A few days ago I was ensconced in a hotel room in a city I was told is not a friendly place to run. Matters not, I was – and am still – on injured reserve, taking a few days more to try to heal a nagging Achilles, now coupled with a strained hamstring as well, so said urban imprisonment is of minor concern. But even without running at the moment, this running habit of mine is generating positive results.
As I wrote the bulk of this article a few days back, the oversized hotel room television silently flashed a truly astounding assortment of crap that I just don’t see at home because when home, other things occupy my time rather than a brief spurt of traveling-time channel surfing. My amazement that anyone would watch some of this stuff is exceeded only by my amazement that anyone would film this stuff. Vacuous and vapid are words that come to mind. Yet people do watch it, else there would be no economic incentive to air it. And with each minute of viewing time, these twisted media versions of reality influence the viewers’ perceptions of normal. Is it any wonder our society in general chases materialistic and wasteful idols and has largely lost its way?
Every impression that reaches every person has an impact in some way, shape, or form. It’s a basic fact that drives our advertising-driven society. Each moment of impression might be explicitly accepted by the receiver, explicitly rejected, or more insidiously, implicitly unprocessed but not unnoticed. One might believe the impact of such unprocessed impressions is nil, but I hold instead that it is additive, slowly shaping reality as defined by perception. In a simple example, I may explicitly reject the notion of the driver passing by me doing eighty-five while another may explicitly accept that behavior as admirable, but the bulk of people probably don’t even think about it. After a while, their perception of acceptable reality is eighty-five on the highway.
Everything you do outside of closed doors is an influence on others. Each impression you make on others may be explicitly rejected, explicitly accepted, or unprocessed yet additive to the receiver’s perception of the world. In time, you do influence those around you, whether you want to or not. You have the choice of what kind of influence you want to impart.
My coworkers know I am an avid runner. I’ve had the blessing of supportive management who for years have not only encouraged my lifestyle, not only embraced my efforts to build this healthy activity into my busy appointment schedule, but have explicitly advertised my exploits, adding a slide to the usual staff meeting blather after most of my marathons. Many explicitly reject these impressions with the usual good-natured (and somewhat accurate) accusations of insanity. Some explicitly accept these impressions with recollections of their previous similar adventures or wishes of future imitation. Most leave them unprocessed, but they cannot fail to paint their view of reality.
And it works. After five years of running, I’ve seen a surprising – or perhaps not surprising – number of converts, all the way up to a co-worker who went from a casual jogger to completing Boston last month. I know I’m not entirely to blame for any of these converts. I also know I’m not entirely not to blame. For whatever blame I hold, I am proud of my influence and prouder still – for them – of the transformation I’ve seen in these people. It’s a positive influence. It’s leadership.
As it turns out, I’ve had a chance of late to turn these casual influences into something stronger. A manager also bitten by the running bug learned that I’m acting as race director for our club’s upcoming 10K. She encouraged me to send word of the event to our sales and engineering teams, both as a fun event and as a way to encourage some fitness on the team. Now, it’s one thing to passively lead by example and quite another to drag your peeps kicking and screaming into the pool. I wasn’t quite sure what their reaction would be.
I needn’t have worried. After a few days of radio silence to let the concept sink in, out spewed that typical sales force competitiveness. The trash talk started. The factions formed. I found the need to make the executive decision to add team scoring to our race, just to let these folks have their day, have their fun, and in the process, do something good for themselves. I was tickled pink.
You might think you run for yourself, and you do. But don’t forget for a moment that your running is a beacon of healthy living, shaping the perceived reality of those around you. Let it shine.
28 May 2010
08 May 2010
A Long Awaited Experiment
How great is it when different parts of your life collide in good ways and build on each other synergistically? Now and then the fickle finger of fate points in the right direction, and it can be very cool, as it was last week. As a result I’m going to try an experiment I’ve wanted to do for some time.
Just back from a few days of post-Boston relaxation I was greeted with – what else – about four hundred business emails, not counting the “congrats on a fine Boston” ones that don’t count as a chore to wade through. Yes, the benefit of vacation time and being home-office-based means you spend the night before returning to work already working. C’est la vie, it’s a living, and a pretty good one.
In my line of business, which is, in effect, trying to explain what our gadgets do and why you want them, where our gadgets are pretty complex devices that can be rolled out in any of about four-point-seven million variations, I get called in to see pretty much any customer in our fold when the time is right. The usual day brings the usual suspects: insurance companies, colleges, consulting houses, government agencies, you name it. Then once in a while comes a treat, the call you just can’t wait to go on. So how cool is it that my first customer call after coming back from the marathon was a running shoe company? Can you beat that? A meeting at New Balance. Way cool.
New Balance sports an impressive looking headquarters on the edge of Boston, but we trundled up to their other place in beautiful (he said somewhat tongue-in-cheek) Lawrence, Massachusetts. Truth be told, while Lawrence doesn’t have the best reputation as a garden spot, as one who’s heavily interested in history I find the place rather fascinating. And New Balance lives in a grand restored nineteenth century mill – with track lanes marked on the hardwood floors in places.
My sales rep of course opened the meeting by bringing up the marathon, and the moment I knew would come at some point came immediately: “And you ran it in New Balance shoes?”
Umm, uh, well, truth be told, no. I’ve been an ASICS guy, with a smattering of a few others tossed in for variety, none of which made me all that happy. And I’m a frugal guy, so I simply buy last year’s model at the cheapest close-out price I can find on the web. Hey, they’re not the newest, latest, and greatest, but if they were good enough last year, they’re good enough now. Sad truth is I’d never tried on a pair of New Balance that I thought had fit my feet. But it’s also fair to say that my trusty ASICS have changed a bit over the years, I’ve blistered more of late than usual, and I’m game for variety. I just hate paying running store prices to run those tests.
Yah, well, they understood, and we moved on and had a fine meeting. But they promised to take us upstairs to the factory store afterward. We’ll get back to that after a short interlude of extreme coolness.
Interlude of extreme coolness: New Balance has a lab where they do all sorts of dynamic biometric studies on runners and shoes. I’d heard about it some time ago, and corresponded with the guy who runs the lab about a year ago, but that was as far as it went. I figured I probably scared him off with my tale of bizarre foot surgery – I mean, how much useful data could he get on normal people’s feet by measuring my bionic one? By now, of course, things are a little more back to normal in the foot department, and I might actually be of some use to him. As a runner, the opportunity to get a better understanding of what my body was really doing sounds simply too cool to resist. And as an engineer, the opportunity to see how that measurement and analysis was done was again simply too cool to resist.
Since things in my life were converging that day, you’d expect me to tell you that it turned out that the lab was a mere fifty feet down the hall from our meeting room. And that somehow, the name of the guy who runs the place – with whom I hadn’t corresponded in over a year – just popped into my head halfway through our meeting (this, when the name of the guy across the table whom I’d just met had already left my head). And so I will tell you that these things were so, and that I was treated to a quick visit to the lab and a chat with said lab engineer. Whether I can be of any use to him remains to be seen (it would appear, in Seussical Grinchian fashion, that my foot is a size or two too small), but it was a great connection to make.
On to the shopping! Armed with a friendly discount, I hit the company store and to my delight did indeed find a pair of New Balance that appear to fit my feet, so I’ll give a pair of 1225s a drive and see what happens. But the much cooler bit was the 904s, which, at least in my opinion, are a cross between training and racing shoes. Light as a feather, but not so insubstantial as to leave your little piggies exposed to the nasties of the road. And shockingly yellow. Easier to pick me out of the crowd with these puppies on!
I’ve wanted to try out a pair of racing shoes for some time. It’s been close to thirty years since I wore those lime green Nike Waffle Racers around town and around tracks in upstate New York. But what’s been holding me back was the fear that real racers simply wouldn’t be supportive enough, and that old Yankee frugality – I had no great desire to dump a lot of money on something that experimental. Come the 904s, not really true racers, but a nice combination of lightness and support, and – just my style – last year’s model, discounted, with a bonus friendly discount at the already discounted factory store, and, well, even Mr. Stoic Shopper can’t resist making that kind of buy.
Which means I now have to consummate the experiment, which pushed me over the edge upon which I was tottering, which means yes, I went ahead and signed up for the Buffalo Marathon. Life just switched from post-Boston, to T-Minus four weeks to the next marathon. In cool shoes that will either kill my feet or – I hope – slice some effort and time from the tallies.
We learn best through experimentation.
Ed Note: A few days after I wrote this but before posting, I took the 904s for a short test drive. Like running in comfy slippers! Can my feet stand them for 26 miles? Actually, not my biggest concern at the moment as enough other things hurt that I’m really questioning my decision to run Buffalo.
Just back from a few days of post-Boston relaxation I was greeted with – what else – about four hundred business emails, not counting the “congrats on a fine Boston” ones that don’t count as a chore to wade through. Yes, the benefit of vacation time and being home-office-based means you spend the night before returning to work already working. C’est la vie, it’s a living, and a pretty good one.
In my line of business, which is, in effect, trying to explain what our gadgets do and why you want them, where our gadgets are pretty complex devices that can be rolled out in any of about four-point-seven million variations, I get called in to see pretty much any customer in our fold when the time is right. The usual day brings the usual suspects: insurance companies, colleges, consulting houses, government agencies, you name it. Then once in a while comes a treat, the call you just can’t wait to go on. So how cool is it that my first customer call after coming back from the marathon was a running shoe company? Can you beat that? A meeting at New Balance. Way cool.
New Balance sports an impressive looking headquarters on the edge of Boston, but we trundled up to their other place in beautiful (he said somewhat tongue-in-cheek) Lawrence, Massachusetts. Truth be told, while Lawrence doesn’t have the best reputation as a garden spot, as one who’s heavily interested in history I find the place rather fascinating. And New Balance lives in a grand restored nineteenth century mill – with track lanes marked on the hardwood floors in places.
My sales rep of course opened the meeting by bringing up the marathon, and the moment I knew would come at some point came immediately: “And you ran it in New Balance shoes?”
Umm, uh, well, truth be told, no. I’ve been an ASICS guy, with a smattering of a few others tossed in for variety, none of which made me all that happy. And I’m a frugal guy, so I simply buy last year’s model at the cheapest close-out price I can find on the web. Hey, they’re not the newest, latest, and greatest, but if they were good enough last year, they’re good enough now. Sad truth is I’d never tried on a pair of New Balance that I thought had fit my feet. But it’s also fair to say that my trusty ASICS have changed a bit over the years, I’ve blistered more of late than usual, and I’m game for variety. I just hate paying running store prices to run those tests.
Yah, well, they understood, and we moved on and had a fine meeting. But they promised to take us upstairs to the factory store afterward. We’ll get back to that after a short interlude of extreme coolness.
Interlude of extreme coolness: New Balance has a lab where they do all sorts of dynamic biometric studies on runners and shoes. I’d heard about it some time ago, and corresponded with the guy who runs the lab about a year ago, but that was as far as it went. I figured I probably scared him off with my tale of bizarre foot surgery – I mean, how much useful data could he get on normal people’s feet by measuring my bionic one? By now, of course, things are a little more back to normal in the foot department, and I might actually be of some use to him. As a runner, the opportunity to get a better understanding of what my body was really doing sounds simply too cool to resist. And as an engineer, the opportunity to see how that measurement and analysis was done was again simply too cool to resist.
Since things in my life were converging that day, you’d expect me to tell you that it turned out that the lab was a mere fifty feet down the hall from our meeting room. And that somehow, the name of the guy who runs the place – with whom I hadn’t corresponded in over a year – just popped into my head halfway through our meeting (this, when the name of the guy across the table whom I’d just met had already left my head). And so I will tell you that these things were so, and that I was treated to a quick visit to the lab and a chat with said lab engineer. Whether I can be of any use to him remains to be seen (it would appear, in Seussical Grinchian fashion, that my foot is a size or two too small), but it was a great connection to make.
On to the shopping! Armed with a friendly discount, I hit the company store and to my delight did indeed find a pair of New Balance that appear to fit my feet, so I’ll give a pair of 1225s a drive and see what happens. But the much cooler bit was the 904s, which, at least in my opinion, are a cross between training and racing shoes. Light as a feather, but not so insubstantial as to leave your little piggies exposed to the nasties of the road. And shockingly yellow. Easier to pick me out of the crowd with these puppies on!
I’ve wanted to try out a pair of racing shoes for some time. It’s been close to thirty years since I wore those lime green Nike Waffle Racers around town and around tracks in upstate New York. But what’s been holding me back was the fear that real racers simply wouldn’t be supportive enough, and that old Yankee frugality – I had no great desire to dump a lot of money on something that experimental. Come the 904s, not really true racers, but a nice combination of lightness and support, and – just my style – last year’s model, discounted, with a bonus friendly discount at the already discounted factory store, and, well, even Mr. Stoic Shopper can’t resist making that kind of buy.
Which means I now have to consummate the experiment, which pushed me over the edge upon which I was tottering, which means yes, I went ahead and signed up for the Buffalo Marathon. Life just switched from post-Boston, to T-Minus four weeks to the next marathon. In cool shoes that will either kill my feet or – I hope – slice some effort and time from the tallies.
We learn best through experimentation.
Ed Note: A few days after I wrote this but before posting, I took the 904s for a short test drive. Like running in comfy slippers! Can my feet stand them for 26 miles? Actually, not my biggest concern at the moment as enough other things hurt that I’m really questioning my decision to run Buffalo.
04 May 2010
Wackos Descend on Groton
What kind of a wacko goes out and races six days after the Boston Marathon? Apparently quite a few kinds, since a bunch of us lined up for a little post-Boston reunion on the starting line of the Groton Road Race 10K a week ago, a mere six days after punishing ourselves through the Newton hills and down Beacon Street.
Groton is one of those classic New England races that has transcended mere racedom to enter the zone of eventdom. It is known to and appeals to the entire community, not just the hard-core and light-duty runners. This is evident by the size of the crowd compared to the size of Groton. There simply can’t be that many runners in a town that size, even counting us foreigners imported from neighboring villes. Truth be told, I didn’t go to Groton because I wanted to race. I went to Groton because I wanted to go to Groton, because my friend Chris is the race director, and I wanted to see his big party. I wasn’t disappointed. Quite the party.
Groton is a whole host of events ranging from a couple of kids’ runs to a 5K and then the headliner event, the 10K. The races are big enough to warrant shutting the streets, and the town is small enough that when the streets are shut, you can’t go anywhere, which led to the ironic situation of having to sit in traffic due to a race while trying to get to a race. The old guy who got out of his car behind me and groused about, “Can’t believe they’re running a race on a major thoroughfare!” just didn’t get it. In Groton, there simply aren’t many thoroughfares, period. You can’t avoid it. Fortunately, he avoided me, as I would have had a bit of a debate with his stance.
Our Masochism Trio of Boston Recoverees including myself, Rocket John, and Boston PR Mark, assembled at the start which was curiously marked as if to expect about a hundred five-and-a-half minute pace runners and at least a hundred more at six minute pace. Knowing that was probably more than a bit hopeful (the actual count at day’s end was three under 5:30 and five more under 6:00), we all paced around up front while awaiting a ten-minute delay due to a car wreck
(no runners, thankfully) on the course. A couple of colonial minutemen fired off a volley, fortunately missing everyone, and we were off on a day that turned curiously from expected cool showers to surprisingly humid warmth.
The foolishness of this endeavor sunk in before we even left the high school track. Racing six days after Boston? Yeah, right.
Rocket John didn’t seem to notice this irony, bolting out in a manner suitable to his nickname. By the mile he was a good thirty seconds up on me, and that with me hitting the mile slightly under six flat. What did he put in his Wheaties this morning?
Mile one and I was pretty much finished for the day. No surprise, that was all the legs would offer up, no more power to expend. That’s not to say I was flat on the
ground or anything, just that there was no way I’d be racing toward the six-oh-somethings I’d like to see in a five to six mile race. John was long gone, and by one and a quarter, Boston PR Mark eclipsed me as well. I told him I was toasted, put a fork in me, I was done, but soldiered on, settled down to a “default race pace” in the 6:20’s and chugged it out.
If there was any consolation, it wasn’t as if I was losing ground wholesale. I sparred with a few runners, trading a few places back and forth, having enough oomph to take a few on the upgrades – the benefit of growing up around and living on hills. There was the pleasant surprise of an unexpected cheering section, a co-worker out to root on his son, who spotted me around mile five. But it was otherwise an unremarkable run. I was happy to be able to hold my pace once I’d settled in, to post a little kick at the end just for the cameras, and mostly to be finished.
PR Mark, Rocket John, and I took 8th, 13th, and 15th among the nearly 500 finishers, nothing to scoff at, but nothing special on my part. Ironically, though I hadn’t gotten a real 10K split in the Tri-Valley 15K a week before Boston, when I extrapolated my 10K from miles one through six and an appropriate part of seven, it turned out – I can’t make this up – to the second identical to Groton. Of course, one would hope the 10K to be faster than the 15K, but of course, one doesn’t really care six days after Boston. In fact, one could be quite pleased to hold the same pace.
Now, the funny thing is that in five years of Second Lap running and racing, eleven marathons, countless 5Ks, bazillions of distances in-between, I’d never actually run a 10K. So what the heck, it was a PR anyway.
And the post-race munchies were great, too. Hats off to you, Chris, you ran a fine event.
(Photos courtesy of Jim Rhoades)
Bizarre Note: Groton is a classy New England town, home to a classy New England prep school, not surprisingly called the Groton School. But back in those First Lap days in upstate New York, we knew nothing of this. We knew of Groton as a small town in the Middle of Nowhere (as if we lived in the Center of Somewhere?), between Ithaca and Cortland, and worthy of derision as only high-schoolers can generate. For some reason one of the guys on my cross country team decided that the name “Groton” sounded like a fungal disease, and in that weird flavor of high school humor, we’d lament the pour soul who came down with a bad case of Groton. It’s thirty years later and I can’t get that out of my head, but I’m pleased that I haven’t needed any anti-fungal creams since running that fine event in that fine town last weekend.
Groton is one of those classic New England races that has transcended mere racedom to enter the zone of eventdom. It is known to and appeals to the entire community, not just the hard-core and light-duty runners. This is evident by the size of the crowd compared to the size of Groton. There simply can’t be that many runners in a town that size, even counting us foreigners imported from neighboring villes. Truth be told, I didn’t go to Groton because I wanted to race. I went to Groton because I wanted to go to Groton, because my friend Chris is the race director, and I wanted to see his big party. I wasn’t disappointed. Quite the party.
Groton is a whole host of events ranging from a couple of kids’ runs to a 5K and then the headliner event, the 10K. The races are big enough to warrant shutting the streets, and the town is small enough that when the streets are shut, you can’t go anywhere, which led to the ironic situation of having to sit in traffic due to a race while trying to get to a race. The old guy who got out of his car behind me and groused about, “Can’t believe they’re running a race on a major thoroughfare!” just didn’t get it. In Groton, there simply aren’t many thoroughfares, period. You can’t avoid it. Fortunately, he avoided me, as I would have had a bit of a debate with his stance.Our Masochism Trio of Boston Recoverees including myself, Rocket John, and Boston PR Mark, assembled at the start which was curiously marked as if to expect about a hundred five-and-a-half minute pace runners and at least a hundred more at six minute pace. Knowing that was probably more than a bit hopeful (the actual count at day’s end was three under 5:30 and five more under 6:00), we all paced around up front while awaiting a ten-minute delay due to a car wreck
(no runners, thankfully) on the course. A couple of colonial minutemen fired off a volley, fortunately missing everyone, and we were off on a day that turned curiously from expected cool showers to surprisingly humid warmth.The foolishness of this endeavor sunk in before we even left the high school track. Racing six days after Boston? Yeah, right.
Rocket John didn’t seem to notice this irony, bolting out in a manner suitable to his nickname. By the mile he was a good thirty seconds up on me, and that with me hitting the mile slightly under six flat. What did he put in his Wheaties this morning?
Mile one and I was pretty much finished for the day. No surprise, that was all the legs would offer up, no more power to expend. That’s not to say I was flat on the
ground or anything, just that there was no way I’d be racing toward the six-oh-somethings I’d like to see in a five to six mile race. John was long gone, and by one and a quarter, Boston PR Mark eclipsed me as well. I told him I was toasted, put a fork in me, I was done, but soldiered on, settled down to a “default race pace” in the 6:20’s and chugged it out.If there was any consolation, it wasn’t as if I was losing ground wholesale. I sparred with a few runners, trading a few places back and forth, having enough oomph to take a few on the upgrades – the benefit of growing up around and living on hills. There was the pleasant surprise of an unexpected cheering section, a co-worker out to root on his son, who spotted me around mile five. But it was otherwise an unremarkable run. I was happy to be able to hold my pace once I’d settled in, to post a little kick at the end just for the cameras, and mostly to be finished.
PR Mark, Rocket John, and I took 8th, 13th, and 15th among the nearly 500 finishers, nothing to scoff at, but nothing special on my part. Ironically, though I hadn’t gotten a real 10K split in the Tri-Valley 15K a week before Boston, when I extrapolated my 10K from miles one through six and an appropriate part of seven, it turned out – I can’t make this up – to the second identical to Groton. Of course, one would hope the 10K to be faster than the 15K, but of course, one doesn’t really care six days after Boston. In fact, one could be quite pleased to hold the same pace.Now, the funny thing is that in five years of Second Lap running and racing, eleven marathons, countless 5Ks, bazillions of distances in-between, I’d never actually run a 10K. So what the heck, it was a PR anyway.
And the post-race munchies were great, too. Hats off to you, Chris, you ran a fine event.
(Photos courtesy of Jim Rhoades)
Bizarre Note: Groton is a classy New England town, home to a classy New England prep school, not surprisingly called the Groton School. But back in those First Lap days in upstate New York, we knew nothing of this. We knew of Groton as a small town in the Middle of Nowhere (as if we lived in the Center of Somewhere?), between Ithaca and Cortland, and worthy of derision as only high-schoolers can generate. For some reason one of the guys on my cross country team decided that the name “Groton” sounded like a fungal disease, and in that weird flavor of high school humor, we’d lament the pour soul who came down with a bad case of Groton. It’s thirty years later and I can’t get that out of my head, but I’m pleased that I haven’t needed any anti-fungal creams since running that fine event in that fine town last weekend.
30 April 2010
True Tales of Boston, Part 2
We now return to our Boston 2010 program already in progress… The tale of the race itself can be found here. Part 1 of the random stories of the day can be found here. And now, the second half of those stories. Enjoy.
Stupid Fast: In my race story last week I talked about how stupid fast I went out. How stupid fast was it? Well, it was so stupid fast that I actually hit 30K faster – by 21 seconds – than I ran the whole 30K race at Stu’s back in March.
After that race I mentioned that I’d run the pace I wanted for a marathon, but knew there was seven and a half more miles to go. Guess what? I ran that pace, and had seven and a half miles to go. And they weren’t pretty. I hit the half in a smokin’ 1:26:06, only to follow that up with nearly an hour thirty three. Yep, no negative splits on this one, instead just an ugly pace chart, showing either a struggle to get my pace under control or a twenty-five mile fade – you be the judge. Not exactly a smart race strategy, but in the end, whatever.
Everybody’s Passing Me! The first corral is a scary place to start at Boston. My number just barely got me into that club, and I knew they’d go out fast, so I put myself in the back quarter of the corral. Nevertheless – and despite my stupid fast early miles – I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being walloped by everyone around me. Not until late in the race did I feel like I was holding my ground. And pictures show all those two- and three-thousand numbered folks all around me. Yet, if you figure that there are a hundred or two up front in EliteLand, my number 1948 hinted at a seed of 1100-1200 or so, and my final place, 1170, fell right into line. Moral of the story? Don’t believe it when you think everyone is passing you.
Old Friends, New Friends: Boston has become an annual gathering of my ever-expanding clan of running friends. It’s like a class reunion, and the class keeps getting bigger. Shout-outs go to…
Barefoot beach walking is perfect therapy for marathon-battered feet, like a miles-long foot massage. And the flatness of the Cape Cod Rail Trail was perfect for those rehabilitation runs. No hills this week, thank you. Perfect time to jog a few with my beloved, who yes, on her own accord has taken up the cause and is putting in a few miles.
By week’s end the quads were back in business enough to somewhat foolishly pop in a ten-miler. A ten-miler four days later? Well, you know how it goes… Out onto the rail trail behind the hotel, I wanted to run into the next town to check it off my list like any nerdy engineer type would. Then, once there, it was only another mile and a half to the end of the trail, so, might as well… Suddenly, I’m five miles out and only one way to get back, so what’s a runner to do? Some speed, of course, culminated by chasing down a local runner who we’ll call Amy (since that was her name), and her version of the Wonder Dog (border collie), Echo.
A little banter made the trip back more interesting, as did Echo’s joyful sauntering. Echo seemed a fine companion until he (she? It?) decided to flush a squirrel out of a tree, which promptly flew a foot in front of Amy’s face, giving her quite the start, and landed on the trail immediately in front of me, not at all right-side up and therefore doing one of those hysterical righting dances that only squirrels can do, while trying to run away, of course in the same direction I was moving, well, just try to envision it. Four days post Boston, muscles still a little tender, and it was either dance or kill the little bugger. Yeah, you had to be there, but trust me, it was a real hoot.
Parting Shot: My wife captured a classic shot as I came through Newton Lower Falls at mile sixteen. Really I was telling my ladies that I wanted one bottle of Rocket Fuel, yes one, see that finger, one! Clearly it looks like something else entirely. I’m not showing off. Just trust me on this one.
Enjoy.
Stupid Fast: In my race story last week I talked about how stupid fast I went out. How stupid fast was it? Well, it was so stupid fast that I actually hit 30K faster – by 21 seconds – than I ran the whole 30K race at Stu’s back in March.
After that race I mentioned that I’d run the pace I wanted for a marathon, but knew there was seven and a half more miles to go. Guess what? I ran that pace, and had seven and a half miles to go. And they weren’t pretty. I hit the half in a smokin’ 1:26:06, only to follow that up with nearly an hour thirty three. Yep, no negative splits on this one, instead just an ugly pace chart, showing either a struggle to get my pace under control or a twenty-five mile fade – you be the judge. Not exactly a smart race strategy, but in the end, whatever.Everybody’s Passing Me! The first corral is a scary place to start at Boston. My number just barely got me into that club, and I knew they’d go out fast, so I put myself in the back quarter of the corral. Nevertheless – and despite my stupid fast early miles – I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being walloped by everyone around me. Not until late in the race did I feel like I was holding my ground. And pictures show all those two- and three-thousand numbered folks all around me. Yet, if you figure that there are a hundred or two up front in EliteLand, my number 1948 hinted at a seed of 1100-1200 or so, and my final place, 1170, fell right into line. Moral of the story? Don’t believe it when you think everyone is passing you.
Old Friends, New Friends: Boston has become an annual gathering of my ever-expanding clan of running friends. It’s like a class reunion, and the class keeps getting bigger. Shout-outs go to…
- Co-worker Kerry on completing her first; I can’t take much credit but I’ll beg for a little in nudging her toward this life achievement,
- Dave and his fellow traveler Mike, the Ottawa crew; I’ve been trying to meet Dave for a few years and finally did before they did two marathons in one day: Boston, and the drive back to Ottawa that night,
- Mike from Carolina who ran a much smarter race than I and almost nailed sub-three, Vince from Florida, and the others from afar with whom I’ve been in touch and hoped to meet this time but still haven’t; we’ll do it again next year I hope,
- My fellow club-mates from the Highland City Striders; for a club of a mere 50 people we fielded seven Boston runners, all finishers, way to go Rocket John, Krazy “Marathon a Month” Kevin, “Bet on it” Dan, Lovely Liz, Chris “The Gurn is Coming!”, and Paul, so sorry I cannot come up with a snappy nickname,
- The Squannacook crew, Chris, recovered from a tough half marathon a week earlier to turn in a fine Boston, and Mark who PR’d with a 2:54 and change – outstanding!, and to the rest of their welcoming gang,
- Mrs. Foot Doctor, to whom I owe the fact that Dr. Foot Doctor understood me when I first went to see him nearly two years ago and didn’t tell me to stop running,
- To new friend Steve from Maryland, who lamented missing re-qualifying by a mere thirteen seconds; I hope that paper application idea works out and we cross paths again.
- And to the rest, too numerous to mention…
Barefoot beach walking is perfect therapy for marathon-battered feet, like a miles-long foot massage. And the flatness of the Cape Cod Rail Trail was perfect for those rehabilitation runs. No hills this week, thank you. Perfect time to jog a few with my beloved, who yes, on her own accord has taken up the cause and is putting in a few miles.
By week’s end the quads were back in business enough to somewhat foolishly pop in a ten-miler. A ten-miler four days later? Well, you know how it goes… Out onto the rail trail behind the hotel, I wanted to run into the next town to check it off my list like any nerdy engineer type would. Then, once there, it was only another mile and a half to the end of the trail, so, might as well… Suddenly, I’m five miles out and only one way to get back, so what’s a runner to do? Some speed, of course, culminated by chasing down a local runner who we’ll call Amy (since that was her name), and her version of the Wonder Dog (border collie), Echo.
A little banter made the trip back more interesting, as did Echo’s joyful sauntering. Echo seemed a fine companion until he (she? It?) decided to flush a squirrel out of a tree, which promptly flew a foot in front of Amy’s face, giving her quite the start, and landed on the trail immediately in front of me, not at all right-side up and therefore doing one of those hysterical righting dances that only squirrels can do, while trying to run away, of course in the same direction I was moving, well, just try to envision it. Four days post Boston, muscles still a little tender, and it was either dance or kill the little bugger. Yeah, you had to be there, but trust me, it was a real hoot.Parting Shot: My wife captured a classic shot as I came through Newton Lower Falls at mile sixteen. Really I was telling my ladies that I wanted one bottle of Rocket Fuel, yes one, see that finger, one! Clearly it looks like something else entirely. I’m not showing off. Just trust me on this one.
Enjoy.
26 April 2010
True Tales of Boston, Part 1
If you tried to package up everything that happens on Marathon Monday, you’d end up with something that UPS probably won’t ship in one piece. So now that I’ve dispensed with the excitement of the race itself in last week’s posting, let’s move on to some of the more interesting tidbits to emerge from that intimate little gathering in Hopkinton. Here’s Part 1 of two entries to this post.
It’s an Cozy Little Event, Really! With 27.000 registered runners, countless bandits, and hundreds of thousands of fans (estimated at over a half-million), how will we ever find each other? Yet somehow we do, and it keeps happening enough to convince us it’s karma. Dude, let me count the ways.
One: Rocket John and I drove together to Hopkinton State Park and boarded one of many BAA buses to downtown Hopkinton. Granted, this arrival route serves many local runners, but it also carries many out-of-towners who are staying in the western ‘burbs – probably a couple thousand in total. So it’s still pretty remarkable when the two ladies sitting behind us are from the next town over, and even better when one says, “Hey, I saw your picture in the paper!” Even better because, frankly, very few actually read that paper.
Two: Walking into the Athlete’s Village, tens of thousands of runners, you couldn’t find someone if you tried, and of course we almost walk into our friends from the Squannacook River Runners, including Chris, who provided the impetus for my writing this blog in the first place. Even better, having first seen Mark, clueless me didn’t even recognize Chris behind his funky hat and shades. Hey, it was a whole week since I ran with the guy, cut me a break. They made fine camp-mates at the village as we basked in rare golden sun for a change rather than the usual Hopkinton Shivers.
Three:
Crossing the finish line, I had a social call to make. Michelle, the lady who directs the vaunted medical tent is a friend from my church and insisted I stop in to say hello. Conveniently, I had a wicked blister on the ball of my left foot that had been working up since mile fifteen, and miraculously hadn’t burst, but wasn’t at all comfortable, so getting a patch was a great excuse to stop in and say hello. Now, just having a friend at the end was nice enough, but – yes, that phrase again – even better, when I walked out of the tent ten minutes later, there was Rocket John walking by, fresh over the finish line (probably not the best choice of words to describe him at that moment, but you get it). Had I not stopped short I would have walked right into him. Out of 27,000, just like that. I swear you can’t choreograph this stuff. (Thanks to med tent photographer Justin Ide for the shots of me, Michelle, and that fine inch-and-a-half blister!)
Four: Hours after my finish, after the baggage bus, after the reunion with Rocket John’s family, after hitting the Squannacook post-race party, after a fabulous rub-down, after all this I am walking back to catch the BAA bus back to Hopkinton, and amidst the still swirling crowds I hear my name called not once, not twice, but three times in a half-block span. First by a co-worker out to watch the race (my bad, I didn’t recognize him, we’re relatively new colleagues), second by someone I’ve never met but knew me well enough through someone else to recognize me (a bit scary, really), and third by a club-mate. Hundreds of thousands of people, and you can’t blend into the crowd.
Five and More: And there were other such encounters, edited for brevity, not to mention the numerous shouts from the crowd during the race I already mentioned last week. It’s intimate and cozy, I tell you. And somehow, there’s always someone around that you know.
I’ve Got His DNA Right Here! I completely missed the opportunity last year. Being in the first corral, I had wormed my way to the front to see the elite men, but they weren’t out yet, and knowing I’d be slow, I didn’t want to get caught up front when the rush went off, so I faded to the back of the corral and never saw those vaunted heroes.
What I didn’t realize last year is that there is a fenced corridor along the north side of the corral which the elites use to come from their secret church basement lair to the front of the pack. All you have to do is sidle over to the left, and you not only get to see them all, there’s a lot of high-fiving going on as well. I started the race with a little Ryan Hall, a little Meb, and a lot of Kenyan and Ethiopian DNA smeared across my right hand. I’d tell you I haven’t washed it since, but that would be a lie. Perhaps some of it might have soaked in and melded with mine?
I’ll have to let my hair grow and see what happens.
And on that topic of the legendary Ryan Hall hair, my daughter, standing at mile sixteen, got one of those one-in-a-thousand lucky shots as Mr. Hall of the Hair flew by. Check out her picture – this is unedited, uncropped, uncompromised in any way. Way to go, Emily!
Media Star? Notwithstanding the obscure pre-race newspaper photo publication referenced via the link above, it was a banner year for media face time. Usually I time it just wrong. They’re always talking to someone at the times I pass the TV cameras, or if I make the shot, it’s during a commercial when they’ve picture-in-pictured the coverage to a miniscule size. Not this year. My timing was perfect: a full shot climbing Heartbreak, a long shot laboring up Hereford Street, and a final shot coming down Boylston, ironically ending with me checking my watch only three blocks from the finish but still not convinced I’d make it in three hours. If I was truly in the high-tech media age I’d have screen shots, but I’m not, so I don’t. Come on over and I’ll pop in the real live antique VHS tape!
The Honor of Addressing the Troops: I’d mentioned that the head of the medical tent is a friend. I was honored that she broadcast my kind words to her staff out to all of them. They’re saints, they deserve to know it, and I’m oh-so-pleased to have had the opportunity to tell them so.
To be continued…
It’s an Cozy Little Event, Really! With 27.000 registered runners, countless bandits, and hundreds of thousands of fans (estimated at over a half-million), how will we ever find each other? Yet somehow we do, and it keeps happening enough to convince us it’s karma. Dude, let me count the ways.
One: Rocket John and I drove together to Hopkinton State Park and boarded one of many BAA buses to downtown Hopkinton. Granted, this arrival route serves many local runners, but it also carries many out-of-towners who are staying in the western ‘burbs – probably a couple thousand in total. So it’s still pretty remarkable when the two ladies sitting behind us are from the next town over, and even better when one says, “Hey, I saw your picture in the paper!” Even better because, frankly, very few actually read that paper.
Two: Walking into the Athlete’s Village, tens of thousands of runners, you couldn’t find someone if you tried, and of course we almost walk into our friends from the Squannacook River Runners, including Chris, who provided the impetus for my writing this blog in the first place. Even better, having first seen Mark, clueless me didn’t even recognize Chris behind his funky hat and shades. Hey, it was a whole week since I ran with the guy, cut me a break. They made fine camp-mates at the village as we basked in rare golden sun for a change rather than the usual Hopkinton Shivers.
Three:
Crossing the finish line, I had a social call to make. Michelle, the lady who directs the vaunted medical tent is a friend from my church and insisted I stop in to say hello. Conveniently, I had a wicked blister on the ball of my left foot that had been working up since mile fifteen, and miraculously hadn’t burst, but wasn’t at all comfortable, so getting a patch was a great excuse to stop in and say hello. Now, just having a friend at the end was nice enough, but – yes, that phrase again – even better, when I walked out of the tent ten minutes later, there was Rocket John walking by, fresh over the finish line (probably not the best choice of words to describe him at that moment, but you get it). Had I not stopped short I would have walked right into him. Out of 27,000, just like that. I swear you can’t choreograph this stuff. (Thanks to med tent photographer Justin Ide for the shots of me, Michelle, and that fine inch-and-a-half blister!)
Four: Hours after my finish, after the baggage bus, after the reunion with Rocket John’s family, after hitting the Squannacook post-race party, after a fabulous rub-down, after all this I am walking back to catch the BAA bus back to Hopkinton, and amidst the still swirling crowds I hear my name called not once, not twice, but three times in a half-block span. First by a co-worker out to watch the race (my bad, I didn’t recognize him, we’re relatively new colleagues), second by someone I’ve never met but knew me well enough through someone else to recognize me (a bit scary, really), and third by a club-mate. Hundreds of thousands of people, and you can’t blend into the crowd.Five and More: And there were other such encounters, edited for brevity, not to mention the numerous shouts from the crowd during the race I already mentioned last week. It’s intimate and cozy, I tell you. And somehow, there’s always someone around that you know.
I’ve Got His DNA Right Here! I completely missed the opportunity last year. Being in the first corral, I had wormed my way to the front to see the elite men, but they weren’t out yet, and knowing I’d be slow, I didn’t want to get caught up front when the rush went off, so I faded to the back of the corral and never saw those vaunted heroes.
What I didn’t realize last year is that there is a fenced corridor along the north side of the corral which the elites use to come from their secret church basement lair to the front of the pack. All you have to do is sidle over to the left, and you not only get to see them all, there’s a lot of high-fiving going on as well. I started the race with a little Ryan Hall, a little Meb, and a lot of Kenyan and Ethiopian DNA smeared across my right hand. I’d tell you I haven’t washed it since, but that would be a lie. Perhaps some of it might have soaked in and melded with mine?
I’ll have to let my hair grow and see what happens.And on that topic of the legendary Ryan Hall hair, my daughter, standing at mile sixteen, got one of those one-in-a-thousand lucky shots as Mr. Hall of the Hair flew by. Check out her picture – this is unedited, uncropped, uncompromised in any way. Way to go, Emily!
Media Star? Notwithstanding the obscure pre-race newspaper photo publication referenced via the link above, it was a banner year for media face time. Usually I time it just wrong. They’re always talking to someone at the times I pass the TV cameras, or if I make the shot, it’s during a commercial when they’ve picture-in-pictured the coverage to a miniscule size. Not this year. My timing was perfect: a full shot climbing Heartbreak, a long shot laboring up Hereford Street, and a final shot coming down Boylston, ironically ending with me checking my watch only three blocks from the finish but still not convinced I’d make it in three hours. If I was truly in the high-tech media age I’d have screen shots, but I’m not, so I don’t. Come on over and I’ll pop in the real live antique VHS tape!
The Honor of Addressing the Troops: I’d mentioned that the head of the medical tent is a friend. I was honored that she broadcast my kind words to her staff out to all of them. They’re saints, they deserve to know it, and I’m oh-so-pleased to have had the opportunity to tell them so.
To be continued…
20 April 2010
Boston 2010
[ Ed Note: As is often the case, this marathon tale is longer than my usual postings. As I usually say, deal with it! ]
Rocket John was absolutely convinced I was going to hammer this one. Not just sub three hours, but he went so far as to predict a Boston, if not a marathon PR for me. I wish I’d had his confidence going in. Then again, perhaps I’m glad I didn’t. Then again, maybe I secretly did.
No denying that at both Stu’s 30K and the Tri-Valley 15K, I clocked in with very confidence-inspiring results. But without a truly strong twenty-plus-miler under my belt, my nagging fear was the high miles, the classic fear of every marathoner, the fear I’d conquered at Bay State in 2007 with buddy Ron’s famous, “You’re going to speed up!” comment at mile twenty three. Quite frankly, in my post-surgery days, that fear was back. I fully expected a strong eighteen miles, a-la-Stu’s, and a mighty struggle beyond.
And as it went, that’s pretty much what I got. While the end result wasn’t as dramatic as Rocket John called for – there were no PR certificates being handed out at day’s end – it was as satisfying as I could have hoped for: a return to the sub three zone, and fully intact at the end, to boot. There was no face plant this time, though it took a lot of will to assure that didn’t happen again.
But here’s the funny part. While my confidence in being strong through those high miles was close to nil, my confidence in being able to cope with them was as high as ever. That’s the confidence of age, experience, and perhaps a few grains of stubborn stupidity. I knew I’d been there before, and save the Wineglass tragedy, come out the far end not much worse for wear. It was that confidence that allowed me to go with the flow at the start, go stupid fast, put some time in the bank, and make that 2:58 possible.
And that’s how it went. Stupid fast at the start, followed by three Mighty Struggles. A Mighty Struggle to get my pace under control. A Mighty Struggle to survive even the mid miles. And a downright Heroic Struggle, if one is allowed to attach the word heroic to one’s own exploits, to withstand the final three or four miles. Yes, you’ll notice that I didn’t attach the phrase mighty struggle to the famed hills of Newton. They were there. Yeah, so what?
Boston never offers rational weather, and Monday was no exception, with the exception that it was gorgeous for a change, high 40’s, sunny, though with a fairly stiff cross breeze. Near perfect, but still, standing in the starting corral, surrounded by bodies, sun shining brightly, Kelley green club shirt on, I was downright hot. And within two miles, sweating far more than expected. Boston strikes again. But once underway, the temperature resumed ideal range under delightful sunny skies which politely turned somewhat overcast at some point late in the race – a change I didn’t notice until somewhere around twenty or twenty one when I realized just how comfortable it was, and how hydration never became a problem.
The wind, on the other hand, was both fickle and divine. It’s interesting how twenty four hours supplements and solidifies one’s memory. At race’s end, I remembered that a nasty headwind hit me just as I started up Heartbreak Hill, and how that seemed such a Boston-appropriate insult, yet how each time I felt at my lowest and weakest, there always seemed to be a not-so-subtle kick in the pants from what I termed the Divine Wind. These memories were strong enough to make me question how much of my sub-three was delivered via this gift. Twenty four hours later, however, I remembered the rest of the race, the long miles through Framingham, Natick and Wellesley where I repeatedly wished for someone handy to tuck in behind to escape the frequent frontal gusts, and how those drafting opportunities never arose. Divine at times or not, I’d have to call the net effect nil, or perhaps even in the minus column.
Last year’s first corral start meant getting out of the way. This time, I was there to race, though knowing that I most likely still wasn’t really up to first corral standards, I wasn’t stupid enough to put myself in the front of the corral. Even three-quarters back in the corral, the first mile was a crazy 6:14. Did I mention that for my 2:56 in 2008, I went out in 7:03 in traffic and made it up? Did I mention that as a four-time Boston runner, I know how everyone gets sucked up and goes out too fast? Did I mention that I was smart enough not to do that? Yeah, right. OK, don’t panic, it’s downhill, you’re strong, it’s early, just slow down. Mile two, 6:17. Yeah, that was slower, but not the 6:40’s I was targeting. And thus began the strangest – from a pace standpoint – marathon I’ve ever run.
My goal in a marathon is to set a steady and strong pace, a little ahead of target, and stick to it as long as possible, knowing that either I end up with some time in the bank to give back as needed in the high miles, or, on those rare days, bring it in consistent or faster. My worst case scenario is a slow degradation of pace, an apparent weakening, dying on the vine, slower, slower, slower, until… But here I was in a situation that through two, three, four miles (mile five clocked in at three-hour target pace only due to an, umm, pit stop), struggling to fight the excitement of the pack, struggling to get the pace down without making my body feel like I’d broken it by forcing it into a slow pace so early on. Had I felt comfortable early on, this might have been possible, but fact was, I was toast in this race from about mile five onward. It wasn’t the fast pace, it just didn’t feel quite right. There was never a groove. It was work the whole way. I reminded myself of Buffalo 2008, when at around mile nine I had to remind myself that it wasn’t going to feel easy, it was going to be work, that’s just the way it was, get used to it. That day in Buffalo turned into my PR. It was a good lesson to relive. Mighty Struggle Number One resolved itself over time, but in doing so instilled fear, because by gradually bringing my pace back to sanity, which was good, I knew I was gradually slipping slower, slower, slower, which was not good. My pace graph shows it remarkably consistent. Was it a gradual regaining of control? Or was it a twenty-five mile fade?
Thus Mighty Struggle Number Two, just getting through the bulk of the race. This one was never easy. It was fun, but it wasn’t easy. This being Boston number four, I was surprised at the expansion of my “fan base” – both those I knew would be out there and a number of surprises. More than a couple of times I heard people shouting my name, and no, my name wasn’t emblazoned on my shirt or any other body part, nor was the crowd thick enough in my part of the pack for there to be any mistaken identity. Often I never found the source of these calls, on occasion I did yet couldn’t place the face, but every one was appreciated. Meeting my family – er, pardon me, my Ace Support Team – in Newton Lower Falls at sixteen, I hollered that I’d gone out too fast even though I knew there could really have been no other way.
The hills of Newton? The famed, feared, dreaded, hills of Newton? A non-issue. Not a mighty struggle. Sure, my pace poked above 7, even as high as 7:20 on Heartbreak, but the hills didn’t kill me. The building heaviness in the quads, the knowledge of five and a half to go after Heartbreak, that darn near killed me.
I denied myself the pleasure of the mental exercise of calculating the pace I needed to make the three hour barrier until I was over Heartbreak. Don’t even think about it, because if I only needed eight minute miles, I couldn’t assure myself that I had eight minute miles left in me. But over Heartbreak, crossing the mile twenty-one marker, the mental gyrations began. Thirty-eight and three-quarter minutes left. Allow almost two minutes for that last 385 yards. That leaves nearly thirty seven minutes for five miles. About 7:25 per mile. Not a foregone conclusion.
In my mind, I’d slowed to somewhere between Dog Slow and Thick Lava. But despite my mounting agony, twenty two dropped back into the 6:40s, and the next two hovered near 7. Math time again, not that the math gears were working all that well by then. At mile twenty four, eighteen minutes to go. Eight minutes a mile. Again, simply not a foregone conclusion.
Memories of Wineglass floated through my head as my legs grew so heavy, so weary, and my being became not quite wobbly as it did at Wineglass, but clearly in a place where wobbly wasn’t far away. Between prayers, I found myself actively willing myself to remain upright. Coming to the final insult – the tiny incline at mile twenty five where Beacon Street rises and crosses the Massachusetts Turnpike, I looked at my watch and decided I had enough in the budget to avoid disaster and take a tenth of a mile walk. No Wineglassing today, thank you.
While the break probably saved me, it certainly didn’t make the finish seem easy. Only a mile point two, through Kenmore, dipping under Massachusetts Avenue, the famed right on Hereford left on Boylston zee, and everlasting agony. Each minute checking my watch, four and a half left, three and a half, even halfway down Boylston I could not say it was a foregone conclusion that I’d make it in under three hours, that I’d make it in standing up. It was that much of a Mighty Struggle.
Over the line, a minute and a quarter to spare, handed off between four red-jacket medical volunteers to keep me walking, back to lucidity, back to sanity, back to full functionality, back to the sub-three zone.
[ I’ll recount some of the fun anecdotes and tales of the day in a future posting or two ]
Rocket John was absolutely convinced I was going to hammer this one. Not just sub three hours, but he went so far as to predict a Boston, if not a marathon PR for me. I wish I’d had his confidence going in. Then again, perhaps I’m glad I didn’t. Then again, maybe I secretly did.
No denying that at both Stu’s 30K and the Tri-Valley 15K, I clocked in with very confidence-inspiring results. But without a truly strong twenty-plus-miler under my belt, my nagging fear was the high miles, the classic fear of every marathoner, the fear I’d conquered at Bay State in 2007 with buddy Ron’s famous, “You’re going to speed up!” comment at mile twenty three. Quite frankly, in my post-surgery days, that fear was back. I fully expected a strong eighteen miles, a-la-Stu’s, and a mighty struggle beyond.
And as it went, that’s pretty much what I got. While the end result wasn’t as dramatic as Rocket John called for – there were no PR certificates being handed out at day’s end – it was as satisfying as I could have hoped for: a return to the sub three zone, and fully intact at the end, to boot. There was no face plant this time, though it took a lot of will to assure that didn’t happen again.
But here’s the funny part. While my confidence in being strong through those high miles was close to nil, my confidence in being able to cope with them was as high as ever. That’s the confidence of age, experience, and perhaps a few grains of stubborn stupidity. I knew I’d been there before, and save the Wineglass tragedy, come out the far end not much worse for wear. It was that confidence that allowed me to go with the flow at the start, go stupid fast, put some time in the bank, and make that 2:58 possible.
And that’s how it went. Stupid fast at the start, followed by three Mighty Struggles. A Mighty Struggle to get my pace under control. A Mighty Struggle to survive even the mid miles. And a downright Heroic Struggle, if one is allowed to attach the word heroic to one’s own exploits, to withstand the final three or four miles. Yes, you’ll notice that I didn’t attach the phrase mighty struggle to the famed hills of Newton. They were there. Yeah, so what?
Boston never offers rational weather, and Monday was no exception, with the exception that it was gorgeous for a change, high 40’s, sunny, though with a fairly stiff cross breeze. Near perfect, but still, standing in the starting corral, surrounded by bodies, sun shining brightly, Kelley green club shirt on, I was downright hot. And within two miles, sweating far more than expected. Boston strikes again. But once underway, the temperature resumed ideal range under delightful sunny skies which politely turned somewhat overcast at some point late in the race – a change I didn’t notice until somewhere around twenty or twenty one when I realized just how comfortable it was, and how hydration never became a problem.
The wind, on the other hand, was both fickle and divine. It’s interesting how twenty four hours supplements and solidifies one’s memory. At race’s end, I remembered that a nasty headwind hit me just as I started up Heartbreak Hill, and how that seemed such a Boston-appropriate insult, yet how each time I felt at my lowest and weakest, there always seemed to be a not-so-subtle kick in the pants from what I termed the Divine Wind. These memories were strong enough to make me question how much of my sub-three was delivered via this gift. Twenty four hours later, however, I remembered the rest of the race, the long miles through Framingham, Natick and Wellesley where I repeatedly wished for someone handy to tuck in behind to escape the frequent frontal gusts, and how those drafting opportunities never arose. Divine at times or not, I’d have to call the net effect nil, or perhaps even in the minus column.
Last year’s first corral start meant getting out of the way. This time, I was there to race, though knowing that I most likely still wasn’t really up to first corral standards, I wasn’t stupid enough to put myself in the front of the corral. Even three-quarters back in the corral, the first mile was a crazy 6:14. Did I mention that for my 2:56 in 2008, I went out in 7:03 in traffic and made it up? Did I mention that as a four-time Boston runner, I know how everyone gets sucked up and goes out too fast? Did I mention that I was smart enough not to do that? Yeah, right. OK, don’t panic, it’s downhill, you’re strong, it’s early, just slow down. Mile two, 6:17. Yeah, that was slower, but not the 6:40’s I was targeting. And thus began the strangest – from a pace standpoint – marathon I’ve ever run.
My goal in a marathon is to set a steady and strong pace, a little ahead of target, and stick to it as long as possible, knowing that either I end up with some time in the bank to give back as needed in the high miles, or, on those rare days, bring it in consistent or faster. My worst case scenario is a slow degradation of pace, an apparent weakening, dying on the vine, slower, slower, slower, until… But here I was in a situation that through two, three, four miles (mile five clocked in at three-hour target pace only due to an, umm, pit stop), struggling to fight the excitement of the pack, struggling to get the pace down without making my body feel like I’d broken it by forcing it into a slow pace so early on. Had I felt comfortable early on, this might have been possible, but fact was, I was toast in this race from about mile five onward. It wasn’t the fast pace, it just didn’t feel quite right. There was never a groove. It was work the whole way. I reminded myself of Buffalo 2008, when at around mile nine I had to remind myself that it wasn’t going to feel easy, it was going to be work, that’s just the way it was, get used to it. That day in Buffalo turned into my PR. It was a good lesson to relive. Mighty Struggle Number One resolved itself over time, but in doing so instilled fear, because by gradually bringing my pace back to sanity, which was good, I knew I was gradually slipping slower, slower, slower, which was not good. My pace graph shows it remarkably consistent. Was it a gradual regaining of control? Or was it a twenty-five mile fade?
Thus Mighty Struggle Number Two, just getting through the bulk of the race. This one was never easy. It was fun, but it wasn’t easy. This being Boston number four, I was surprised at the expansion of my “fan base” – both those I knew would be out there and a number of surprises. More than a couple of times I heard people shouting my name, and no, my name wasn’t emblazoned on my shirt or any other body part, nor was the crowd thick enough in my part of the pack for there to be any mistaken identity. Often I never found the source of these calls, on occasion I did yet couldn’t place the face, but every one was appreciated. Meeting my family – er, pardon me, my Ace Support Team – in Newton Lower Falls at sixteen, I hollered that I’d gone out too fast even though I knew there could really have been no other way.
The hills of Newton? The famed, feared, dreaded, hills of Newton? A non-issue. Not a mighty struggle. Sure, my pace poked above 7, even as high as 7:20 on Heartbreak, but the hills didn’t kill me. The building heaviness in the quads, the knowledge of five and a half to go after Heartbreak, that darn near killed me.
I denied myself the pleasure of the mental exercise of calculating the pace I needed to make the three hour barrier until I was over Heartbreak. Don’t even think about it, because if I only needed eight minute miles, I couldn’t assure myself that I had eight minute miles left in me. But over Heartbreak, crossing the mile twenty-one marker, the mental gyrations began. Thirty-eight and three-quarter minutes left. Allow almost two minutes for that last 385 yards. That leaves nearly thirty seven minutes for five miles. About 7:25 per mile. Not a foregone conclusion.
In my mind, I’d slowed to somewhere between Dog Slow and Thick Lava. But despite my mounting agony, twenty two dropped back into the 6:40s, and the next two hovered near 7. Math time again, not that the math gears were working all that well by then. At mile twenty four, eighteen minutes to go. Eight minutes a mile. Again, simply not a foregone conclusion.
Memories of Wineglass floated through my head as my legs grew so heavy, so weary, and my being became not quite wobbly as it did at Wineglass, but clearly in a place where wobbly wasn’t far away. Between prayers, I found myself actively willing myself to remain upright. Coming to the final insult – the tiny incline at mile twenty five where Beacon Street rises and crosses the Massachusetts Turnpike, I looked at my watch and decided I had enough in the budget to avoid disaster and take a tenth of a mile walk. No Wineglassing today, thank you.
While the break probably saved me, it certainly didn’t make the finish seem easy. Only a mile point two, through Kenmore, dipping under Massachusetts Avenue, the famed right on Hereford left on Boylston zee, and everlasting agony. Each minute checking my watch, four and a half left, three and a half, even halfway down Boylston I could not say it was a foregone conclusion that I’d make it in under three hours, that I’d make it in standing up. It was that much of a Mighty Struggle.
Over the line, a minute and a quarter to spare, handed off between four red-jacket medical volunteers to keep me walking, back to lucidity, back to sanity, back to full functionality, back to the sub-three zone.
[ I’ll recount some of the fun anecdotes and tales of the day in a future posting or two ]
19 April 2010
Boston Flash
Just a quick update now, stories of this adventure will follow in coming days. In a nutshell, woo hoo, we’re back at the races. It was a gorgeous day for running which saw a stupid fast start, a mighty struggle in the high miles, and a result to make me smile. I’m back in the realm of the sub-3 world, snuck under the bar at 2:58:47, and most importantly, my face is intact this time. Yes, it was a good day. Film at eleven.
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