Luck O’ the Irish and the Holy Trinity

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

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

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 2 minutes 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

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 as 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

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

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 sucks. 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 couldn't 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 56 miles (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

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 (8K) 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 time 3:07:30/3:06:55 net time. Not bad for holding back on the hilliest race around.