in Costa Rica did nothing to help ramp up the mileage and come summer’s end I found myself consistently between 12 and 20 miles per week. Pretty impressive. But mileage isn’t going to save me coming into Ironman season. The training starts August 1. Wait for it!

A small departure from regular training to do some zip lines!

Comrades Marathon 2011

2011-05-29T14:20:00.000-06:00

It has been called the ultimate human race. World famous and notorious, the Comrades Marathon The race began in 1921 and has run since, with the exception of 1941-45 when the 2nd World War took precedence. Starting with 34 runners who ventured out in homage to fallen countrymen in the first World War, now thousands run in fraternal steps. Comrades has a legacy rivaling any major world marathon, Boston, New York, and London included. But what makes Comrades unique cannot be captured in words. It is the combination of exceptional circumstances that make this South Africa’s Gem and world famous. The course winds the road from Durban to Pietermaritzburg (or vice versa) and while every major race defines itself to an accurate distance, say 26 miles, 385 yards, Comrades doesn’t care. Could be 87 or 89k. Doesn’t matter. It’s Comrades. And to make it more ambiguous, let’s run it one way this year then flip the course the next. The whole nation respects this event with 20,000 contending for a spot to run and the other millions watching the race on television; all 12 hours of it are broadcast nationally. And everyone knows it. While the marathon in most places is for skinny people with something wrong with their cranium, Comrades is expected in South Africa. No one thinks you are odd for wanting to run it because thousands of others go for it each May and many more resolve to one day mark it off their life list.

The race has a 12-hour time limit. Given the hills and heat, this can be viewed as a strict ending. But to add insult to injury, if you don’t finish within the time, you don’t get in the official records, and you don’t get a medal. You literally are turned away when the clock strikes 12:00:00. But hey, with 20,000 starting, you have some extra time to complete the course right? Wrong. There is not chip time at Comrades. In fact, a man in a suit walks to the line, turns his back on the course, and silently watches the clock expire. The thousands of fans chant the remaining seconds, urging every single brother and sister who trained for months, years, to sprint if they can, to crawl, to pick up that runner who has fallen and cannot summit the energy to make it the final meters. And then, without compassion or emotion, the man fires the gun into the air, and the Comrades Marathon is finished, be you a mile short or mere inches. There are four people who receive extreme attention each year at this race: the male winner, the female winner, the last person to officially finish, and the first to not. In no other race does the person who fails to be records, the person who cannot do what was asked of them, receive so much fame. At airports and in malls, the first non-finisher of the Comrades each year is recognized by passersby due to the overwhelming media coverage of this tragic tale. But I will tell you this: no runner who wears that glorious number bib and grinds the 55-miles for 12 hours would ever trade the notoriety of the first non-finisher for that coveted Comrades Marathon medal. Not one.

Want a taste of what this race means to people? Check out this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mLYxVL_qpl0

It is amongst the masses in the starting coral I am reminded of the famous speech in Shakespeare’s Henry the V called St. Crispen’s Day. The king begins by denying the need for more participants. “The fewer men, the greater the share of honor.” I look around and care little about the number that are here. Whereas about 600 people run the largest 50-mile race in the US, nearly 18,000 toe this line, 99.9% of them not to steal my glory, but to find their own. Even though there are six medal/award categories and we all hope to get one, the fact is, nearly every runner wants to finish this race, and only the bold, genetically gifted few will risk failure of completion to go for the win. So I heed these words:

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

And I know that together we each will bleed today for our victory, that no man nor woman who shall leave this course in under the cutoff time that did not consider themselves blessed to finish, and that we all survivors of this day will go forth as brothers, united as finishers of the 86th Comrades Marathon, and that those without our medal will feel, if even just a tinge, envious of that feat.

From the Comrades Marathon site:
The Comrades Marathon medal has remained true in size and design since its inception in 1921. There are some that speak slightingly of its size and general appearance as being insignificant, but as Morris Alexander wrote in his book ' The Comrades Marathon Story':
'No sports medals have ever been so dearly won and cherished as the Comrades Marathon medals. It was surely an original stroke of genius on the part of Comrades founder Vic Clapham to reward with these medals the efforts of all those who completed the course within the prescribed time.'
The medal is 29mm in diameter and depicts the words 'COMRADES MARATHON' and 'MARITZBURG - DURBAN' encircling a striding figure of Hermes with winged feet and helmet. It would seem that the figure of Hermes was chosen as the emblem of Comrades Marathon on the basis of his renown as the messenger of the gods according to Greek mythology. He was also the god of land travel and the patron of roads and his relevance to Comrades can perhaps be drawn from this connection.

Medals Currently Awarded

Gold Medals First 10 men and first 10 women

Wally Hayward Medals           Position 11 to sub 6hrs 00min
Silver Medals                          6hrs 00min to sub 7hrs 30min
Bill Rowan Medals                  7hrs 30min to sub 9hrs 00min
Bronze Medals                          9hrs 00min to sub 11hrs 00min
Vic Clapham                              11hrs 00min to sub 12hrs 00min

The small Silver medal is no joke. While there are 6 medal classes available, only the most elite of all can get gold, and those amazingly close to the win take the Wally Hayward (since the winner goes about 5:35, after 10 Golds have been awarded, there aren’t many left under 6 for the next medal – less tend to get the WH than the Gold). Only 5% of the field will walk away with a Silver medal or better. And with an amazingly low DNF rate (about 1%), it is no wonder you wear this medal proudly. But from the moment I started looking at doing Comrades, I wanted the Silver. It is the best I can hope for with my training and ability.

The South African Idols (yes, I can hear your giggling) arrived to sing the South African national anthem, a rousing tune incorporating the many languages of this country. Upon conclusion, the sea of runners and spectators near the line broke into a chorus of Shosholoza, the Zulu-adopted Zibabwean song meaning roughly go forward, make way for the next man, and is a fitting anthem for this race. Though I only knew the title word, I still sung with them, united in anticipation. Upon completion, Max Trimborn’s rooster crow filled the speakers. Back in 1944, Max belted out a crow on the starting line, a tradition he repeated for 32 years and is still played today at the start on a recording. After the cackling ceased and the cheers subsided, the pristine silence was broken by the Chariots of Fire song. Though no one really spoke, the lack of silence was deafening. The starting cannon was nowhere near as loud in comparison. After this I knew it was going to be a great day.

It wasn’t. Now listen close because I am going to make 65k seem really short. I just wasn’t in it from the gun. My A seeding meant nothing as I was overtaken by B and C runners early. It made no difference as I knew how few people would make it as this pace (sub-7 hours). But something just wasn’t right. I don’t know why but it was difficult for me. The Big 5 hills (Cowies Hill, Field's Hill, Botha's Hill, Inchanga, and finally, Polly Shortts) started with Cowies which was nothing spectacular. By the bottom of Field’s I caught the top runners in my club and joined with them. We worked up Field’s with one preemptive walk break, and two of the big ones were down. But I just didn’t feel solid. The legs were sore (probablu my shoes) and the heart was racing. Inchanga posed a bigger problem as it climbed into the sky across a valley. We took several 1 minute breaks to walk and maintained an excellent pace. Crossing the marathon in about 3:20, I was a bit worried about the early pace being too fast. We hit halfway in 3:31:30, translating to a 7:03 time pace having the hillier first half behind us. My plan was closer to 3:35-3:40 and although this doesn’t seem like much, it felt too fast.

We grabbed a rose to leave for Arthur at the top. Arthur Newton (5 time winner), trained on the course and stopped frequently on his training runs at this point. He is immortalized at Arthur’s Seat where runners leave a flower in hopes of good luck in the 2nd half of the race. I needed it, but caught up in the people, I didn’t realize I missed it and threw it to the side of the road. I had missed his seat, but I figured Arthur would appreciate the sentiment. He didn’t.

Somewhere about halfway I passed Bruce Fordyce, 9 time winner of this race. He was on a quest for Silver having not run a fast time in recent years. Meanwhile, I had been yo-yoing off the back of my clubmates for some time. They were running consistent, but consistently too fast for either my training or the way I was feeling. I let them go with about 30k to go when I ran into Sarah. Grabbing Hammer Gel I confessed that I had to start running my own race or I would not end well. There was time in the bank. 10k later I arrived at the 67K mark and, admitted to Sarah my race was done. I knew that with the way I was feeling I would not make my time, though I would be oh so close. But with Little and Big Polly’s to come, I was going to lose just enough to miss it. I had been running in the red zone for about the last 2.5 hours, on the brink, and it wasn’t my day. Even with 10 miles left, if I had just been able to run 8 min miles, I would have got silver. The problem was, I just couldn’t.

Polly Shortts kicked my ass. It was a long climb, steep, but no monster. The crux is that it summits at about 80k into the race, and on dead legs and crap stomach, this is a killer. I walk/ran the thing but was humbled. Near the top were photographers and I posed with another guy for a picture but we were still too far away from them so they told us to keep coming. I jokingly said they could paint us we were going that slow. Language barrier aside, I don’t think he understood my joke. Like all good derailing, the down run is worse than the up, and the final 5 miles were painful. My stomach was tight and all gusto had been zapped. I even walked briefly on the descent from Polly’s!! That was how bad I hurt. But I wanted to leave it all on the course so I kept running, albeit slow. I had pushed and pushed my body (not smart) till it wouldn’t yield times anymore, and then I pushed more. The final 2.5k hurt more than any other section, but I wanted to finish vertically. I sprinted (sorta) into the stadium and finished shaking the hand of an African man in support of his 10th finish and green number (a permanent bib number awarded to those with 10 finisher or more). I ran 7:45, just shy of my Silver goal, but pleased none the less. They say a novice silver is rare, and an American novice silver unheard of. So I know I can do it. 616th place out of many thousand.

Maybe I didn’t train well enough (isn’t 35 miles per week with an occasional marathon good for a 54 mile effort?), or maybe I “tapered” too much in the final days and was flat. Perhaps I should not have worn racing flats (my legs hurt from early on and I wasn’t used to my shoes. My foot strike could have used muscles that I wasn’t training and more cushioning would have been nice. That was in my head the whole time.). But I finished the Comrades Marathon and that is worth writing about.

Click below to see footage of me on the course (note – this link will not load so you have to go to the web address it takes you to and add the = sign to the end of what is there. Hit enter and it should load my videos).

http://media.comrades.com/mysports/?e=CO11M&n=Justin+Walker&r=12597&nt_s1=00:00:00&ct_s1=05:30:35&nt_s2=01:22:48&ct_s2=06:53:23&nt_s3=03:31:26&ct_s3=09:02:01&nt_s4=05:01:51&ct_s4=10:32:26&nt_s5=07:01:07&ct_s5=12:31:42&nt_s6=&ct_s6=&nt_s7=&ct_s7=&nt_s8=&ct_s8=&nt_s9=&ct_s9=&nt_s10=&ct_s10=&nt_s11=&ct_s11=&nt_f=07:45:39&ct_f=13:16:14&l=EN&tp_f=

Glad to be done!

Starting to feel the effects

Props to my true running club!

Walker 2nd at Two Oceans!

2011-04-24T11:41:00.001-06:00

I wish. But Sarah did in the 5K fun run amongst a slew of local children, many of them shoeless, and was the 2nd woman in the untimed event. Her chaotic race just fell in the middle of a crazy trip. Our flight to Cape Town was rough as Taelyn had a cold and her ears hurt the whole way. The yelling was bad enough but the snot and coughing all over me was insane considering I didn’t want to get sick pre-race. On arrival we were upgraded to an apartment rather than a room and I finally grabbed some pizza and pasta at 9pm.

We woke early to head to Boulders Beach and a walk with penguins. Too bad the car ride there was filled with screaming children. Hauled ass back to Cape Town, picked up my race packet, tore into a café for a muffin and bagel, and a quick change of clothes before we squealed into the lot of the race venue. While Sarah sprinted to the registration, I threw the car into a parking spot, loaded one kid in the stroller and picked up the other, and started running to the line. A stairwell of 4 flights of stairs slowed me but I got Taelyn to the line on time. If Sarah’s race was chaotic (held two hours later), Taelyn’s was a nightmare. Though no parents were supposed to be on the course of the 56m Nappy Dash, hundreds ran with their kids or stood on the finish line only to walk out as soon as the gun sounded. Taelyn finished well, running with her hand on her number the whole way. Since it was Good Friday, we ate seafood, and went to bed early. Luckily I had my race goodie bag complete with a full box of Honey Cheerios, 5 packages of M&M’s, and a can of sardines. Bizarre.

While I am going to give props to Two Oceans for several things – beauty of course and support- I am going to knock parking. I waited on the highway in a line for 20 minutes to exit. A guy literally beat me there by walking. When I finally got to the parking area, it was full and I was directed down and to the right. Well, that was a one-way and full of runners. So I flipped it and threw it on the first side street from the start line. No parking spot, but not choice. Luckily was in the “A” corral and walked right to the line. Unfortunately, when they released the corral barriers, people from the “B” section felt they needed to elbow their way past me to be 1-inch closer to the line. I started standing tougher to stop them all from coming through.

It made no difference. On the gun, people sprinted away like a 5K. I was shocked by the number of people hauling down the road. It looked like Boston. The first 10K rolled out the city streets and I kept it well under control, and although I was “under” my pre-selected pace, I was getting passed like crazy. To get a B seed meant that you did not break 3:20 for a marathon prior to the race. Not that many of these guys couldn’t, but I found it interesting that hundreds of people that slow wanted to go out that fast. It was a long day, and the 2nd half of the race was far harder than the first. I soon learned more about the guy who had been running on my shoulder for 45 minutes. He had run this race three years ago. Not last year or the year before because he was sick. When I asked with what, he told me he was HIV positive. I was shocked (which I shouldn’t be since South Africa has the highest number of people infected in the world and I was bound to meet one of them). I slowed a little, not out of fear but a little of me was zapped at that news.

The sun rose along the water after about an hour and a beautiful beach lined the course. We popped over a hill 17K and it grew instantly chilly. A white sand beach was shroud in fog while the “Chariots of Fire” theme belted from the aid station. Even crossing the half marathon mark was uneventful and although the course was beautiful, it wasn’t particularly hard. At the pace I was running, I felt great. I thi the halfway point of the race in 2:09:11, well under the 2:20 pace I had planned. But then again, the 2nd half was a killer.

Up. Here we go. A nice, steady, curving road rises from the town up the side of the mountain but when it relented over the ocean I learned that this section was called “Little Chappy.” Rounding a corner I saw it, and instantly understood why “Chapman’s Peak” had a lesser distinction. For the next several miles a road was etched in the side of the rock over the shear face of the mountain that lead to the sea. It was no joke and has taken many out. I ran well up it and found myself passing many runners without pushing. I crested the summit some 5K later proud to have gotten that finished without suffering. But we all know up isn’t what kills you. It is down that does you in.

And down Chapman’s goes, for a good 5K from peak to sea. Many people told me to be smart coming off this thing because the downhill section from 35-40 before the final climbs will do you in. I held back as much as possible but it is ridiculously steep and you can only do so much. By 1K left in the descent, I was crying for it to end. We would round a corner and see it drop and people would grunt or yell, “Come on!” I hated the downs and wanted to get on flats or even an up. Anything to make it stop.

My rest was short lived. After hitting the beach we started up again back out of the town of Hout Bay. Although pretty, the downs of the peak were setting in. The exposure to the sun was starting to get tough but I pulled through the marathon mark in 3:16 flat. Respectable. But the last serious work was starting to come. The climb up to Constantia was not exactly subtle but not overly daunting. I decided to go at it by pushing up the climb and push I did past many struggling runners. I was pleased to take down a lot of people and since my name was on my bib, got lots of encouragement from the support staff and spectators. I reached the summit and knew the last of my challenges were over.

Instantly my hamstring pulled and stopped to stretch it. While it helped temporarily, I knew it wouldn’t release on its own, so I tried to run on the low side of the road and chug some Powerade. Surprisingly, it never got any worse. Unfortunately, from the 50km mark on, it was mostly downhill and while my legs were holding up, I was feeling like I was done. The recent Powerade slugs were starting to make the stomach sour and when it goes south, the motivation to run hard goes with it. While it felt like the hills would never end, the road soon panned out and it was pretty smooth on in. I hit the last K and tried to pass a few more people, bringing it home in about the same as my first K.

Although I was quite tired at the end and glad to be done, I knew that I had kept it in the bag. They say it is the toughest silver medal in South Africa (sub-4 hours). I think it is obtainable on the surface since I ran a 4:23 fairly reserved. However, there is only so much that can be done in the far more difficult 2nd half and going too fast in the beginning can kill you. But no matter. My splits for 5Ks were: 45:50 (for 10K); 23:11; 22:53; 23:07; 23:47; 24:44 (up Chapman’s); 22:29 (down Chapman’s); 24:06; 24:54 (up Constantia); 23:46; and a 4:34 to close.

Pleased that I ran relatively even splints (in the sense that I didn’t tank), I decided to walk from the finish back to my car. It was 2K away but I started down a very steep, San Francisco-like hill for the next 10 minutes, stopping once to grab a drink. Directed by spectators left and right, I finally became too exhausted to carry on. I stopped and asked where the start line was to a guy. He said that is was the way I had come. No, I told him, I was told this way. How far back? He said, “Not too far,” then looked me up and down and said, “Far for you.” 3K. I sunk. There was no way. It would take me an hour. He tried to give me money for a cab which I refused, but just then his ride arrived and he gave me a life. There are still good people in the world. I turned up the street from the start and there were no cars. Hours before, this street was packed. I suddenly realized that they probably had long since ticketed and towed my rental car. I was screwed. But as I rounded the corner and saw the blue piece of crap, I knew the sun was still shinning on me.

Mitchell's beer well deserved post-race

German brewhouse on Easter. Good times.

Fool In the Rain

2011-04-17T18:52:00.000-06:00

There are some great stories where someone finishes a race with a broken bone. Well now I have mine but it isn’t going to be that cool.

One week out from Two Oceans, I ran the Slow Mag Marathon. But the Friday of, I broke my finger in the staff/student volleyball game. Google “Mallet Finger” for a taste of the pain.

Winter came early with gray skies, cold rain, and lower moods. The race was one of my best in the sense that it was a solid negative split with a relatively easy effort. I had planned to run about 8/min miles (goal pace for Comrades) at this race and at Two Oceans. However, from the gun, it was too hard to run that slow and I just locked in to something faster yet comfortable. I ran with a guy the whole first half and although he slowed toward the end, it was easy, crossing in about 1:38 or so. It was as close to a jog as I have ever “raced.” I then got back on the early pace and continued to catch and pass people for the next 21K. I felt very strong as the cool rain started to pick up and despite the wind, ran a 3:13:38 which felt like nothing. It was only after I realized that Two Oceans was the next Saturday, leaving only 5 recovery days after a quicker marathon effort.

Going in to Two Oceans I am strong, relatively fast, and training through. I am going to look to hit Comrades goal pace for the marathon mark, survive the suicide climb, and bring it in faster if possible. That should set me up for Comrades just dandy.

One Year From Now

2011-04-10T12:24:00.000-06:00

One year from now, the 2012 Ironman South Africa will be concluding. It will mean months of training and sacrifice. I'll have to clean up the diet and reduce the extra-curricular. I need to improve technique and get tougher/stronger. My goals: A PR? Yes. Under 10 hours? That's the plan. Hawaii qualifier? The dream.

Whatever happens, the most important outcome is to hear that announcer say, "Justin Walker, you are an Ironman!"

Luck O’ the Irish and the Holy Trinity

2011-03-27T20:00:00.005-06:00

This is the tale of victory and humility. This is a long tale but the hits just keep coming. From a 5k to 3 marathons in one week, this is my story.

The 5K
The annual AISJ 5K fell on the morning of March 17 this year, and in addition to being my favorite day of the year, I had another reason to smile. Confident that this would be a walk in the park, Sarah threw me for a loop on race eve by telling me that all her students believed I would not upset Piet, the reigning champion, a student. I knew I would win and that he couldn’t touch me, but for some reason I was nervous like never before. It was just a 5K and yet I slept for a total of 4 hours the night before in fitful 2 hour bursts.

Piet went out like a madman for the first 400m and within seconds I knew the race was mine. After starting slower and working through a few ambitious high school students, I had Piet caught by 500m and did all I could to try to keep him with me for the next half a K but by the marker, he had faded fast. He would keep going backwards. I ran relatively conservative till 4K and tried to bring it home stronger. I felt that the mud, hills, and lack of opposition slowed me up and I crossed in 18:49. It was 2 minutes to the next finisher, a high school student, and on his heals was Sarah with the champ fading to 6th. I was pretty pleased with the time considering the relaxed effort (and in spite of the high anxiety).

Pre-Race

Post Race


Sarah rocks 3rd place (1st female) at 9 months post baby.

The 1st Marathon
After a good holiday, we split for a vacation and the start of three marathons in one week. On the way to Clarens, we pulled into Standerton for a Monday morning marathon. The night before was a challenge in itself – finding good food in a sleepy town on a holiday weekend. After an hour of driving the streets, the best we could find was Spur (the equivalent of a Big Boy). The race itself was uneventful save the benefit of running with a 25 time -straight Comrades finisher who gave me some insight on the coming race. They asked jokingly in Afrikaans if I had a ticket for this bus, thinking I was latched on to the group. I just laughed knowing that by the end, they would benefit from me pulling the pace. They had a first timer and a girl who was a month past her debut. I hung with them as the pace gradually slowed. My knees and feet hurt from the slower pace and I wondered which was harder: pacing or racing. I ran in for a 3:28; felt fine but still a marathon. The normal knee aches and dehydration left me worried about the double coming the next weekend.

Seeing my girls on the run.

"T run like daddy!"

The Worst Friday Ever

A quick shower, lunch, and a 3-hour drive later we hit Clarens for a few days of mountain relaxation. I can't say my short runs in the hilly town were comfortable. Come Friday, we had a 4-hour drive to Newcastle. Narrow roads were made even more nerve-racking by the large potholes, and not your run-of-the-mill bump in the road. We are talking huge holes in the road, some the size of a car hood and nearly 3 feet deep. It was like a video game dodging them at 65mph. I shuddered each time my wheels tagged a smaller one and prayed that I never would hit one of those car killers. Then the police came.

I popped over the hill and saw the cop car ahead and the police officers standing in the middle of the road. I pulled over to the side and was asked to come look at the radar. 126 in an 80kph. Bugger. It was the first hint of speed control in almost 300k of wide-open driving. No stop signs, no speed limits, nobody going to slow me down. Then this. They told me that if I had been going 124, it was a 2500 rand fine (about $400). But since I was over, it was arrest only. They said I had to go with them to the jail, wait 4 hours, Sarah would bail me out for 500 rand, and then Monday I would have to return for sentencing, which was 6 months in jail. They went to tell Sarah this while I played along. I started with the usual banter and told them I couldn’t possibly return on Monday because I was from another province. They said, yes, this was a problem (let’s ignore the problem 6 months in jail would pose and focus on my province of origin). I asked if there was another way to pay a fine now. They asked me what fine I would like to pay (as if there was a menu). So I checked my wallet and not wanting to undercut them and have them search me, I took 600 rand. I gave it to the cop who took it and walked me to my car and then gave me 300 rand back. “I’ll only take 300 because you still have more vacation to do.” Nice, a partial refund on my bribe. I was on my way, $40 lighter but with no jail time.

I registered for race #2 in a jail cell; not because of my previous encounter with the law but because this race was in a township and the police station was the venue. It wasn’t until later that I realized when they took my license for a copy, they never gave it back. Without ID, we stopped for groceries a la my Maritzberg experience and went to the ATM which promptly ate my card. After hitting buttons, punching it, and swearing more times than I care to admit, I called the number on the machine. They canceled my card and as a solution to my madness, kicked me over to telephone banking. Forty minutes later, still standing in the rain, they finally came to the conclusion that I could not enroll in phone banking without an ATM card (which they had canceled). I felt like I was trying to explain the situation to a monkey with down syndrome. I couldn’t have told them enough that the card was canceled, by them but still they couldn’t make this happen. After forty minutes of ID numbers, complaints about no money on vacation, and being told to set this up, my phone ran out of airtime, and soaking wet we left.

WHACK!!! ________ (Insert your foulest swear words here). I was on the bed clutching my leg and looking at the inch-long hole in my shin after I ran smack into the extra cot in our hotel room. Blood started down my leg and I knew that I was going to need stitches to save this one. Two hours later and after repeated arguments about insurance numbers with the receptionist, I had two fresh stitches in leg. A nice chicken curry on my hotel bed and kissed this horrid day goodbye. My only hope was that the next morning’s marathon didn’t carry the same crappy luck.


Late in the evening with stitches in my leg, but at least I wasn't in jail.

Post-marathon leg

The 2nd Marathon
I think everyone wanted to play a joke on me. I am in the back of a police paddy wagon, a short-bed pickup with a cab over it. Seven others are there with me and each has their own game. Two women are screaming in conversation even though no one else’s head is more than a foot from her mouth. The guy to my left is gently scooting closer seeing if he can take half the bench while the other three of us split the other half. The girl on my right keeps touching my leg which I let go because it is close. I draw the line when she lays her entire arm on my leg like an armrest in a car. The guy across keeps coughing into my face. Each bump sends us into the roof or against the fence that cover the windows. We hurtle down the pothole stricken roads at 70 mph, butt bones slamming down on the hard, wooden bench, and I consider it a miracle to tumble out the back of the truck 45 min later under a cool mist at the start line. Ever launched into a marathon right out of a car? Try doing it out of the back of a packed police wagon.

My plan was to over drink and excessively fuel on the Saturday race in order to be ready for Sunday. Unfortunately, or typical for this weekend, I lost my 2ndGu at the start and there was only three water stops for the 26.2 miles, so chuck that plan out the window. The 30 or so of us rolled down the country road for a few Ks then ran the remaining 23 miles on a rocky highway. There weren’t many people in the race; support crew and police easily doubled the number of participants. I enjoyed the many cheers, few high fives, giggles, and I am sure a few taunts from the locals as I hustled by. Everything held together well, minus the lack of water, and I crossed in 3:23:55, a negative split and good for 13th place, and the first white guy. Hit up the Spur for breakfast, a 4 hour drive home, and rested for race number three.

The 3rd Marathon
Why wouldn’t the baby wake up screaming at 2:30am? And why wouldn’t she go back to sleep at all? Oh, that’s right, because I had a marathon to run in a few hours. The tough part about running so much is being extremely exhausted. I have no comparison for the deep rooted tiredness and the aches and pains of the knees and back. These problems are exacerbated by steep uphills and sharp downhills. The Springbok Jackie Gibson Marathon had both. Dawning cool and wet again, a ridiculous first 10k of hills marked the first portion of the course. Never have I encountered such difficult hills in outside of an ultra. From the gun, the legs felt like I was at mile 20. By halfway, the legs felt like I had run a marathon. Every piece of my body cried for this endeavor to be over.

From the half on, the race really began. An already fast pace (well, relative to what I wanted to do) was met with even more pain over the comparatively easier 2nd half. The humidity left me drenched by 5k and although there was actually water this time, I had run out of GU by the last race. So going on no calories was the plan today. So proud of my body for the first 20 miles, I had moments of dizziness and fatigue ebbing and flowing in the final miles. As much as I wanted to stop, the pace was quick and the faster you run, the quicker you are done. Who did I pace off of from near beginning to end? A 61-year-old man. That’s right. I struggled at times to catch up to this machine after water stops; he was relentless. With 2K to go, he bonked and told me to go ahead, but why run that far with him only to leave at the end? Everybody knew this guy and we got lots of shouts on the way in. We slowed dramatically but I didn’t care, crossing the finish line in God only knows what place at 3:16:18. I lay on the ground and a tremendous amount of pain swept over me. It was over. I may have been beaten solidly but in my mind, today was a victory.


Since I don't have a bedpost here, I use my lamp. Here hang the three in a week till the next race.

PMB Comes Up Short

2011-02-27T11:26:00.001-07:00

Pietermaritzburg isn’t the nicest of towns and I wasn’t lodging in the most up market of neighborhoods. You want a challenge? Try to eat well in a poor neighborhood. Go on, next time you head to a major sporting event, turn down a street into the ghetto and try to find a meal without sugar, loaded in fat, and bouncing with cholesterol. It could be a task on the Amazing Race. I came away with a chicken lasagna that was actually pretty decent. But not before I swung into the grocery store to pick up some food and drink. This place was slammed with 20 checkout lanes stocked 15-20 people deep. In this sea of humanity, I was the only white person in there. It was very sobering to see such a large amount of people, many of whom don’t make much money, all fighting for food. It smelled like a gym bag and spilled milk and other liquids coated the floor. The whites of eyes were dyed yellow with malaria, each cough shouted tuberculosis, and the silent killer of HIV shopped. It was odd, but you know how from time to time you will get to the check out and you see an odd item discarded there? Here there were hundreds of items stacked on the floor and in baskets. I found it odd to see many of the items. Like do you really get up to the front and say, “I don’t really want this 2 liter of Coke, or these shrimp, or that 6-pack of yogurt?” Could people not afford them and discarded them at the last second, another dream dashed?

So you know by reading the previous posts that I haven’t been in good shape the last few weeks. Why not roll the dice? I grabbed some naan and chicken curry from the Indian place next door which I would never normally do, but there weren’t a whole lot of fine cuisine options. Finished up a season of Prison Break and concluded a day and a half of sitting on foam dorm beds. I can’t complain because I got the whole dorm to myself for about $18 and I needed the rest. Since everyone at the hostel was racing, I was up at 3:45am ready to rock. After squirting last night’s dinner a few times, I headed out. The best thing about my ghetto fabulous lodging was that it sat smack dab in the middle of the start/finish line street with a 100m walk to either. I pushed toward the start line but ended up at about 10 rows back. The START banner came down so low that anyone over 5’9” would tag it on the gun. The music started and in typical African fashion, the people started moving and grooving, seemingly oblivious to the 42k ahead. It was humid but the 5am gun and cloud cover would keep the sun away.

This course profile is billed as mostly uphill first half (per loop) and mostly downhill second, which it was. The problem was that it is horribly deceiving as the profile is smooth but the course is not. There were some monster hills in the second part of the course that just made it impossible to take full advantage of the long downhills. Still, the course was a perfect mirror to my weekly club runs – uphill first half, downhill second with some stingers in there. I was prepared.

You know what is interesting? In South Africa, they hand out sachets of water and Powerade instead of cups. So there are all these plastic baggies all over the road. On the plus side, they don’t spill when you grab them from volunteers and these kind folk don’t get soaked. You do, however, when you have to tear them open with your teeth mid stride. Even more interesting is the large amount of runners who grab these and don’t drink them right away. Instead, they carry them for 2+ kilometers and drink them just before the next aid station. Seems unusual to me.

Planned on a 1:26 half, followed by a 1:24. Couldn’t afford to get out too fast with my recent illness and fatigue. First few K were a struggle as the pace was too slow and felt hard. Then I found a guy and we started clicking. We hammered in and I crossed in 1:26:00. Perfect. But he fading. I did some good work for the next few K but no one would go with me. There were lots of people to catch but I was alone. The hills started to hurt and by 29K I knew it would be tough. At 32K, I had to run 4:00/K plus find an extra 30 seconds in there. But the legs were tired and I just couldn’t get the time back. By 37K, I was still 30sec slow for 2:50. I was cooked. In the final 3K I gave up 2.5 minutes. I have to admit I ran like a Virginia (yep, that is the word I am using) the last K. Something happened that never does – people passed me. I think 4 crept by and I finished 54th. My time was about 2:53:10. Given my recent luck, I was thrilled to run this time, my 2nd best ever. There is a part of me disappointed not to PR and go sub 2:50, but I can, and there are other races.

Moment of Surrender

2011-02-22T05:05:00.002-07:00

So I am accepting fate. A PR is probably not in the cards this weekend. Sometimes you just have to listen to reason. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. Sure, my mileage has been pretty low. But I have been consistent and fast – working out and getting in some faster-paced runs most weeks which is something I haven’t done in years. But it just hasn’t come together.

A few weeks ago I ran a 20 mile race. It went well – I averaged under 3:00 pace for the 20 miles. But it just didn’t seem right. I was about 7+ min/mile for the first half and then dropped down, only later to realize that I dropped only to 6:30/mile which is not even my goal race pace. That sucked. Then I came back later that week with a 5K in sub 6min/mile which is decent except I run that pace for 8K. I could say the course is hard, which it is, but still, with no jump in the legs I can’t see how this is going to happen for me.

Then I had a nasty bout with the U2 concert. A lack of better judgment derailed me for a day and when I took off for school camp a day later, I was not myself. A cold had been creeping in and although my nose wasn’t running, neither was I. I felt completely ill without the symptoms and was sleeping all the time which never seemed to be enough. I got in one run at camp, just pathetic. I set off to do 10x800 and after ½ mile of warm up on a dirt road uphill, I knew the workout wasn’t going to happen. I ran 5 miles and called it good. The next morning I got up for about 6-7 but a rash that had been spreading stopped me 2minutes into the jog. The next day was off to work on issues at the camp. I returned for the weekend and got in 7 at a decent pace, but too much effort. Then Sunday, a week out from the race, I tried to do 10. By 3 miles I was gassed and turned to go toward home and ended up walking up the hill for 10 min. That’s right, walking. I took Monday off since there was no reason to continue this ridiculous cycle.

I am very frustrated after having been focused on this race for much of the last 6 months. I want a PR – to go under 2:50 and be that guy. But I seriously doubt I have the energy to get the pace where it needs to be (6:28/mile or about 4:00/K) nor the miles under me to maintain it for 26.2. I am curious if I will struggle from the gun or hold it and tank towards then end. Is it overtraining? Hard to imagine that I have done too much work, although when you run so very little anything could be too much. I fear something worse, that I am sick, and that scares me.

Frosted Flake Out

2011-01-23T02:19:00.001-07:00

It doesn’t matter if it a low-key race, if you are training through, or if it is a flat course. A marathon is still a marathon, no matter the pace. So ask much as I downplayed the Akasia 3-in-1 race, I still ran easy the day before and ate well. I spent Saturday drinking lots of water and avoiding the BBQ and margaritas. I was ready to run a solid marathon on Sunday. The problem was, the race was on Saturday.

I don’t know why I thought it was on Jan. 23rd. Everything I had done to prepare for this race told me it was Sunday. Every conversation I had implied the race was on this day. Why, oh why, was this race Saturday morning? People kept asking me how the race went and I was totally confused. But sure enough, Saturday morning had come and gone, and I missed it. For the first time in my life, I accidentally missed a race.

Bitter about my stupidity, I played some cards with friends and went home, determined to get in a long run in the morning. It was about 10pm. If I were racing I would have been in bed earlier. I would have risen at 4 to drive to the race. I rose at 7. It was pouring rain. I did not want to get out there, wet and miserable, chaffing the whole way. So I waited it out. The rain finally ceased around 830 and off I went, ignoring Sarah’s pleas to take money for drinks. I just left.

By 3 miles, the sun was wide open and toasting me. No, I didn’t bring sunscreen. I was baking. I turned at 10 miles and started to come back, taking in a Gu I had shoved in my shorts. But this route had 3 category 5 hills on it, and soon I started to suffer. When you go to a race, you rest well, hydrate well, wake early, eat smart, get in the mindset, and have thousands of people pulling you along with water stops every 2k. When you flake out, you struggle to get up, eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes, take no water, and begin a death march to the end. I nearly walked on a massive hill at 14 miles. But mile 19 was where I truly gained humility. I hit the wall and it was a miserable crawl to home.

Another crappy result from bonking is the soreness and depleted feeling for days after. I really screwed this up. If I had raced, I would have coasted a nice 3:20 and been running a day later. Now I was hating moving. But I rallied and went to running club on Thursday with an extra day off. Toeing the line in the time trial I was ready to run smart, backing off on the early hills and bringing it home on the 2nd lap. A 31 min effort would have been fine. But I cruised the first lap and found myself easily in front and finished in control for a 29:57 8k. It was my 3rd fastest time for the horribly hard course, yet a relatively ‘easy’ effort. Even some good can come from flaking out.

Consistency is Key

2011-01-20T02:32:00.002-07:00

Vacations are never good, for running that is. Let me draw a picture of my typical vacation: A long flight (no sleep, little liquid, massive time zone shift, losing a day to travel), staying up later than normal, getting up later than normal, eating out all the time (big breakfast, pizzas, burgers), drinking more (and we still aren’t talking about water), seeing the sights, justifying a break. Well, not all of that sounds too bad. But what is missing? Oh yes, running. Running on vacation sucks.

Here is what it looks like for me: After a long day getting somewhere, I grab a beer or two. I am already dehydrated. I have eaten crappy food all day and now it is very late. I wake up later than I want to find I am hungry from the lack of good food. It is usually humid/hot out, so rather than run I eat and try to find drinkable water. When I do, I plan the activities I want to do. Of course, by the time those wrap up, I am dehydrated again and it is too hot to go. So I take the day off. But my evening consists of beers, bad food, and staying up late again, of course.

What usually happens is I suffer through a run in hotter weather than usual, run shorter than usual, at a slower pace than usual. I run maybe every other day but it is not unusual to take 2-3 days in a row off. My fitness suffers and it takes weeks to return to a solid schedule. But not this time! I was gone for 12 days and ran 10 of them. I did hour efforts in the sun. I cruised down a trail or along a lagoon and closed in the 5:40s for the last mile several times. It has made all the difference.

The down side is I am tired. I did a 20 miler two weeks ago and I paid for it. Despite the fact that I ran it slow with water, it took a week to feel ok again and I have been tired. I threw down 8x300m on a hill this week and realized I can still turn and burn. Not to mention you are looking at the league champs in sand-beach volleyball! I will run a tune-up marathon nice and easy Sunday morning to set me up for Pietermaritzburg at the end of February. This will be a PR attempt to go into Ultra season on a high.

The Path is Set

2010-12-05T09:10:00.000-07:00

Well, no shocker there. Not accepted to Western States 100 for about the 4th time. It is getting to the point where that race is impossible to get into. 10% acceptance this year. Oh well, maybe another time.

Otherwise, post-Soweto marathon I hopped on the bike for the Momentum 94.7 Cycle Challenge. Despite its name, this bastard went 62 miles and I dont care what they say. Here's why those two miles extra sucked. First off, it isnt like I trained too hard for this thing. I was on the bike maybe 9 times since the start of the school year and my longest ride was a 25 mile effort. So that stings. Next, this is an amazingly hilly course, and it stings the legs. Throw in temps in the 80s, 25,000 riders, and the above mentioned handicap, and I was set up for failure.

After the gun, I tried to get a pace line going. People here suck at rider etiquette. They couldn't pull at the front and drop back to save their life. I would jump up, give 1-2 min at 22+ mph and then go back. They would ride at the front for 8 min getting slower and slower each minute till I took over. I was livid and even tried to tell them. Didn't matter. People here don't get it. Plus, I was way back in the start and had thousands of riders to pass every 4 min or so as we worked through the waves. No joke, I am going downhill at 48mph and there are people walking their bikes. On the ups we try to sprint and fatties on mountain bikes weave across the road. Next year I am getting seeded and starting earlier.

Flew the first 40 miles at over 20mph, and then it got bad. Coming up this long, exposed highway I got tired of the sun and tired of the saddle. With 20k to go, things got bad. Three times I had to stop and leap off the bike with massive cramps, the last a mere 500m to the finish. I fell off the bike, grabbed the leg, and felt my butt burning on the pavement. I crab walked my crippled self to the side of the road, and some guy stopped to pull my bike over. Then he just sat there till I was ready. Not talking, not helping, just chilling. 500m from the line. I missed my goal by about 9 min but it was an experience.

Since then I have been in a slump. Just couldnt bring it back together. Got reverse block in my ear last week diving and only managed 3 days on the run. BUt this week went better, and I cruised a 20 today with no problem. Not fast, but no issue.

Probably going to do a low-key marathon in January before the PR effort at Pietermaritzburg in Feb. After that, translating the speed into the ultra for a 35 mile jaunt at Two Oceans in Cape Town and then the big dance of 56miles (89k) at Comrades in May. With Western States out, I will probably look to the first of July for the transition to Ironman training.

That's the plan for now. But what does that really mean?

The First Races on African Soil

2010-11-07T15:00:00.000-07:00

Running in Africa is much like driving in Africa – if you figure out which way to look and what side of the road to be on, you are doing all right. There are more than a few scary moments when you step off of the curb and get buzzed by a car because you are looking the wrong way. Thankfully, due to the many people that walk here, there are numerous dirt trails lining the busy roads.

For motivation and safety, we joined a local running club. They hold weekly time trials over 4, 5, and 8K. When I say that they are hilly remember I have lived in Colorado, ran on the Great Wall, and have done my share of trail races. We are 4000-6000ft above sea level here too. This course is a monster allowing no consistency and brutally long uphills followed by pounding downhills. On any given week I can win going away or get my butt handed to me. For example, I may run with the double jogger and win by 3 minutes, or put up a 29:30 and take 3rd. It really just depends on who shows up.

But the hills have paid off. I took the base from summer and my PR marathon and kept the fire. I took 9th in a half marathon out in Krugersdorp. It was at altitude and had several kilometers per loop of steady uphill. The compensation was one downhill a mile out from the end. It was the kind of hill that doesn’t let you run faster – it just blows your quads from breaking and causes blisters in the feet. I got out way too fast but put in a solid effort considering the course. I finished within seconds of 6th and even slowed to help 8th on in. I still broke 1:23 which for that course could have been worth 5 more minutes.

SOWETO Marathon

There isn’t a township more famous than Soweto. This former home of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu is the root of the rebellion against racial oppression in South Africa. No place on earth boasts a wider disparity in economic distribution as millionaire mansions and glittering malls surround tin-roofed shacks and rampant unemployment. Yet each year, thousands take to the streets for a marathon that tours areas that at no other time would I be welcome to walk.

After a quick trip to the African bathroom (a tree), I pulled into the starting coral. There was supposed to be a seeding system but I knew at packet pickup when they assigned me the next available number my previous time meant squat. While being pushed and prodded I scowled at the hundreds that pushed past me to get closer to the line. When 60 year old men do this, I have to object. Yet with 1 minute until the gun the crowd broke into a glorious song, cheering in unison for the miles ahead. Thus started the annual Soweto marathon and ended the organizational efforts by the directors.

I would think that starting just 100 feet from the line would not put too many people in front of me. Yet within seconds of the gun a whole sea of humanity spread out before me. What started on two lanes expanded to six lanes with people in the median and on the sidewalk. For the entire race, groups of runners always paved the way. I never was alone. The first half of the race was conservative. After all, this was a killer hilly course and no sense in busting it out in November.

There were some interesting sights along the route: I ran with a man who was jingling with change. This was his taxi and bus fare home. I forget not everyone comes to runs under their own power. Another guy was running his first marathon at 31 years old and was on pace for 3:10. While others faded, he rolled along. I was psyched and helped him along for a few miles before he faded on the final hills. There was a period of running through sewage. Not going to lie. I saw some of the poorest places in the world. There were huts that would make any village in Mexico look like Cabo. It was pretty sad.

Split the half in 1:33 and started to pick it up. By 20 miles I was sure I could negative split by 3 minutes. But the last 7k were so unbelievably hilly that I did all I could to hang on. There were hills where everyone (but me) that I could see walked. It was a killer way to end the race. I definitely felt like it took something out of me.

338th place out of 4879 finishers. Gun time3:07:30/3:06:55 net time. Not bad for holding back on the hilliest race around.

30 in 30!!!

2010-07-18T08:18:00.001-06:00

Massey, Canada is a sleepy little town east of Sault Ste. Marie. Probably not much happens here on a weekly basis, but once a year the Friendly Massey Marathon is held, and if you can stand 87% humidity, cool temps, and light breeze you are offered a fast course with that good old Canadian charm. I had completed 29 of 29 marathons and was 29 years old, turning 30 the day after the race. It seemed a fitting time to run one more.

Rod was supposed to be here, but the day before I stopped at his hotel room three times and searched the start line to no avail. It would have been nice for him to jump in the half and run with me for 13 miles, but I would go this one solo. I stuck with a 19-year-old who was running his first marathon and his dad, who wanted to run sub 1:30 for the half to qualify for New York. I knew from research that this kid had run a decent half, but no fulls. I wasn’t worried about him knowing the sting miles 13-18 can put on a first timer. We cruised the opening miles together but Ks of 4:16 and 4:18 (3hr pace is 4:16) got me nervous and since I was down on the leader by 1:48 by 6K, I figured enough was enough. The race was on.

For the next four miles I worked away from speedy and his dad trying to close the gap on the shirtless leader. He had gone out with the half marathon guys and tucked in, so I wasn’t worried because during the second loop he would be alone. But as I made the turn at 15K he had 2:41 on me! I was losing time after all that hard work, and the worst part was the boy and his dad weren’t even that far behind me. I was in for it with 16 miles to go.

I crossed the half in 1:26:xx. That was a shade fast for me (considering I run 25 miles a week and my occasional tempos aren’t even at that pace) and heard that he had gone through in 1:23, and if he were a 2:55 guy, I knew he could hold me off. I figured the only way I would catch him was that he would blow up while I maintained. I had to maintain, since I feared that when the kid behind me dropped his dad off at halfway, he would be fresher than me having conserved and then unload his speed and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

By the time we hit our next “out and back” I had cut the gap to about 1:51. I was pleased, but my legs were stinging from a faster than usual pace, and it was getting warm. For the next several miles I tried to bring him back in, and I did, catching him at 34K. We exchanged pleasantries, but I warned of the talent in 3rd place. With a turnaround at 36K, I wanted to push to that point and back from it so that I could have 3rd see me first before he could see 2nd. I figured that would mess with his head, knowing that there had been a change of order and he had that much further to get me. But when I turned, I saw that I had not dropped the former leader with authority. The silver lining was that the rookie was much farther back than anticipated, probably cracking during the attempt to catch us.

It would be nice to portray the tale of the final 6K with drive, speed, and glory, but it was anything but. Although I didn’t lose time, I struggled mentally on the hills and could not drop the pace. I had never before “raced” nearly a whole marathon. I often reserved my energy to pace well and step up to close or beat people. This was a new game. I ran as fast as I could hold for the duration. It meant that my predetermined “kick points” had gone right out the window and I struggled in, still on a great pace but with no ability to shake it up.

I crossed in 2:50:17 for the win. It was my 30th marathon before my 30th birthday. It was my 3rd win, my 4th time under 3hours, and my 9th top 10 finish (damn that 11th place in March!). I set a personal best by over 5 minutes on less mileage per week than I have ever seriously ran. Second came in about 6 min back (stopping twice in the final 3K with leg cramps), and 3rd (the rookie) just missed with 3:00:30 (he was hurting at the end having experienced the full in all its glory). The only bittersweet moment was that I have secretly always wanted to have a time in the 2:40s. I know I can, but I left it short today. I never checked my watch from the half mark on, but I am not sure there was much I could do to get time back if I had. All in all, if you can set a PR, win, and reach a milestone race, it is kind of hard not to call it a perfect day.

Leadville Marathon Rocks

2010-07-03T14:50:00.000-06:00

Stickers saying “Leadville Rocks” pepper cars around town. The commercialized saying has a nasty double meaning. First, Leadville hosts one of the best ultra races in the world in its 100 mile race while its 100 mile bike ride draws the best cyclists in the world. So it pretty much kicks ass in that respect. However, what they don’t tell you is this normally sleepy mining town also hosts a trail marathon, that is in fact, loaded with rocks, and it makes for one nasty trip around the mountains.

By the time the pavement ended, I was feeling largely optimistic about my chances in this race. I had several things going for me. First, this race is difficult and won in slow times, which has favored me in every similar effort. Second, I was in 10th at the 1.5 mile mark and with my slow start and smart walking on the mountains, I knew I would move up. And move up I did, from the town of Leadville at 10,200ft up to a nice loop of Bald Mountain. I left the loop (at about 9 miles) in 6th place. As I started down a long dirt road I looked up and saw a twisting path to the top of a mountain in the distance. I thought that it must be Mosquito Pass, and it was. Why we had to lose elevation only to start up the side of a mountain to its summit was beyond me, but such was the way of the trail.

The top half-marathoners were coming back at me as I started up the climb. It was a steep climb and I battled with a brisk walk versus a slow jog for most of the lower slopes, finally resolving to walk to conserve energy. A runner went by me, completely in oxygen debt, running the whole way. I just shook my head, keeping him in sight, determined to make him pace for the stupid strategy in the second half of the race. Unfortunately for me, I popped like a Tour de France sprinter on an Alp near the summit and by the time I reached the summit at 13,100ft, I was toast.

With a 40mph wind blowing temperatures down about 25 degrees cooler than the lower slopes of the mountain, I felt for the volunteers at the top of the pass. But then again, Leadville does have the best and most dedicated volunteers of any race. Meanwhile, I had my own problems to deal with. In an effort to better prepare for the upcoming race in Canada, I had stepped up my running. In the week of the Leadville race (on a Saturday), I had done a 10 mile tempo on the Friday before, a tempo on Tuesday, then hiked the Manitou Incline on Wednesday (in a 3 hour round-trip effort with my father at such a pace that I used muscles that I never have and could barely walk the next day), and a Tempo on Friday. By the time I woke up at 430am on Saturday and drove the 2.5 hours to Leadville, I was toast. Had it been a flat road marathon, I would have been fine, perhaps even fast. But this was Leadville, and it was unrelenting.

The top 3 guys blew past me down the mountain, and I was facing a deficit of more than 10 min at half way. But I thought place 4-6 looked close and vulnerable. However, the path down was less than a foot wide, and with more than 100 half-marathoners and slower marathoners coming up the pass, I frequently shot off the path to avoid people. The rocks were loose, and I rolled ankles, kicked rocks, and lunged hands-first about 20 times on the descent, getting no closer to the group ahead. I felt fairly confident that my left food had a stress fracture and that I would spend the night getting x-rays in the hospital. I did know my right ankle was sprained. Those three miles were hell, and as I faced the 2 mile climb out of the valley I lulled into a pedestrian pace with a long way to 6th and 8th place on either side of me. The reverse loop of Bald Mountain did nothing to boost my motivation and I hit 22 miles with a wish to quit right there at the aid station. What should have been a welcomed descent was met with more trips and tumbles down the path on trashed legs. It wasn’t until I hit the pavement did I feel like I could be done. Too bad for me there was a long rolling downhill left to deal with before crossing the tape. Ryan Burch wasted me by over a half hour, and I finished far lower than I should have. My time was 4:22, and good for 7th even though it was the slowest marathon I have ever run, by far. My effort and body just weren’t there for what was, undoubtedly, the hardest marathon I have run. This one isn’t for the spring chickens. Stickers saying Pb for Lead also are on cars, and now have been permanently tattooed to my legs.

What Happened to that 100 Dude?

2010-06-24T16:10:00.002-06:00

Apparently, having a pregnant wife doesn't exactly scream CREW. Despite my training be hampered by 6 months of a stomach bug and less miles than I would like, I was looking forward to the opportunity to return to Kettle Moraine 100 and finish that bad boy, even if it took all night.

However, Sarah has a tendency to kick these kids out under deadline, and the doctor's appointment the Thursday before the race (the day of the flight out), said this pattern would continue. At 3cm dilated and 75% aphased, she could go at any time. We made the decision to stay home. And because my buddy's bachelor's gathering was in the boonies, I missed that too. But Monday came, and no baby.

She made her appearance a week later. After three days off and no sleep, I got back at it. I have hit some tempos on the trail with varying success but my real breakthrough came just pacing a 10K for a friend. I felt golden and shook the rust out, so to speak. I came back with Yasso 800s and did 10 in under 3flat with no difficulties or repercussions. A few tough bike rides have added to the feeling of general contentment.

Here is the plan: Leadville Marathon in a week will kick my butt all over but it is a fitting way to leave Colorado. I turn 30 on July 19th, and will have run 29 open marathons. I cant leave it at that. I have to put in 30 by 30 years. After moving, I will head to northern Ontario, Canada for the Friendly Massey Marathon. Originally, I thought I could win this one. Then I realized that every year other than the year I looked was faster. So I don't know what will happen. I figure if I go there to do the best I have and I lose, no harm. More to come on the South Africa plans soon.

The Vortex of Running

2010-05-16T20:43:00.001-06:00

An Odd Group at the 2010 Colfax Marathon

For the last few months, I have struggled significantly with stomach problems, injury, and exhaustion. The motivation to run was very low. Day after day of low miles, slogging through runs at an incredibly slow pace, I was done. But then there was rejuvenation. I realized that I will have 29 open marathons by the time I am 30. That just did not settle well with me. So I signed up for a race the day before my 30th birthday. And the motivation was back! I did a tempo run and dropped a 5:38 mile, so I knew the legs still had it, as well as 3 faster runs last week. Now I just had to run marathon number 28.

The Colfax Marathon is an odd event. Picture the street in your city with the worst reputation – liquor stores, bums, drugs, strip clubs – and then decide to run a marathon entirely on that street. Granted, when I ran this race in 2006, about 25 miles of the course was Colfax, and the 12.5 miles or so on it now are certainly in a better part of the city.

Having no race plan, I went out on the gun. Brooks said he would go 6:45s. I thought that was too fast for my fitness level, but sure enough I hit them for the first 10K or so, with Brooks nowhere in sight. I cruised along for the first 13 miles with two bathroom breaks en route. My splits say that I eased up a bit from 7 to 13 but I was running under what I expected the whole time. After seeing the leaders go past (and giving Brooks a few smartass comments about the intended pace as he shot by), I lit a fire and decided to run. After all, I needed to push myself mentally and physically in order to survive the 100miler and the marathons this summer. I crossed in 1:31:35 (7min/mile).

After dropping a 6:28 13th mile, I passed the lead woman and then kept it up for the rest of the run, cruising by people. But I have to say, it was like the Twilight Zone of running. At mile 3, I split a 6:45 – quite fast I felt. Yet for some reason this split was too slow for the guy next to me (did I mention he had fat legs, an IPod, and a cotton long-sleeved shirt on?), and he took off. I am not sure where he finished but it was nowhere near 6:45s! Later I caught a hairy-backed man with a hip belt full of 4 bottles and a Camelbak (even though there was water every mile or so). He ran sideways – when his foot hit the ground it was 90 degrees to his direction of travel. That means that for the brief second when both feet are on the ground at the same time in his stride, he was completely sideways – walk like an Egyptian style. It pains me it took me 10 miles to pass him. Third place at the turnaround was a little Africa wearing a full spandex suit (temp at the finish had to be in the mid 60s). Yet I blew by him at 18 miles like he was standing still. The weirdest part was that this guy who would move up to 3rd by 13.1 passed me at a mile. I don’t know where he started or if he was sleeping in the car when the gun went off, but he faded significantly. It was just an odd day of running out there.

At mile 19 I thought I had gone too early. The hills of the city were coming and I started to struggle. Yet with patience and experience, the pace continued to stay fast and I passed more people. At 10 miles left, I thought that I would run about a 3:03. At 10K to go, I figured a 3:02. With 2 miles to go, I knew that breaking 3 hours that day would mean a blistering finish. I saw the guy ahead of me who said it was his “Bucket List” item to break 3 hours and I went after him. After yelling for him to stop looking at the watch and go and to do it or “die trying” as he said to me earlier, I pushed on, crossing mile 25 in 6:26. I stepped it up to the finish, yet with a half mile to go, the trail merged with all of the half marathoners. Suddenly I was in a sea of 11 min milers as the course weaved through the park. I couldn’t cut tangents and had to dodge slower runners, walkers, and spectators with baby strollers. I still crossed mile 26 in 6:05 and kicked to this finish the best I could in the crowd. 2:59:53. Could I have been faster? Oh yeah, if I hadn’t stopped twice to use the toilet or not laid off in the beginning. But who cares? I was 10th and I had run 35 miles a week, and only 2 runs in the last 2 months under 8min/mile pace – both in the last week. So I was stoked with my day.

Aftermath – I drove home and the legs were great. It was a few hours later after 7 games of beach volleyball that I entered a new world of hurt. I reached a level of exhaustion encountered only by running 100K-100miles. I crashed and woke the next day to calf muscles that hated me. I would have to say that physical repercussions from the marathon were nil. No pain. But jumping, sprinting, and diving in sand for 2 hours on marathon legs left me crying. Nothing some ice, Motrin, a bike and easy run couldn’t cure though.

The RATS

2010-04-16T20:46:00.002-06:00

Tuesday night softball. Crack. A ball is hit to the gap between center and left field. It is going to drop for sure. I speed towards it. The centerfielder does to. It is going to hit between us and roll. There is no way I can get to it in time. But then again, maybe I can. I shout, “Mine!” and dive just as the centerfielder extends. We collide in a hit worthy of ESPN highlights. The problem: I cannot walk.

Throw on top of that a cold and dead legs from the 35 miler the week before and you have the most unideal setting for a 50 miler. Days of icing and motrin left me still unable to run but the walk moved from a crutch to a hobble, and finally a limp by race morning. I had never been so uninspired for a run. I didn’t pack a GU, baby powder the feet, or Vaseline the bad areas. I just walked to the line 2 minutes before the gun, resolved to run to the end of the dirt road and back. I hobbled my way up the road in complete pain, head down, disappointed that I would DNF another race out of stupid circumstances. But at the road I resolved to go to the first aid station and back. At 6 miles, I figured I could make a lap of 25 miles out of it. At the end of the lap, I just kept going.

The first 25 miles of the race went fairly well for a wounded guy. I kept it slow, promising to learn the pace of the ultra. I ate and hydrated along the most beautiful course I have run. The Colorado River snaked through red-rock canons with green mountains and tall mesas. It was inspiring. When I rolled into the finish line of 25 miles, my buddy Michael cheered me in. He was shocked when I said I was going for it.

Miles later that would prove to be a costly decision. After descending for several miles to the start/finish, runners headed up to the top of the mesa immediately. Luckily, my time was spent chatting with an elite mountain biker running his first 50. We climbed for a while and left the 50K aid station in good spirits. But around 34 miles, I fell behind on a climb and really began to struggle. I was out of water and the heat was building. Instead of clouds and rain like the forecast predicted, we had a hot sun baking us every step of the run. It was hard to tell if my current problems were related to not having enough water or under training. I had been carrying a Camelbak all day. I had done long runs. I wasn’t sure why I was struggling so badly after starting so conservatively. I limped over every rock and was limited to running no more than 50 meters at a time. A team of mountain bikers stopped and let me take a few pulls from their Camelbak and gave me Gu to eat. What felt like an hour later, I jogged in to the aid station and sucked down 40oz of water.

The next 3+ miles were bliss. I was hauling, running nearly the whole stretch. It was the ultimate runner’s high and I had made 41 miles. But leaving the aid station started 3 miles of pain which took far longer than is acceptable. For 44 miles I had favored my right leg and every other part of my body was screaming at me. At the last aid station, a man was sitting down and another was leaving. It was odd to see runners after having not seen anyone for 20 miles. But they both left before I could refuel. The kind volunteer told me it was just a 10k to go and that was nothing! I laughed and looked at the road, then 1000ft. to the top of the mesa and back to the road. If the run were down that road, I told him, it would be no problem. After clipping on my pack my parting words were, “If sitting in this chair were finishing, I’d be the winner.” Then I was off.

Words cannot capture the misery and pain of the next 2 hours. The hike to the summit were the most painful three miles of my career. When the knot in my calf subsided, the nausea started. When that faded, the quads barked. I hated every step. But not as much as I hated the downs. Every switchback was torture, every rock a wall. Then I got off trail, and let me assure you that scrambling down a 50ft slope at 47 miles isn’t a great idea on legs that cannot break. When I finally hit the road, I nearly stopped, feeling as if that were the finish line and the rest was a formality.

But the worst pain was the foot. Every step for 7 hours placed a rock perfectly in the middle of my foot, and pain radiated through my leg. It was like being pricked with a pin once per second for an entire work day. I was going insane from the repeated stabbing. It was the worst feeling in running I have ever had.

Upon crossing the finish line, Brooks greeted me, amazed since he figured I wouldn’t have gone back out (considering he had about 5 miles on me at the turnaround). We talked while resting in chairs and munching on pizza. I was more proud of that finish than of any other single day event in my life. All things being equal:

Could I have finished in the top 10? Yes

Could I have run a PR? Yes

Could I have quit? Yes

But I didn’t. And that’s the only possibility that mattered.

The Worst Day Since Yesterday

2010-03-21T19:50:00.000-06:00

Also Known as: How to Run a Marathon on 220 Calories, Part II

As if your kid throwing up on you all night isn’t enough, just a mere hour of sleep should leave you less than psyched about traveling across the country for a marathon. I arrived in Atlanta tired, ill, and ready to go home, not race. After getting my packet and lunch, I spent most of the day watching basketball. Dinner was in at the hotel. Pretty much a typical pre-race day.

Until 2am that is. Then I was up puking gobs of undigested food into the sink (Sorry Wyndham Hotel). My stomach was so full I could barely breathe and I slept none from then on, returning frequently to make a deposit. I awoke, tried to eat one flake of Raisin Bran, and returned to the sink for another bout. No breakfast or liquids would go in. It was going to be a long day.

Originally, I had wanted to go sub-3 hours. But when I discovered the fastest pace group was 3:40, I thought about backing off (hard to hit a pace alone that is a good 1:30 per mile faster than your daily runs). So I thought about 3:03:30 (7min/mile) but when the puking started, I changed to 3:10. After a quick dump in the bushes, I hit the start line, and within 30 seconds I knew finishing would be the only goal.

I always say that you should feel awesome through 10, good through 15, and able through 18 or you are in big trouble in the marathon. As I crossed mile 1, I felt like I was in a 5K, and by mile marker 2 I would have sworn that I just ran 20 miles. I was sweating, heaving, and felt like I was sprinting (I was running with the 1:35 half-marathon group since the courses were the same for the first 7 miles). The pace was all over the place (7:07; 6:51; 7:22) so I just chilled and kept them in sight, feeling much more stable at 10 seconds a mile slower.

The rain started at about mile 4, and then the winds picked up. It was chilly and I was throwing up little bits every 2 miles or so. But the real kicker was the hills. Never have I run such a hilly urban marathon. Long uphills were followed by bombing downhills. It was amazing how difficult the course was. But despite the hills, I was holding a relatively even, and decent pace (call in Colorado training). I crossed the half in 3:12 pace and was actually feeling better than the start. Then the hills fought back.

I couldn’t believe the course! It never stopped. People passed me on the hills since pushing made me feel ill. I held on and kept moving up, even started passing people. By 22, there was a mile long out and back section and I could see about 30 people ahead of me. All of them looked like death, and those who weren’t walking the downhills looked like they wanted to. I pushed on and was told I was in 82nd place at 23 miles. The last few miles were painful as they snaked through the hills around the finish line. I caught more and more people and tried to run with form and experience. I finished in about 67th place in 3:14. I was amazed.

Medal around my neck, I blew past the solar blankets and past the food (not that I wanted it, to my bag and out to the street where Sarah was picking me up (from finish line to bag drop amongst 18000 people in 7.5 minutes, a new record). We bolted to the airport, I hauled bags, returned the car, ran to the terminal, only to find our flight was delayed. After 4 hours we made it to West Palm, rented a car, drove to Vero, and on to Orlando. So I woke at 2am, ran a marathon, traveled for 10 hours, all on just two 100 calorie GU shots during the race, both of which I threw up during. The burger that evening when my stomach finally relented was amazing.

A Run Through Time

2010-03-13T15:34:00.000-07:00

A Run Through Time might imply the race passes numerous sights from a variety of time periods. However, if you want to run this race in Salida, CO, be ready to run through time, literally. In fact, at some points, time might even stand still. This course ascends into the sky and rolls through the woods where no person would dare to go most parts of the year.

An 8-mile dirt road never relents as it climbs up and up. If there was any grace in the race director’s heart, it would turn there. Instead it turns to ice and a series of roller-coaster hill go to an out and back. It would be nice if the roads didn’t have 6-inches of mud on every long climb and blistering descent.

I started slow, hearing about the course from Leadville stud runner (19:33)Harry Harcrow. Not wanting to get out too fast, I held back and passed my man Brooks at about 3 miles. I continued up and eventually formed a group with JT, Harry, and Ross from Salida. We sloshed through the mud and water until the aid station around 13 miles. I was in about 13th place and we jostled places with a few guys on the way back to the turn off. A long downhill section cranked the legs a little bit but we hit 17.2 as a group of 4. JT and another guy pulled away on the long ice hills while Harry and I walked. When Harry fell back, I decided to go after JT.

Unfortunately, the last 9 miles of the course easily eclipsed the first 17 as the worst section. A snow cat had driven up the hill leaving rutted tire tracks in 2 feet of snow. Awkward footing made me keep kicking the inside of my leg so hard I ended up with cuts on my calf muscles. When there wasn’t snow, there was mud...inches of black, slippery mud. And often, the mud had rocks in it causing ankle rolls every few seconds. There was no rhythm in the run and it took me a long time to catch up to JT. We chatted for a few and I bounded down the hill.

The last 3 miles were pain. All of it was downhill on a dirt road. My legs screamed for the bottom with every switchback turn. I saw a guy ahead of me but I knew that with the time left there was no way of catching him. I crossed in just under 3:55, good for 11th place. I had run very conservative and probably could have gone 10 min faster and a few places better if I pushed the earlier miles, but I needed to be smart. The course was unknown to me (except that it was hard), and I had another marathon the following weekend. I had done 20+ mile long runs the preceding 3 weeks and I am training through. So all in all, a great day. Tim Parr, Andy Henshaw, Nick Clark, and Ryan Birch took the top 4 spots, and losing to those guys is more than acceptable!

South Africa in the Mix

2010-02-08T06:47:00.001-07:00

New big news! The family is moving to South Africa. A good group of running clubs await in Johannesburg along with trails, safaris, Great White Sharks, and other dangerous creatures.

The setback: My dream of redemption at Leadville 100 is over. But I am ok with it because I have finished there before. Now the door is open for another race that was left unfinished. So on June 5th, I will return to Kettle Moraine 100 to face the humidity and hills again.

The rest of the season remains largely unchanged with a few exceptions. Next week I am off to Arizona for the Pemberton 50k. It should be a tough one since I have been sick, not running a lot, and facing gods like Ian Torrence. In March, I will still run back-to-back marathons and then a 50 in April in Colorado. I am toying with May. I will likely drop a 50k and 52.4 mi in place of some training runs. I'll keep a marathon in the middle of May but it all is turning to KM 100 in June.

Then the new baby will come. I still have the Leadville Marathon and probably a 50 miler in July before heading out to South Africa. I am excited about all of the racing opportunities there. It looks like I can run many races from 5K to 100mi within South Africa. More news to come but absolutely going to be going after the Big 5 marathon, Comrades, and an Ironman while I am there!

Kicking Off 2010

2010-01-17T20:54:00.000-07:00

With a big year ahead, the first race of the year is in the bag, and it was a good one. The weather in Phoenix was fantastic, staying in the low 50s. I rolled through the PF Chang’s Rock N’ Roll marathon like it was a Sunday jog. Determined to get a Boston qualifying time, I stayed with the 3:10 pace group for 20 miles. At that point the pacer wanted to back it off but a few of us just wanted to hold the pace. Soon just one guy and I remained and I encouraged him with me to the line in 3:09. It was a 20 min PR for him and I had my time in the first race of the year. It was the easiest race I have ever run – no pain, no struggle. Finished open marathon #25.

In February, I head back to Arizona for a fast 50K. Then in March, I am going to central Colorado for a very hilly marathon. Just a week later it is off to Georgia for another marathon. These shorter, faster races will provide a good speed base for the spring and summer.

In April, the first real test awaits. The Desert RATS 50 miler will provide top-notch competition over difficult terrain. I expect hard trail, and a long day at altitude and in the sun will prove valuable for the summer. Scarcely two weeks later is another 50k, and I am toying with this race. Regardless, in mid-May is another marathon in the mountains. I expect to run hard and place well.

Another short two weeks after that is Memorial Day, and I am heading to Wyoming for a double marathon. It is the same course that I won on a few years ago. Now I just have to do it twice. 52.4 miles will be the longest test of the year leading up to the race.

June is going to be free of races due to a new baby joining us, but without having to work, I will be able to run more trail and longer than usual. July dawns with a serious challenge – the Leadville Marathon. It rockets into the clouds and promises to be a slow, difficult grind. Finally, I am off to southern Colorado for a 50K to end my preparation. Again, I hope to run very well here and end the training on a good note.

It all leads up to the Leadville 100 on August 21. After a finish in 2006 and a DNF in 2009, I want nothing more than to rock this one. My goal is sub-21 hours. I was on this pace during the 2009 race and I am itching to get the sweatshirt to prove it. In addition to the race schedule announced, the main component of my training will be trail runs. Between Team CRUD and the Incline Club, there are more than enough runs near here to simulate the race. I have two trips planned to Leadville for reconnaissance: A double crossing (20 miles) of Hope Pass followed by the Colorado Trail, and a darkness traverse of Sugarloaf Mountain. These are the Crux of the race and I need to really know them. I also am lifting about twice a week and focusing on core several times a week. I will be more ready than ever before.

Winter Running Achievements

2009-12-06T17:44:00.003-07:00

A season shouldn’t be defined by the final race. A few jaunts in the winter woods have both humbled me and provided confidence for the upcoming year. The final race of the Pikes Peak Road Runners Fall Series was in Palmer Park just after a major snow. What was normally a 7+ mile loop was reduced to about 5 miles due to icy conditions on the rocks. My race started a tad aggressively since I expected to enter trails immediately. Instead, ¾ of a mile later, we were still going uphill on the long park road. By the summit I was gassed, and continued to go backward from there. Rather than pass people, I was the victim as many runners cruised by. I struggled to the finish line barely able to hold on to a top 30 placing. My buddy Steve was under a minute behind me, indicating a very excellent race on his part, and a not-so-good race by me.

A few weeks later we ran the Turkey Trot Predict the Saturday before Thanksgiving. This race had runners predict their time, and leave the starting line when their time posted, thereby having everyone (theoretically) hit the finish at the same time. I put 19:36, having not raced a 5K in years. When my time came, my name was announced and off I went. It was like the Tour de France with people cheering as you rolled out on the course. Almost instantly I caught the people who had left ahead of me and all idea of pace was out the window. I rolled up on Steve who had more than 1:30 in hand, and by. The end was chaos as hundreds of runners approached the finish. I crossed in 19:06, surprised I was able to run the pace with no speed work. I was way off the time! Sarah rolled in just under 3 seconds off for 8th place. Our friend, Susan, took home 2nd and a turkey!

Deciding to test my ultra skills, I went to the infamous Incline in Manitou Springs. Just enter "Manitou Incline" into Yahoo! Images search and see what the hype is about. This one-mile long trail of railroad ties rockets 2000’ into the clouds at an average gradient of 41%. I started strong and soon started a suffer slog of lactic-acid in my teeth and death in my legs. The maximum incline is 68% requiring the use of all four appendages. It was a nightmare! But I crossed in 25:40, an excellent time and a desire to try it again in better shape and without snow on it! But the real kicker is the 4-mile bomb down Barr Trail. After falling once on the ice and nearly dying, I was glad to be done.

I joined Matt Carpenter’s Incline Club for some trail training. Rather than embarrass myself the first week, Steve took me up the route the week before. The run up Ute Pass trail was gnarly and required a lot of walking. But ultimately you gain the trail to Waldo Canyon and are rewarded with amazing views before looping back. I ran out of fuel and struggled all the way in. This was a really hard run taking 2:44 for 15 miles!

The following weekend I invited Michael Trahan down for the Incline Club. We started with 135 other trail runners up the road and out the trail. Our goal was to pace well and we slowly gained on those ahead of us. We made a game out of catching those ahead of us and staying ahead. The Waldo loop was very icy and it was cloudy. We ran very solid and finished back at the car in 2:16, nearly half an hour faster than the previous week! Only Matt and one other guy finished the route faster than us.

The next weekend I entered the Rock Canyon Half Marathon in Pueblo. It was amazingly cold leading up to the race (below O), but I still stripped down to shorts for the gun. The pace went out pretty fast, dropping from 6:30, to 6:20 over the first three miles. I thought this was too fast given my sub-1:30 goal for the day, but I just tucked in the pack. It blew up at three miles so I took over chipping at the field ahead of me. I was in about 23rd place and kept running in the 6:30s. People just kept coming back. I ran with experience and was never passed in the whole race. At mile 10 I came up on a guy with his arms flailing and legs twisted. As soon as I went by, he surged to stay with me. “Fine,” I thought to myself. “Burn yourself out.” But 30 seconds later he was still there. I figured if I wasn’t going to shake him, I might as well help him. So I told him to stand up more, relax the shoulders, and stop surging. He did and stayed with me. When he faltered, I would correct him. After all, he was only 18. He had been on the state championship XC team and was off to Arizona State in the fall. We rolled past people left and right in the final miles, going 6:22 and 6:16 uphill into the wind. He urged me to go with him as we passed a runner, but I just laughed knowing that I only had one gear. Soon I caught him anyway and had to push him on. At the end of the monstrously hilly 13th mile (which we ran in 6:31), I told him not to let two old men out kick him and he was gone. I maintained and crossed in 11th place with a time of 1:24:59, winning my age group. I was ecstatic with the pace (6:29 per mile) since I had only run 6:09’s for my 5K. Due to the stomach, I hadn't run more than 3-4 days a week for about three months. Now I am up to 6 days a week, yet only about 35-43 miles a week. With no speed work this early in the season, good things will come.

I have a fast half marathon under my belt, a good time on the Incline, and some excellent trail experience. 2010 should provide some excellent races.

Dude! So What’s Up with Your Stomach?

2009-11-29T19:32:00.001-07:00

Time to talk about what has been going on. It started at mile 42 of Leadville. BAM! Instantly I couldn’t run anymore. The next two week s were filled with frustration from a DNF, mild nausea, and some discomfort. Then I went to the American Discovery Trail Marathon. Despite being on-pace for my goal at mile 21, I was crippled to a jog with stomach shut down.

I took a week off of running and scheduled a doctor’s visit. He thought I had a gastric ulcer. After sticking his finger in a place where no man should touch me, I was put on ulcer medication. That night was spent doubled over in pain with no sleep. I had cramping, sharp pains, and fullness. For 11 weeks, I could not eat a reasonably sized meal without feeling completely stuffed. I was never hungry anymore. A glass of beer would spoil my appetite for the entire evening. Many nights I would just skip dinner all together.

I went to the Denver Marathon with a goal of taking a Boston qualifier home. Everything was fine for about 20 miles, then it got hard, as marathons should. But at about 22 miles, I was throwing up stomach acid and slowing. The last mile killed me and I missed my time by a mere minute and 30 seconds.

Eventually, I was seen for an endoscopy to confirm the ulcer, but it came out clean. I was referred for an ultrasound to check gall stones, gall bladder lining, and other gastrointestinal structures. Again, it was clean. So I continued on the medication for a few more weeks. Then it ran out.

My dad recommended Probiotics to help set the digestive system straight. I was skeptical but I was looking for anything to change this feeling. I don’t want to jump the gun, but so far, so good. I haven’t had the full feeling, I am able to eat reasonably, and although I haven’t run a marathon since starting treatment, I haven’t puked or had stomach problems. I am looking for things to improve gradually on this treatment and return to the doctor if there isn’t a significant change. 2010 looms with a lot of tough runs and I need to be set straight.

28 miles of Xterra…

2009-10-03T17:13:00.002-06:00

….Or, how to run a marathon on three days a week.

No, this is not the standard marathon distance for Xterra races. But by the end of the day, this is what most GPS watches would read. The day started well enough – perfect temps for a marathon. In fact, there might not be a better place to run. Colorado in fall is marked with changing colors of leaves on trees, crisp air, and snow-capped mountain peaks. Clear skies and cool temps are a given. It was going to be a good day.

Shockingly, Brooks Williams was with me for the first couple of miles of the race. Each time I have run with him he prefers to be more out in front. But this time he was back with me, chatting about his most recent race (a 50 miler where he took 6th). It made sense why he wasn’t up front. Brooks has an amazing story and you can read about him here. He would finish 4th today and cap an amazing ultra season. Congrats, Brooks!

We got separated on some hills and I ran alone. My goal was to be ultra-conservative for the first 18 miles. The course was quite hilly and I figured that I need to be cautious. After my last disaster of a marathon, I took a week off and had only been running three days per week for the last month due to the repeated stomach issues. I wasn’t ready to hammer and a challenging course only made it worse. But what a beautiful run it was. Never was there a flat spot. Even the sustained downhills had rollers in them every 30-40 meters. Any uphill came with an array of switchbacks. Boulder fields complicated even the flattest of sections. It was a killer through and through.

Despite the challenges of the course and my fitness level, I cruised through the half marathon point in 3rd place, and crept up on 2nd just after the line. I was very pleased with my positioning because, let’s face it, the split of 1:59 was nothing to write home about. With the good pacing thus far and the fact that my stomach was still good, I was excited about the prospect of negative splitting and attacking 1st place, who just rolled past in the other direction. The hunt was on.

I moved past 2nd and up a hill. After cruising down a nice rolling hill, I came to an intersection and was directed to the left by a volunteer. That didn’t seem right. “Left?” I shouted. He nodded. “Even for marathoners?” I verified and again was told to go left. Well up the hill I went and around the corner but instinctively I knew I was going the wrong way. We didn’t go up this hill this early the first time (it was a two ‘loop’ course, essentially). And there went the 8 and 21 mile mark. I was at neither at this point in the race so I stopped and waited for the guy I had passed to come by. A 5K women was next up the trail. I asked if this was right and she looked at me like I was speaking Russian. I then asked where the other guy was. She had no idea. So I turned again up the hill looking for an intersection before cursing, turning, and rocketing down the hill back the way I came. “It’s the wrong way, God Damnit!!” I yelled, whipping back around the corner onto the correct trail.

Interestingly enough, my wife stood at the intersection in a heated argument with the volunteer. She had been waiting for me at an intersection and when people that I was ahead of earlier went by, she became worried. She started asking the guy how to get me back after he directed me the wrong way. He had no idea what she was talking about. Then I came around the corner complaining and off in the other direction. She was relieved until the next racer approached. Again the guy tried to direct him up the hill. Sarah yelled at him to turn and he was obviously more afraid of her because he obliged despite what the official volunteer had instructed.

What frustrated me beyond belief is this: First, the 1st place runner had just come through. Why the guy thought I should go a different way baffles me. Next, the 3rd place runner argued with the volunteer and followed the path of 1st. So did 4th. I came back cursing and complaining about being sent the wrong way and followed the competitors. So why he thought the 5th place runner needed to go up the hill makes me want to recommend this guy for testing. Granted, it was a difficult intersection that was crossed 4 times (in two different directions) by marathoners, 2 times by half marathoners, and once by 5k runners, but still, be aware. At 2 hours, I am not at the 8 mile mark nor the 21st. So it would be a fair assumption to send me off in the other direction. Apparently, all of the runner volunteers were working aid stations. They would be much better suited on the course making judgments.

I estimated that I lost 3 minutes by making this turn. Now I was doing exactly what I had planned not to do – run hard in the early part of the 2nd loop. I was flying, hammering, and trying to get back in contact with the runners I had already passed. The only problem was that the course was all uphill. I made little gains and expended maximum effort. Three miles later, I finally caught and passed 3rd place, a runner I had passed before the half marathon mark. I continued to press the pace but saw no one ahead. Ironically, as I approached the 8 and 21 mile mark (the same intersection that I was misdirected at), I caught 2nd place again. It took me 8 miles to make up the 3 minutes I had lost and I was bushed. The next 5 (or so I thought) miles were going to be brutal. I was soon stumbling over boulders and twisting around switchbacks. My pace on the long uphill portions had started to resemble a shuffle. A huge mistake had been to convince myself that most of the last three miles was downhill. In fact, from mile 22-25 was nearly all uphill. My stomach had done wonderfully, but now I was crashing from lack of calories (largely avoided Gatorade as to not piss off my gut). I popped a Gu at 24 miles for calories, something I normally never would have done, but it seemed to help.

After finally cresting the summit of the climb, it was literally all downhill from there. The last aid station with about a mile to go allowed me to see that 3rd place was only about 200m behind me. Judging from the pace I passed him, I had just given back a ton of time to him. I knew first was out of reach but I kept on under the chance that he might have just been walking on the trail ahead of me, even more exhausted that I was. I clipped down the final descent at about 6:30/mile pace and crossed the line in much better shape that I had felt four miles previously. A conversation with the race director ensued and she offered me free entry next year. I was upset about being misdirected but I understand these things happen so I didn’t make a big deal of it. Ultimately, I don’t know what would have happened. I could have paced better over the harder parts of the course if I hadn’t lost that time. I may have been able to catch first, maybe not. He may have dusted me if I did. You never know. But I would have liked to have made a race out of it.

Regardless, I have to be pleased. It was a long course anyway, and I ran even longer than the rest. Stomach problems, 3x/week running, and getting lost equaled 2nd place. I know I could be in better shape and own this race. It was a crazy day and totally forgettable but for that it will probably be remembered more than most. But my mind is already on next year’s ultra races. This is my sport, and my chance to do it well.

A Brew Per Mile

2009-09-20T16:59:00.001-06:00

Ever wondered how to fit trails, hill work, speed work, and a long run into your busy schedule? Just do what I do and combine them all in to a single run! That is how I manage. After two weeks of a very volatile stomach, and good solution to the stress was burgers and beer with friends. So after large amounts of both, I agreed to run the PPRR Pony Express the next morning. What I didn’t consider were the following factors:

1) It was late
2) The race was early
3) It was an hour away
4) I had a bunch of beer as my pre-race meal (unless you count cookies, burgers, and brats)
5) I had only run 2 of the last 14 days.

But early to rise and a long drive to Rampart Reservoir north of Woodland Park left me few other options. First, it was too cold to stand there so I needed to run. Next, it was a loop, so it was pretty much all or nothing. The only setback was my emergency dump in the woods moments before the start. Itchy butt equals an unhappy runner. But even pamper fresh, this run was going to have challenges.

As a side note, if you have never been to Rampart Reservoir in the morning or evening, it is absolutely worth it. The trail is excellent (props to groups who maintain such a remote trail and the views are unbeatable. Pike Peak sits high above in the backdrop of a crystal blue lake, Aspen trees going yellow, and beautiful rock formations.

I decided to run with a friend since I had no real ambition to go for a fast time on beer-filled, ulcer ridden stomach. It was a prediction run, anyway, so the overall winner didn’t receive any more than anyone else. I put down 2:04 b/c the guy I was with had run 2:07 last year. He walked up and put 2:15 complaining that he didn’t drink the night before last year’s race. We started out smart and bombed downhill to the lake. I was pretty happy with the pace as we were working through and relaxed. The trail in the early morning was amazing and it reconfirmed my love of this sport. But soon Steve started to have some stomach issues. Since I had come up to run with him, I stayed with him, chatting sparsely but mostly enjoying the run. That is until the girl behind us ate dirt hard and screamed in pain. We tried to help her but she told us to go on. A mile and 3/4s later we reached the dam.

I stopped to empty rocks from my shoe and told the emergency staff about her dive. Then I hopped up and took off trying to catch Steve on the dam. After a few minutes of running, I realized he wasn’t ahead of me. He must have stopped to use the bathroom. Not knowing how long that might be, I kept on. The wind on the top of the dam was relentless and I soon found myself feeling very rough for the first time in the 9 miles since we started. Once back on the trail, I resolved to push the effort level up a tad.

I blazed past people in the last 6 miles and ran harder than I had in a while. It was hilly and I didn’t want to bonk like I did at Mohican from pushing too early, but I wanted to feel the pain again. Runners were sparse on the trail inbound but I worked hard anyway. When I ended the loop of the lake I knew there was roughly 1.5 miles to go. A quick glance at the watch said I had 10 minutes to make it back to hit 2:04. I remembered on the outbound that it had taken 9:53 to get here. I pushed it up to finish in time.

Then the wind came. Head on, strong. The trail loosened. Soft sand sucking up the shoes. Then it rose, and rose, and rose into the sky. What was all downhill on the way out was a nasty, twisting uphill road taunting me on the way in. Every minute or so I looked at the watch and charged harder, but it all came to an end. My legs would no longer respond. My stomach finally started to feel bad and it slowed me. But I never quit sprinting (if you can call it that). I must have looked ridiculous - covered in salt, surging and fading up the trail – but it was the first time in a long time I pushed to the line. I felt proud for not letting up and the clock showed I missed my predicted time by only 43 seconds…not bad for being off pace the first two-thirds of the race. I know I have something in me to run some good races and with the stomach performing better than it has been, I am optimistic for the future.

One of the coolest awards in running!

The Beginning of the End

2009-09-07T19:02:00.000-06:00

It is no secret I am displeased with not finishing Leadville. Even worse, I got sick this week and barely ran. I wanted to come to the American Discovery Trail Marathon and squeeze a Boston Qualifying time out of the race. But something is going on that I cannot control and I need to figure it out.

Getting dropped off 26.2 miles from where you started in always a little overwhelming. ADT does it, so does Boston, Steamboat, Deseret Morning News in Salt Lake, the Colorado Marathon, and a host of others. There is something about sitting pre-race watching the landscape fly by at 60mph and trying to fathom that you have to run all of this back to your car. It really is disheartening. What makes it worse is when you are dropped off and the bus leaves. It was about 50 degrees and crisp. Why the bus couldn’t stay 30 more minutes and let us stay warm, I don’t know. It wasn’t like it could pick up more runners and return in that time. Plus, it was Labor Day so no kids were waiting.

Anyway, the race is predominately downhill, which means only one thing for marathoners: the race will go out too fast. I felt reserved while people pounded past, and in retrospect I was probably too fast to start. Not significantly so, but the smart start the better. I do have nice things to say about the New Santa Fe Trail as it is well maintained and very beautiful. We rolled out of Palmer Lake and down the front range, before entering the Ai Force Academy. As much downhill running as the course requires, it is not easy, and many hills change the pace frequently. I won’t bore your with the details, but soon after the 15th mile, I started to get into a world of hurt.

With nearly two minutes and 30 seconds “in hand” to qualify for Boston, I should have been fine. But something was wrong and my stomach didn’t hold up. As each mile came and went, I slowed and suffered more. At 22 miles, there was no hope of making my time. I had been calculating how much I could slow and still make it. I watched as those milestones came and went. No matter how hard I pushed, I still couldn’t get my time. Done with the suffering, I backed off and literally jogged in. I somehow still pulled an age-group award out of the deal but I was beyond devastated with my body. Why I couldn’t run well anymore was beyond me.

I took the week off and went to the doctor. Boston would have to wait.

Leadville 100..... or so....

2009-08-22T18:17:00.000-06:00

Even though I could barely sleep in the early hours of Friday morning, I missed my dad’s phone call at 5:30am. I soon found that my grandmother had passed away on the night of her 85th birthday. The news was both devastating and expected as she had been sick for some time. My grandfather, aunt, and mother were shouting encouragement over the phone to run hard for grandma. I choked back tears and agreed, but that isn’t what grandma would have wanted. She was “a tough old bird” and she would have wanted me to run for myself – for me to take pride in my effort and be strong over the long haul like she was recently and throughout her life. She fought for months- years- and now I needed to take that fighting spirit with me to the mountains. Her battle was over. Mine was about to begin.

There couldn’t have been a more perfect day for a 100 mile jaunt in the mountains. The air was crisp but not cold and the sky was a splatter of white stars on a black canvas. Tony Krupicka brushed past me in the final moments before the gun and took his place among one of the most competitive start fields ever assembled at Leadville.

The first several miles went by without a hitch, as they should. As one guy went bombing past me downhill in a way that reads DNF all over it, tape, pain killers, and other medical devices flew from his backpack. I scooped them up and yelled to him but his headphones blocked all efforts. Not wanting to sprint early in the race for this guy who was violating several of my fundamental beliefs, I was about to huck his gear into the woods. But I slowly reeled him in and tugged hard on his backpack to which he finally realized other people were out there with him.

The fantastic Jamie Donaldson breezed by me just before the power line climb and I was shocked to see her back here at this point in the race, but she was soon out of sight, in pursuit of the great Darcy Africa who I had finished just in front of here in 2006. Once we gained the lake trail, I was in awe of the beauty of this course with the shimmering lake reflecting the trees and stars that surrounded it. It is truly frustrating that the most picturesque section of this race is completed both out and back in the dark.

Approaching the boat ramp on the outbound is always one of my favorite portions of the run. The headlamps are bouncing along in a line around the water’s edge like a string of fireflies in the night and all the while a dull roar grows louder as you approach a seemingly worthless crew point (mile 7). Yet, at 5am, hundreds of crew members were packed along the narrow trail 3-4 deep on both sides yelling and creating a tunnel of emotion as we rocketed through. Most people don’t stop here or take aid, but it is a nice boost just the same.

The next portion of trail was very challenging. Small rocks dot the otherwise smooth trail and narrow passages meet larger boulder. All of this runs along a narrow ridge and the trail is often muddy. People were far too eager and ran every little ridge of this trail. Trips and spills occurred just ahead and often behind me. It is always the same: A thunk, a loud swear, and someone is in the dirt. I just never saw the advantage of charging up hills and hurting yourself at mile 9 of 100. But to each his own. I rolled into May Queen (13.5mi) 6 min slower than 2006 and very happy. I had expended no energy. A new camelback, a toss of the headlamp, and I was gone up the road in mere seconds, as was my goal.

The next few miles of the course, I believe, are responsible in the end for more DNFs than any other part, and here is why: This section is early in the course and mistakes are made. Hours later it isn’t Hope Pass that ends people – it is Hope Pass with this mountain in your legs. First, you climb the Colorado Trail which you would run any day of the week, but not race day. It is just steep enough to burn you out if you run the whole thing. Then you gain Hagerman Pass Rd. and you think you can run to the top of the mountain. Well, it will destroy you. I hooked up with Brooks Williams on this section and started talking. We watched people continue to run up the hill but never pull away from us as we walked and drank. It was pointless. On top of the peak you can run forever down, but pushing too hard will leave you destroyed for the flattest and easiest part of the course. In 2006, I blazed up and hammered down this 10 mile section and it cost me physically and mentally later that night. I was casual, and came in only 4 minutes behind 2006, meaning I made up 2 min (probably in the aid station) while chilling out on the climb and descent.

What is really funny is the next 4-6 miles are about the easiest on the course. Pavement, flat, lots of aid before and after. But for some reason, this section really sucks. I think people who push too hard in the first 24 miles really pay starting here. The paved part is slightly uphill and you can see all of your competition up the road. This year I just set a good tempo and rolled. People came back naturally. Although I wasn’t in pain by the end of these 4.6 miles like 2006, it was still tough. But I was moving and not even remotely struggling.

Due to a military helicopter crash during the week, the course had been rerouted. The new section was welcomed – the approach to the Colorado Trail was more gradual and mostly on dirt road. I was still being ultra conservative by walking most sections that even resembled an incline. After all, I was only at about 30 miles. It was a pleasure to run some of this section with Lynette Clemons, the eventual women’s winner. I pulled away from her in an aid station and continued to be conservative, catching a few people anyway but also giving back a spot or two. I came up Jamie Donaldson who was really struggling. She looked like she had been throwing up so I walked some hills with her. Later she would recover for 2nd place. I wish I were that strong.

The descent into Twin Lakes is difficult, painful, and scary. I was begging for the end of the rocky slope and my wish was finally granted. A quick check of the watch proved I was about 30 seconds ahead of 2006 at 40 miles despite all of my conservative pacing! I couldn’t have been happier. Unfortunately, my luck was about to change.

After changing shoes, I elected to go with a single water bottle for Hope Pass. It was a long section but mostly shaded and I had some stomach issues that I was chalking up to too much Gatorade. So I went with water, and it was a mistake. But before disaster struck, I plowed through the open meadows and the river crossing at the base of the mountain. I was passed by Lynette and a group of guys as I emptied out my shoes. Then I started the climb. I would not be back.

The first step up the hill was terrible. Instantly I felt a pain in my stomach and could barely manage to keep going. Hoping that it would pass, I continued walking up the mountain as runner after runner went by. It was like watching myself in slow motion. I could see one foot go in front of the other but I could not get the message from my brain to my legs to go faster. There was a blocking wall in the middle of my stomach that would not let me run. I struggled significantly for more than an hour and felt blessed to finally come upon Hopeless Pass aid station. I sat on the ground drinking soup and Coke like it was going out of stock. The medic had me come to the tent where my pulse, oxygen level, and blood sugar were all checked and were all perfect. Yet my first few steps out of the aid station proved that I was no better off than when I arrived 20 min previously. Brooks gained the summit and shouted in triumph. Tony and Tim Parr both had gone past on the inbound while I was sitting on my butt.

There are few things less enjoyable than the descent of Hope Pass. The trail is narrow and full of switchbacks so getting a rhythm is impossible. If you aren’t in the top 10 then your entire trip down the mountain is halted by frequent people and their pacers coming back up. The sun is beating down and you are at a point of dehydration and exhaustion that makes the mere thought of going back up and over this beast in a few miles seem impossible. My trip down was all of these things. No momentum was gained because my stomach actually hurt more going down than up. My water bottle had half Powerade and half water (as refilled at the aid station) and none of it was going in. I shuffled down the entire path, stopping every 50 meters or so to let people pass me going up. I figured they had a shot to make a race out of this. I was looking to survive.

The dirt road into Winfield is miserable. It is all up hill and you are constantly reminded by how far back you are by the number of people on their way back toward Leadville. The worst part is the many cars of crew members coming and going on the dirt road. There is only one route into Winfield and it gets very crowded.

I staggered along the road running sparingly but not feeling the need to push any kind of pace what so ever. The long uphill road was unwelcomed as my water bottle yielded only hot Powerade. Upon finally reaching Winfield, I knew things had gone horribly wrong. I was about an hour behind where I should have been after leaving Twin Lakes. The sit down with Sarah and Michael was depressing. The urged me on like a good crew but I was reluctant to proceed. I figured that I could take some water, start walking, and eventually drop out. There was no need to prolong the inevitable. But stubborn as Michael and Sarah were, I walked about a quarter of a mile. It was depressing realizing that even if things did improve, hours had already been lost. I turned back dejected and frustrated. Getting your bracelet cut off is one of the lowest moments in ultrarunning.

Later that evening at dinner, the lack of calories final took their toll. I was dizzy and nauseous as I struggled to munch a taco with my head rested on the table. It was miserable. My hydration was low but came back fairly quickly and my legs were surprisingly strong the next morning. I just could not figure out what the problem had been. I have paced brilliantly and my legs felt perfect. Something deeper had gone wrong and it would take me another 3 months to get it together.

50 miles for you, grandma. 50 miles for each of the times you woke me up at 5am for hockey practice, fed, me, and pushed me into the frozen car. 11 hours for each year you sat on hard bleacher seats to watch me play hockey. You were a classy chick, and we love you. I wish I could have done more for you. Rest in peace, grams.

The Race I Should Have Won - 2009 Mohican 50

2009-06-20T17:19:00.001-06:00

How do trails hold up after three days of torrential downpours? That is one of the many questions we were going to have answered at the Mohican Trail Race on June 20th, 2009. Although the rain continued until the start of the race, no additional precipitation contributed to the strong humidity of central Ohio in June. Having driven the first 10 miles the day before, my buddy Rod and I resolved to take it pretty easy to start. Monster hills dominated the first two sections of the course, even though the path was all-road for 10 miles. While others pushed up the hills early, we continued to drink and walk whenever the mountainous terrain reared its ugly head.

The next 10 miles were on horse trail. It was fun to get into the woods (since I was wearing trail shoes that hurt on the roads) but we spent more time jumping the large puddles caused by hoof prints then relaxing. I stopped three times to take off my shoes and socks because I was feeling some irritation on my heals. I was convinced that a small pebble in there would cause me blisters later on. 27 miles later, I would see just how bad that would be.

Rod and I were rolling. We were in 2nd (and 3rd) place and we couldn’t have been running easier. The pace was perfect and we were feeling excellent as we moved from aid station to aid station eating and drinking what we could. Everything was looking up and then at mile 20, so was I. Just before an aid station there was a large root on the trail. The bark had been scrapped away by years of hikers, but the root was about 8 inches tall and I didn’t want to jump it. Instead, I stepped right on it. The root was wet and my trail shoes weren’t going to prevent a slip here. My feet went out from under me, there was a moment of weightlessness, and I came crashing down to earth, knee first. My kneecap landed squarely on the root and the next thing I knew I was laying face down in the mud. Reality came back with the pain and after letting go a fairly loud obscenity, I stood. I thought for sure my day was done. The first few steps were hell. I hobbled for the next few hundred meters, cursing and grunting, but by the aid station, the pain has been reduced to a dull throb. But not more than a few minutes later I was down again from slipping on a root. Things were starting to go bad.

We basically ran up a river by scaling logs, hopping on rocks, and skirting along rock walls. The infamous Lyon Falls climb proved interesting but not nearly as difficult as assumed. A few hand-over-hand moves on the wall and we were over. But at the top the trail went two ways and we had to choose. After much debate, Rod discovered a faint chalk mark on the trail. Even though the other direction was better groomed, we decided that a route with a faint marking was better than one without. So up we went. It wasn’t long before we were standing at another intersection debating where to go. We would wander one way and then the other hoping to see markings. Rod yelled into the woods asking where the trail was, but no one responded. After pushing through the trails, we finally descended down to the trail leading out, completely uncertain that we had taken the right path. As a compromise we slowed to a walk, ate some food, and hydrated. We arrived at the aid station in first place (but we didn’t enter the loop in first and hadn’t passed anyone).

After changing out of our sweaty shirts and grabbing food, we were off. Rod urged me to go ahead. I was reluctant because we were on a great pace and I felt good. 25 miles alone was a long way to go. But we discussed the night before that he would tell me to go when he was unwilling to keep the pace so I reluctantly set off solo. I left feeling very upset about the last section. I was concerned we had cut the course and I was pissed about that and what it might mean at the end, not to mention that I was now alone out there. In retrospect, this is the section I would do over again. Although I felt like I was being conservative, I arrived very quickly at the next aid station. The downhills were too fast and I walked when I could but it wasn’t often enough. I resolved to take the next section of 6.6 miles - the longest between aid stations on the course - more slowly. The problem was: there were very few hills. I backed off the pace and tired to be smart. After a series of switchbacks down a hill (where I kicked a stump, messed up my toe, and nearly tumbled down the hill), I came out of the woods for the last time on the course. But my troubles were just beginning.

I was met by a group of people setting up tents. They yelled that I needed to go straight and that where I stood was not the aid station. Sure enough, orange plates marked a path through the spongy grass. I hooked a left under the overpass and came to a parking lot where spectators were in chairs. But this wasn’t the aid station either! On up to the road again and I saw a plate pointing strait and one to the left. Utterly confused, I stood at the highway crossing with my arms raised in a shrug. The people I met coming out of the woods waved me back across the road. They told me to follow the sign to the trailhead. I stopped to confirm that I was supposed to go up there and was told yes. I asked again that this is where I, a 50 miler, was supposed to go. Again I was urged on. But I knew that the trail ended at the road and I needed to check in at the Grist Mill. This trail likely went back to the Covered Bridge aid station. I turned back against their advice and hit the road.

Nearly a mile later I arrived at the correct aid station extremely hot, tired, and frustrated. I yelled my number but when I asked where my drop bag was they pointed to it in a pile! I couldn’t believe they were having dehydrated, delusional runners go find their bags. I took off my shoes in order to change into road shoes and found why my Achilles hand been hurting. Both of my ankles were scraped raw from my trail shoes. As I gingerly put on new shoes, I had words with the aid station marshal. After explaining to him three different times that people were sending me the wrong way, he finally got on the radio. I took off disgruntled and tired.

After flying down the road in my new shoes for a few minutes, the hills started again. What started as a nice morning of overcast and wind, the sun now beat down. I was running a bit slower than before and certainly walking the hills, but things were still moving forward despite the presence of cramps. When I reached Landoll’s Castle, the next aid station, the castle was deserted. I remembered cars there in the morning. I yelled into the woods and shivered at the thought of moving on without water. I stumbled on and then realized the aid station was BEFORE the castle on the way out. It was just spectators I had seen earlier at the actual castle. The nice old folks at the station cheered me on, “Just 9 miles to go.” I laughed and stumbled away.

For another mile, things went forward. But then the cramping really started. At first, I would get a tight knot in my calf. I would jog till it pulled, then walk till it stopped. This ritual was repeated for a while but soon my tendon on the outer part of my lower leg would pull causing my foot to supinate to the point where I couldn’t take a step. So I would stop till the spasm ceased. Then I would jog again but the cramps kept coming. I would pull the right calf muscle, stop, run, pull the left, stop, run, pull the right outer shin, stop, run, and then the left outer shin, stop, run. This cycle went on for a mile or two and I kept looking back thinking someone would come up but no one did. What was worse was that I was also getting a cramp in the ribs from the shallow breathing and one in the collarbone. These cramps left me hobbling down the road in the hot sun. Vultures circled overhead and I felt a sense of doom but they were only interested in the road kill ahead. However, I felt like road kill and my pace meant that I was still going to be out here for some time. I would convince myself to run to the start of the next hill and then walk but the body kept deteriorating and I found myself unable to jog more than 40-50 meters without seizing up. Walking was faster overall than feebly jogging for a bit only to stop dead while my body shut down. So I walked mostly, managing to run the final 400 meters downhill to the Last Gasp aid station. They told me I was the first one but I thought I would be lucky to finish in fifth.

Some sadistic race director thought that instead of letting runners cruise about a mile and a half up a paved road to the finish, they would instead turn them up a rutted dirt road with a series of climbs that would humble any runner in the first mile. This was mile 46. I struggled up the hills and found that the body would no longer respond. It was over. At the summit of each hill I would glance over my shoulder expecting to see someone. At 47.5 miles, there she was. Struggling up the hill behind me finally came a runner. I applauded her and as she drew near, asked her what had happened since she had been ahead of me. She had gotten lost on the purple loop. We chatted and jogged for a moment and then I had to let her go. No sooner had she pulled away then another guy came up. He said he was going to vomit but I urged him to catch the first place runner. Again all alone, I went over the final hill only to hobble in pain down the monstrous slope that lead back to the road. What normally would have taken two minutes took me ten. But I was back on the road, waddling to the finish which I reached in 3rd place. At 25 miles I was on pace for 7:40. I ran 8:40 so I know how much damage I did in the 2nd half. But I finished, and that was goal number one today.

After chatting with people, I started vomiting at the finish line. Ice water tasted good but I couldn’t keep it down. I wasn’t at all disappointed to find that the top 2 runners had all expenses paid to the national race in California. I didn’t feel like I had earned it. Rod finally came in and we talked about various parts of the course. But soon I was in the grass again barfing. The next thing I know I am laying in the fetal position in a pool of my own spew. I just couldn’t keep the water down. Rod went to get his lunch and I barely cleared the pavilion before letting it fly again. Something was very wrong. My legs were cramping badly as was my back and arms. I decided I needed to get some help. So we asked the director to radio for a medic. About an hour later, I was still sitting on the ground. They told us the medic was at the Covered Bridge, the furthest aid station from the finish. We had a drop bag at the Grist Mill so they told us to meet the medics there. After handing us some papers to deliver and asking us if we would bring back anyone that dropped out, we were off. At the Mill, they had no idea what we were talking about regarding the medic and directed us to another aid station. But the medics at that station said they were not allowed to hang IV bags. They said they could “sit me in the shade and encourage me to drink.” Rod argued that a runner would likely die getting out of a cool car to sit in that environment. Very frustrated with this poor treatment, we headed to the hospital a half hour away.

I used a drop bag to barf in again on the car ride over and finally I was in the emergency room. After waiting for a while, Rod mentioned that the last time I struggled with this I ended up passing out and seizing. The nurse hurriedly checked me in. After answering the same questions for about five people, I finally had a tube in my arm. My blood work was very bad and they wanted me to take 2.5 liters in. After 3 hours, I was sent home. The IV brought me right back, ended the nausea, and eased the cramps.

If I just hadn’t pushed from 25-30 miles I might have been fine. I might have held on to win or I might have stayed out of the hospital. There was no reason to take off that fast when I was already winning. But I learned some very important things. When there is heat and humidity, I can run well if I take it very easy in the beginning and don’t push too hard, too fast. This race really helped me see how I need to run Leadville 100 this year. For that, I am thankful. But I am quite disappointed that I lead a race for 22.5 of the last 25 miles only to be passed just at the end. I can run better and smarter than this.

Conquering the Wall - The Great Wall Marathon 2009

2009-05-16T20:46:00.002-06:00

"Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must; just never give up."
— Dean Karnazes

Sometimes the most successful races are a result of poor planning and preparation. After several weeks of long runs and being sick, it didn’t help that the best pre-race meal I could find within walking distance of my hotel in Beijing was Pizza Hut. I struggled through what appeared to be spaghetti bolognaise then managed a few hours of sleep. But just before 3am we were walking to the buses that would take us to the Great Wall of China.

If I had never been there before, I might have turned around and gone home. Nestled in the foliage high above the road, The Great Wall of China scales mountains and descends into valleys for more than 5,000 miles. It is truly one of the wonders of the world and it is a wonder anyone would want to run a marathon on it, let alone their first. Yet, there stood hundreds of souls hungry for the chance to ascend the mighty steps, not once, but twice over the course of 26.2 miles and some of them were going for their first marathon finish!

The horn sounded the start of the 10K, half-marathon and marathon races. Oddly, the race went out much like a 5K – very strung out with little packs of runners. Determined to take it easy, I was surprised at how well I moved down the road. But the first challenge – a 4.5 kilometer assent up a mountain road, emerged from the misty cloud cover. Being cautious, I hugged the turns to cut distance while others drifted across the road. One such runner I immediately identified as military due to his stride. They always run very rhythmically. We chatted for a bit and he confided that this was his first marathon. “We will probably be battling back and forth all day,” he told me. I simply smiled and pulled away. Another runner from Britain must have been sleeping at the gun judging by the pace he went by me at 5K. But it was no matter; the Great Wall loomed before us, the ultimate equalizer for climbers and pure runners.

For the next 3 kilometers, the Great Wall climbed and fell over the ridges high above the valley. Much of this section was restored, and the stones were congruent and smooth. Some of the path, however, consisted of various varieties of stone with random “steps” chipped out. Treacherous drop-offs slid for hundreds of feet on each side. Occasionally there was a rope for aid. A camera man told me I was in 10th place. I asked if that was overall or marathon, and he replied that it was overall. That was good news. I had taken this section relatively easy. Where others hammered up each step with pristine running form, I ran where I could and power-walked the stairs. After all, some of them were two feet high each! This portion of the course was only 7K in, so why waste it all early? For every 1-2 seconds others gained by running hard, I made it up on the flats and downhills, and conserved energy (and more importantly, muscle integrity) and was still passing runners. That is, until the final decent. A steep, dirt trail dropped into a section of terrible stone steps. Although I was ready to pick up the pace to make up for the slow ascent, a runner was just ahead of me blocking the trail, and I was forced to remain calm for a while longer.

The next several kilometers off of the wall took us out to the villages. I was in 5th with at least two half-marathon runners ahead. Whether there were one or two marathon runners among them, I could not say. But I could see 4th place ahead of me (a half-marathoner). Finally, I said, “What the hell are you doing? You are kicking down half-marathon runners at the 10K mark. Chill out or you are going to be on the side of the road.” So I chilled and started to feel better. I knew marathoners were just behind me but relax as I did, they didn’t get much closer. I was too busy to care anyway, because the local children would laugh and run next to me as I passed their homes. Some sprinted to keep up and others lasted for 400m or more. For a few moments, I could forget that this was a race I came to do on a weekend and remember that life is simpler than that. It was much needed 10 miles in to the race. Not everyone shared the children’s enthusiasm. I would sometimes come up on a group of police officers and a teenage volunteer who were all supposed to be directing me through a turn. They would stare motionless at me, and when I raised my arms in a shrug and asked, “Which way?” I was greeted with no response – just a blank stare. Other times, I would come upon couplets of girls, who probably had been standing there for hours waiting to “direct” runners, and I would smile, wave, and shout a greeting, only to watch them crumble with giggles. It was amazing I picked the right direction each time.

A long, steady climb forced me to slow even more, and glancing back over my shoulder I could see that a marathoner had gotten close (the half-marathon runners had since looped back to the finish). I figured if he was going to catch me because I refused to push this long hill so early in the race (we had just crossed the half-way point), then it was his. But catch he did not as the hill raised above the valley. At the summit, I looked down the river and could see more than a mile of winding road, all of it barren of racers. I knew then that I was either in first place with two men close behind, or in second, but more than seven minutes off the lead. I decided 2nd it was and pushed the downhill to put as much distance between me and the others as I could. On the decent I was greeted by on-coming runners as the road merged again with the out-bound course. “Great job! Only one ahead!” a guy shouted, confirming my suspicions. That was cool with me. This phantom leader had such a gap on me that I could only worry about myself and those coming up behind me.

Never have I been so surprised during running than I was one kilometer later when I rounded a curve and saw the leader on the hill above me. Having passed me before the Wall section some 22 kilometers ago, I thought he was gone, but the early pounding on the wall had ended him. He feebly jogged while local children circled him as vultures circle dying animals in the desert. I crept closer and he resorted to a walk, hands on his hips. Never one to be joyful over other’s suffering, I must admit I smiled when he stopped and hunched over. There is some self-satisfaction in knowing you have paced better than someone. I gave a pat on the back, shouted his name and some encouragement (names were printed on the bibs), and became the meat the vulture children circled as I continued up the hill. On the switchback, I saw that I had put several hundred meters between us in just over a minute and no others were in sight. My glory was short lived. The hunter became the hunted and I ran now not calm but anxious.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!! Trying to put some time between me and the others on a downhill, some bee or wasp crash-landed into my jersey and stung my shoulder. I used the pulsing adrenaline to get down the hill. My pace was much faster than normal marathon pace, but I knew the time at the beginning and end of the race were slowed significantly by the wall. The road turned to dirt and eventually the path was so rutted that the lead motorcycle was almost tipping and I had to pass him up. It took him a mile to catch back up. The path then turned to a trail worthy of Colorado running and I was back in my element. Soon I was on the road again intertwined with half-marathon runners on the way to their finish. I tried to make a game of it, passing as many runners as I could, but the home stretch was very long, the heat was increasing, and I had one last obstacle left to conquer: The Great Wall of China.

Some sadistic race organizer 10 years ago thought that at 20 miles the best way to finish this race was to send us past the finish line and up and over the wall again in the much more difficult “backward” direction. Blazing through the square, the loudspeaker announced my arrival as the 1st place marathoner and cheers from spectators and those already finished (half, 10K, and 5K) were deafening. I gained the wall with the adrenaline pumping and a reminder from the MC that I still had 2600 steps to negotiate. But the wall was my reward for pushing the pace. I am a fairly decent walker (no sir name puns intended) and I figured if I could get to the wall in good shape, I could pace well and use the final downhill to finish strong. As my toes graced the first step, I realized instantly that I was sorely mistaken.

A million white hot needles pierced my quads and calf muscles which each step. Sweet poured off my nose and landed on my shoes. Each step was similar to that of a climber hunched over high on Everest. Step. Huff. Heave. Huff. Step. I kept glancing back to the bridge to see if the next runner had gained the wall. Vomit threatened to expel with each breath, and I wanted to sit down very badly. The climb never seemed to relent. Making it worse were the numerous tourists coming at me. Some downhill sections were so sketchy that you needed to slow and use the rope. I couldn’t do either because my legs were shot and wouldn’t brake and old Chinese men and women were using the only rope and footing available. Several times I teetered on the edge of plummeting down the mountain. A section of steps went skyward again and I contemplated stopping. Immediately I heard the voice of the great Dean Karnazes (a voice that, during a marathon, is somewhat spiritual like those hearing God during other trying times in their lives).

Run when you can. I did Dean, maybe too much, too fast.

Walk if you have to. I am walking, damn it!

Crawl if you must. I…ok. And crawl I did. One hand over the other, all fours on the steps. Now it seems captivating, but at the time I was certainly glad no members of the press were snapping pictures of me withering up the steps like a crippled dog. It was easy to see how this wall had repelled invaders for centuries. Dramatic as I am being, the steps eventually did relent and although there were several more significant sections of climbing, the worst was over. As I ran the down slopes and relatively flat portions, I justified my agony by saying that others were also struggling up the same wall at that very moment. A camera man sitting in the middle of the wall jumped up, apparently surprised to see a runner (it had been quite some time since we last went through here). “Good on ya mate! The first one!” he quipped.

“I guess so,” I muttered.

“Got quite a lead too, eh?”

My heart skipped. Really, could I still be ahead? I was certain that six hours had passed and I was the last runner left on the wall. I asked if he could see anyone else and he told me, “Not yet.” I ran on, inspired, glancing back more often than necessary and even though I could see much of the Wall portion of the course, I saw no runners. All that remained was a downhill section of road. If I could stay vertical, I could win. But alas, it was not so easy. Although my pace returned to a regular run, a knot in my stomach and fried legs prevented me from cashing in on the spectacular downhill. By 39k, I was praying for flat land again. I had been running some of my miles in the 6 minute range, yet I estimated that I would be over 8 minutes/mile for the whole race. That couldn’t be right, could it? Oh yeah, the Great Wall. It slows you down a bit. From one kilometer to go, I could see the bridge leading to the wall. If anyone had been able to see me, they would have caught me, and they would have deserved it. I was far too fixated on watching runners start the climb to the Wall. The thought of going over that part of the course made me want to hurl. Little did I know they would still be starting it more than three hours later.

The finish line noise was amazing. Cameras crowded in and not more than a couple of feet after crossing the line I was corralled by the organizer who choked me with a flower wreath around my neck. Reporters asked dozens of questions as I was pushed towards cameras and away from the line. It was a very unique experience and the questions blew me away. Was it difficult? Yes. What was the most difficult part? The Wall. Demographics, where do you work, etc. Then a Chinese man asked me if I thought the current swine flu pandemic (which was limiting the number of visas available) affected the race outcome. I paused, reflecting on what it meant to me and others to be here racing.

True, I had run my slowest time in an open marathon ever, but the course was challenging and I only pushed as hard as needed to win – it was more than 10 min to second place, which was awarded to an able trail runner from Colorado. If I put in more hill work and actually attempted a single speed workout in the last year, I think I could challenge the course record. But I was very pleased with my tactics at this point in the season and couldn’t have cared less if that time got me 1st or 5th. I decided to not draw more attention to his question by dignifying it with a straight response. “I come to a race not to win but to challenge myself. Winning doesn’t matter. Everyone gets a medal out here.” If you want to win this race, come on out next year. We can’t judge a race by a time on paper. You never know how you would have done that day in those conditions. I have looked up many races where I was certain my best would have won it and I have won races knowing full well that if some stud showed up I wouldn’t have been the victor. You just have to run your best and let the chips fall where they may. There are bigger experiences in running than crossing the line before someone else.

In some ways, the hour after the race was as trying as some portions of the race. The Subway sandwiches available to runners upon finishing were mocking me: Just out of reach. The questions from reporters relented but the pictures with other runners didn’t end for quite some time. I was thankful when a friend slipped me a bottle of water because I was starting to feel dizzy. When people found out I was living in China, I got even more pictures. I finally was able to change but couldn’t call home because of the awards ceremony. All I wanted to do was tell my wife I had won. The actual winning didn’t matter to me. She has won enough races for the both of us. But I didn’t want to tell her that I was beaten, that I had given up on myself. The thought of home and running for those who want to hear my story spurred me on when I otherwise could have slowed.

Every marathon I finish, I take the medal and I put it around my bedpost. It stays there until I complete my next race. Sometimes that is a week or two, and sometimes that duration spans a few months. This lets me remember the race, the course, the pain, the thrill. I respect it and it gears me for the next one. But this time, I think I am going to leave the 2009 GWM medal up for a year – 365 days to remember conquering the wall, even if just for a day.

Running XC In China: Not For The Faint of Heart

2009-04-12T17:52:00.000-06:00

If you have run one race in Asia, you have run them all, at least from a tactical stand point. There are no shortage of heroes at the front who blaze out the first quarter mile only to be humiliatingly passed in due time. The start of the Vasque XC races was no exception. After 15 min of announcements (all in Chinese), the horn sounded the start of what was to be the most difficult portion of running I have ever encountered. Sure enough, the pack was out like greyhounds at the track and we all struggled up a climb worthy of a hill repeat workout. At the top of the road, there was a hard left and we said goodbye to the last and only portion of pavement on the run.

What welcomed us was an all-fours climb up a trail that looked like as if had been cut out of the hillside that morning. Seeing this narrow path and the cutthroat climbing it entailed, I surged from the conservative pace I had maintained the first 400m and jumped around people to 10th place as I scaled the 30 feet of hand-over-hand climbing up to the trail. For the next several kilometers a single-track trail meandered up a ridgeline above the reservoir. Struggling to keep the turnover seemed like a petty and miniscule task when you are ever so slowly passing 40-year-old women carrying a stick across their shoulders with full pails of water on the ends, miles from the nearest road.

Ducking under trees and dripping with sweat, this shot was taken at about mile 3.

10 large climbs" said the course description, and I was anticipating 10 distinct climbs. I was sorely mistaken. When the seemingly never-ending assent appeared to peak out, there was often a false summit and the arduous journey wore on. Only when we broke into the smog-filled sky did the trail relent to gravity's pull and down it went. Each climb of multiple minutes was met with breath-taking descents. Normally, a downhill is a much welcomed aspect in a race. When the downhill consisted of 30 degree angles, loose gravel, and hairpin turns at top speed (with a slip here resulting in a 1500 foot plummet to the shores below), the change in course was anything but desirable. When I wasn’t ducking to avoid a limb (which at that speed would have killed me, or at the very least, left me unconscious for some time), I was shooting my arms out in a frantic attempt to grab a tree near, or in the middle of, the trail to slow myself down.

My friends Colin and Amanda also braved the course. Their pictures give some examples of the rough terrain. However, if a cameraman was here, it wasn’t nearly one of the harder parts of the course!!

At the beginning of the race, I made a vow to start smart and work hard throughout. After all, this day marked only the one-month anniversary of my return to running after taking time off for an injury. I knew that going out hard would be costly. I probably started a bit too quickly, but I wanted to keep people in sight to give me motivation. It wasn’t long before the line was draw between those who were racing and those who were just trying to survive this one. After about 15 min of climbing I was able to slip past 8th place and another endless hill brought me into 7th. Just as I was making my move on the next runner, I was derailed at a checkpoint. Throughout the course, four stations were positions to ensure runners passed and were accounted for (I don’t know where you would go, because getting off trail here might mean you were never found). Anyway, I worked a guy down on a long climb. He would feebly attempt to run up the hill but faltered every tenth step or so, either by slipping on the loose terrain or succumbing to physical exhaustion. I hung back, keeping the ultra runner pace of hiking up the hill and using my arms. I made a few noises, breathing and grunting, sometimes in response to a pulling muscle but often just to let him know I was there, trying to scare him into staying ahead of me and burning himself out. I was actually smiling as I compared the run to London's The Call of the Wild. I was Buck, an able dog and he was the moose, who was sprinting to stay ahead but burning his energy all the while. We crested the summit and I looked to take him on the reckless downhill, for someone spilling in front of me would have spelled disaster. My chance came at a rock garden which caused him to slow and me to close the gap. But just as I was about to catch up, the volunteers leapt out of their squatted positions and started yelling at me to stop. I had no idea what to do, but they finally stamped my number and sent me on my way. Frustrated, I charged down the hill, more recklessly than I would normally have due to the lost time. Although I caught and passed my adversary, I was flabbergasted by the inefficient way of checking to see if people came through checkpoints. (Miles later, drenched in sweat, the ink had faded from my number anyway).

Suicidal downhills caused the adrenaline to go skyrocket and my ankles to scream for days. I almost killed the cameraman who was standing in the middle of the trail and there wasn’t any way to slow fast enough to go around him. Check out the stump in the middle picture and the loose dirt. It was a recipe for disaster.

The next portion of the race was quite lonely. I could no longer see 5th place and I refused to run in a panic to stave off my recently passed friends. Just when hope of a top 5 finish had faded, there was a glimpse of blue cresting the next hill. It briefly crossed my mind to invest in a camouflage jersey for these races so as not to be seen as an object to focus on and pass, but I quickly dismissed this knowing that if anyone was within site of me, there was pretty much nothing I could do to stop them. I consciously kept the turnover high going up the brutal climbs and talked myself into transitioning over the top, despite what my lactic acid grueling legs had to say about it. Even the downhills were a bit more reckless than I usually run. Every once in a while, my slick bottomed road shoes would shoot out from under me and only by franticly grabbing for a tree limb or crashing into a tree trunk was I able to keep from tumbling down the hill at sprint pace. A few portions of the course had stone steps, which when going uphill provided a nice respite from the uneven ground. However, steps in China are not made with any consistency or safety in mind. On the way down these steep declines, one step may be half as wide as the step before it, only to be followed by a step twice as large as any before it. Over the course of 200 steps, this can lead to some very close calls in misjudging a foot placement, and the result of a mistake would be disastrous here more than anywhere else. Numerous hikers came up the course and very few recognized the out of control runner flying toward them. There were many smiles and cheers, a few stares, and more than one person who I don’t think had any idea how close they came to death as I blew past. A daunting stair section brought me in close to the next runner and I paced behind him for the next few hundred meters. On a steep rock section he took a glance back, grunted something in Chinese, and was beaten. I pulled along side and he yielded the trail to me, and I blew past with a mutter of thanks in my limited Chinese.

The climbs wore on, including several sections that realistically needed a rope. Occasionally, steps had been cut in the hard dirt, and by clinging to a root with one hand, the other hand in the dirt, and hoisting my legs 3 feet up and over a protruding rock to the next ledge, could I negotiate these portions of the route. These sections only slowed us tremendously, rather than halted our progress altogether. Some boulders were as high as houses and we had to pull and plant our way up through their cracks. Sinking in to ultra mode in my mind, I focused on keeping the heels down, arms moving, and never anticipating the end. In fact, I was so reserved that I was expecting to see the “10K to go” sign at the next checkpoint. To my great surprise, I grabbed my third and final cup of water from a volunteer at the station and saw that it was a mere 5k to the finish. I should not have been that excited.

For the next 2K, all hope of running was removed. A steep, winding single track - completely exposed to the sun and increasing heat – encompassed the next 20 minutes. The heat coming off my body was intensified by the sun which had started to break through the smoggy canopy of the Shenzhen sky. At the beginning of the day I figured there would be a high point of the climbing and eventually we would return to lower altitudes. But with under 3 miles to go we still climbed, and reached new heights above the city. Up here no air circulated. There was no breeze. There was just a runner and his pain; a dull, aching pain that occasionally flared to the level of searing, but then relented to chronic, never yielding discomfort. Finally, the “3K to go” sign welcomed me at the summit of what was to be the final climb of the course. But the next section was not forgiving or rewarding. Even if I had seen competition, I never could have caught them. The down section was so steep and so dangerous that any attempts to jog lasted only briefly before the butterflies in my stomach warned me to put the breaks on and stay vertical. Quads screaming from all the breaking, I finally emerged to a road, hung a left and joined a paved aqueduct for rain runoff. Completely dead legged, my last real challenge was jumping across the chasm of the drainage tunnel to the other side. If my muscles pulled on take off, I might have ended up face down 5 feet below on the pavement. But I made it, and cruised the last kilometer high on a cement walkway that lined the lake. One more turn and it was a mere 200 steep steps down to the parking area. Dodging Chinese tourists on their way to the top for a view, I lifted and ran in to the tennis courts which marked the finish.

Fifth place was the best I could manage as I broke the tape in 1 hour, 36 minutes. It averaged out to 8:35 a mile for 11.18 miles and I couldn’t have been happier with the place and time after only running for a month, and I certainly couldn’t be happier to be finished with that course. I was expecting a worse result on a course where only 20-30% of the trail was “runable.” Climbs lasted 10 minutes or more and never could I run more than a few minutes without being forced to hike or climb. Almost immediately upon finishing, the newspaper reporters and local television representatives as well as the race director were over to speak with me. Being the first non-Chinese across the line apparently got me a lot of attention. The questions were quite typical to start but expanded into things like, “Did you run harder because your family was here?” It was Easter and Sarah and Taelyn came to watch, as much as you can “watch” only 200m of an 11.2 mile race. The reporter told me I was a hero to my baby. If only it were that easy.

The Aftermath

Pizza and a beer was a good way to celebrate with a friend who finished her longest race ever, by double the distance. I am honestly surprised she didn’t slap me upon finishing, but she did curse at me a few times throughout the race. Going to bed that night, things were sore, but mostly my back hurt and I was afraid that I might have hurt it again.

Not to take the suspense out of the final words, but the back is ok. What I faced when I awoke was quad muscles that had no intention of responding to my requests to stand. I could deal with that, as races here are not forgiving, but the newest sensation was the incredibly weak ankles. You see, after that many miles of tripping, slipping, and breaking, my ankles had basically sprained over and over again. They brought tears to my eyes at the touch. I slothed through work on Monday and skipped lifting after school, only to head straight home where the evening went by in a blur. Tuesday didn’t go much better and with an obligation that lasted from after school till late at night. I wished I had iced but by Wednesday I could get back on the road and battle through a few miles. Back-to-back long runs the following weekend proved fitness is coming along.