Utah For The Win

[Ed. Note:  Google Blogger broke something a while back which now causes variations in the font throughout these articles.  I've fought this with manual html edits for a while, but am just giving up.  Sorry it's not as pretty as it used to be. ]

Since you know I like to focus on the positive in these screeds, let’s start with the less than obvious win.  A week prior to the adventure that spawned this tome, I attended an old friend’s wake.  It was sudden, unexpected, sad, but spurred a reunion with folks I hadn’t seen, in some cases, for decades.  Hours crammed into a very small, very hot, very crowded funeral home full of old farts my age or more, followed by a big group dinner, in the midst of a newsworthy flu outbreak.  Yikes.

Then, air travel to one of my least favorite places, Las Vegas.  A two-and-a-half-day corporate Rah-Rah with four thousand people from around the globe.  Followed by the Utah adventure which you came here to read about – we’ll get back to that, I promise.  Then more air travel, delayed first one day by Snowmageddon, then delayed again and again (POINTS to the airline, I’ve never seen a flight get delayed twice in three minutes!) and then another whole day by a cancelled flight, adding jam-packed hotel courtesy vans, more mobbed airports, and finally home after eight days (and seven time zone changes) of what started as the two-day Rah-Rah… did I mention, in the midst of a newsworthy flu outbreak.  Yikes again. 

And?  Didn’t get sick.  Damn.  For the win.  Two days raspy voice, a bit of nose gunk.  But really. 

Now more wins.  First, Vegas wasn’t as bad as it could have been, even counting the haunted hotel room which was so over-technologied that the lights wouldn’t come on until they rebooted the room (their term, not mine).  Got in some good “I’m still on eastern time so 5 AM isn’t really early” runs in a clime that, unlike our frozen tundra back home, permitted shorts.  We’ll call that a win.  Plus, a nice visit with an old cousin that only happens on these outings.  Another win. 

And the big win.  The luck of timing had a couple friends, one old, one new, planning to run a marathon in southwest Utah the very day after Corporate Employer turned us loose from Rah-Rah.  I don’t think Chris expected anyone to say YOU BET when he posted that he was planning this and invited game souls to join.  For me it was a rescue from a slog to Hell.  Win.

(No, I didn’t win the race, far from it. Forty-third, if you must know, which was funny since my bib was forty-three. And my post-Rah-Rah hotel rooms were four-thirty-three and three-thirty-four. Can’t make this stuff up.) 

Even Snowmageddon made for a win, since rather than high-tailing it back to McCarren Airport, no, wait, they renamed it Harry Reid, right after the race, I pushed my return back a day and scored a day hiking in Zion, always a win.  Yes, the extra day for the cancelled flight ran up the count in the loss column, but that just made the odyssey more epic, and my win-loss record for the week would still have made the playoffs. 

Take the wins. 

Now as for that Utah Marathon thing, the event in question was the Sun Marathon in Santa Clara, Utah, outside of St. George, towns where the concrete in the oldest buildings still hasn’t fully cured.  Apparently southwest Utah has become a haven for California refugees, and the place is growing so fast that they’ve built a new freeway (currently two lanes but landscaped for four) around the east side of St. George through mostly nothing.  Because it’s coming.  It made for an interesting route on my way out of town.

Chris, he being the one I met on my first marathon twenty-and-a-half years ago (yes, I have race shirts that are almost old enough to drink legally), he being the one who goaded me into writing this blog, yes, that Chris, was joining his friend Tim, who’s doing the fifty states thing from his home base in Tennessee.  I’m not and never intend to do the marathon states thing (though I do have to set foot in Alaska before I croak to check off number fifty on the ‘been there’ list), but having been to that corner of the world and knowing how drop-dead gorgeous their rocks are, and let’s face it, I love rocks, well, this was an easy decision.  Utah! 

Chris, by the way, posted a great article and podcast on his version of this adventure, which you can read here… no, wait, I’ll post that at the end, otherwise you’ll click over there now and forget from where you came.  If you’re anything like me.  Distractable.  SQUIRREL! 

So, with less than two months’ warning (read, training), this wasn’t going to be a target race.  This was just going to be a get-the-hell-out-of-Vegas and go for a run in the red rock desert race, call it conditioning for April’s real target race (Cheap Marathon this year, not Boston).  It wasn’t a let’s-requalify-for Boston-race, it wasn’t redemption, it was just fun. 

Who you kiddin’?  First, when do I pay for a race and not at least give it a decent shot, and second, since when is mile twenty-four truly fun, especially if, as in this case, it’s uphill?  Cutting to the car crash as an old co-worker used to like to say, I rolled in what would have been about ten minutes faster than last spring’s Boston if it weren’t for that pesky mile fifteen port-o-john stop, proudly knocked off in a record two minutes.

Why, you might ask, was a pit stop required of the one you know to be so organized as to always manage such things before a race?  Well, because it was pitch black at the start.  Outside the perimeter of a few lights under the fairgrounds pavilion, the start area was pitch black.  The port-a-john area, pitch black.  No moon, either; I’d checked ahead of time.  Using those porta-johns would have, how can we put this delicately, placed one at high risk of uncertain resulting cleanliness.  So, um, sure, I should be OK, I’ll manage.  I hoped.  Nope.  Add two minutes.  But yeah, I still re-qualified, even counting the downhill time penalty that Boston now (rightly) imposes. 

The start of this escapade was in the tiny village, if you could call it that, of Veyo, Utah.  Nobody’s ever heard of Veyo, Utah.  But the world is a strange place, and days later, crammed in the back of that hotel courtesy van, the woman next to me knew all about Veyo.  Apparently, their fame is pies, and that they mush them up into milkshakes on occasion.  Who knew?

Veyo is about forty-five hundred feet up, very dry (I’d come to calling this event the “Dry Run”), and on that morning, cold, and very windy.  Bundled in our thrift-shop finery plus a reused mylar blanket or two (there’s a reason I keep them after races) we huddled around fires small (buckets) and large (fire pit) shuddering against the cold, trying not to set ourselves alight, and watching the wind carry enough embers to easily torch a good part of the surrounding arid landscape.  But races are made for these moments; Chris met up with a gent from Europe who literally recognized his voice from his podcast, and I discovered the young lady next to my inferno was, of all things, a trapeze artist from Australia.  When’s the last time you met a trapeze artist… from anywhere?

But the world is a strange place, and just yesterday Dearest Offspring the Younger told us how she was chatting with a man in Syracuse who’s daughter was, I can’t make this up, a trapeze artist. 

The only way they were able to wrench us from the relative warmth of our pyres was by dousing them with five gallon tankers.  Sir Douser told us as much, “If I don’t do this, you’ll never leave!”.  We shuffled and tripped over rocky, uneven ground to an exceedingly dark place with a starting arch barely visible by the light of the one or two people (of about two hundred kindred souls) who took one for the team and carried a light – since nobody else wanted to haul one for twenty six miles.

Sure glad I’d driven the course the day before and sort of knew what that first mile looked like, since I sure couldn’t see it.

But dawn did break quickly, and by the time we plunged into the canyon to the hairpin, the dramatic landscape was in full view.  I knew we were only four miles in, when a sprint was entirely irresponsible, but I just couldn’t resist the urge to exceed the posted advisory speed of ten, which Garmin more or less claimed I accomplished. Nerd fun.  Time to get back to work.

Click, click, click, go the miles.  Plenty of chatting, till folks spaced out and there wasn’t, and it became more of a lone endeavor.  A big net downhill course, plus a tailwind once we’d made the hairpin, put a little lift in the stride.  A couple of those downhills downright steep.  And scenery, oh, scenery.  I’d expected as much when I signed on, then, admittedly, previewing the course on Google left me less than impressed.  Not to worry.  Google’s cam squishes the enormity of large landscapes to fit them on a screen.  Freed from artificial pixelization, they burst forth into grandeur that captivates even more when experienced on foot.  On a route punctuated by the oddity (for us easterners) of cow catchers, over which the organizers politely provide plywood sheets.  It was about cow-catcher time when it occurred to me that wearing a bright red shirt and running through open range might not have been the best idea.  Toro Toro!

My preview told me I’d deal with an uphill at six.  Duly noted, handled, never cared.  A long gradual uphill at twenty.  Dreaded, but when it came, nothing worthy of note.  A long slow upslope grind at twenty-four, which lived up to grind designation, made worse by an uneven sidewalk and the odd routing of 5- and 10K runners coming right at us (this was one of those race events where they’d run every distance if you’d pay for it).  This was one of those times when you tell yourself there are only two-point-three miles left, and a week or so later you check in and find there are now only two-point-two, but it was made almost enjoyable by the visage of Utah’s version of Ayer’s Rock looming dead ahead in our view. 

But somehow, in my preview I hadn’t even noticed the hill at eighteen, which took me by surprise, and, frankly, hurt. 

C’mon, we live for this shit.  Eighteen hurt, but by then we were blended with the slow half-marathoners, and there’s a dark and evil satisfaction of knowing that even while you’re struggling, you’re thirteen miles further into this than they are and you’re still cruising past every one of them. 

Yep, this would just be a run, he said, not a target race, but it’s just not in me to not lay it out on the course.  And so by the last turn I was thoroughly toasted and truly needed the downhill of the last mile, and I was far enough gone to be unsure I’d get over the ill-placed curb a hundred yards before the end.  Seriously, folks.  Note to race directors:  don’t make marathoners jump off a curb – even downhill – at that point.  The outcome is not guaranteed.

But hey, that’s what you get; this was a bit of a shoestring operation.  Nice people and in the end a good time was had by all, but through a former race director’s eyes, oy vey.  One poor kid left alone to sort out, announce, and hand out awards – to five-year age groups, top three for each, men, women, for four races, with only his phone as a reference, in no order only when he found a category posted – again, by himself.  At one point, sitting behind the entirely disorganized awards table (plaques, gift certificates, and a mix-master of medals since they use previous years’ leftovers, eco-friendly to be sure but yeah, shoe-string), Chris offered the young lad our assistance, and we spent the next twenty minutes trying to satisfy a continuous and random stream of runners seeking deserved awards.  At our first chance, we got out of that business, fast. 

Mayhem ruled, and the grand podium set up to the left of the awards table was completely ignored by said lone, desperate lad, so Chris, Tim, and I stepped up for our own pictures.  First, second, third, meaningless (well, not entirely, Tim took his age group and I nabbed second in mine, so it sort of made sense), whatever. 

On to lunch and the beer.  After which Chris and Tim hot-footed it back to Vegas, while I hung around, blew out of St. George in the dark for a second morning in a row, and hit Zion.

Zion is one of my favorite places on Earth, and that day alone could fill another blog post, but you’re tired by now.  Stories of marathons are by definition marathons.  I’ll suffice to say that it was glorious, amazing, filled with wonderful people met on the trail, and, I admit it, another kind of dark and evil satisfaction to know I could slog up twelve-hundred-plus feet to the ridge above Scout Lookout (actually, GPS, which can’t handle the signal echoes of canyons, said I scaled vertical canyon walls and climbed over eleven thousand feet and attained one hundred seventy seven miles per hour!), just shy of the notorious Angel’s Landing (which I will never do, I’m a chicken!) the day after a marathon. 

Another win.

Oh, and here’s Chris’ post.  Now you can go read it.  https://runrunlive.com/sun-marathon

I leave you with one of my favorites of the six thousand or so pics from Zion, or at least it seemed like that many... 

 

A Little Help To Find It

After seventeen years of writing this blog on and off, how do you find topics that are new, compelling, and worthy of taking a wee bit of my vast (not) readership’s time?  First, you hope people have a short memory (or that you’ve found some new victims).  Second, you remind Dear Readers that every time a seemingly similar theme rolls around, it is tinged with few more years of age, uncertainty, and doubt, so hopefully it’s still compelling to journal another round of ‘active longevity’ facing the forces of age and decrepitude.

In our ongoing theme of running and racing as time takes its toll, my almost total silence over the last year has been a direct result of what might best be described as a period of quiescence.  No races, so no good reason to write, right?  Last fall’s Achilles woes, not vanquished till spring, knocked out all semblance of racing fitness. And when the weather warmed, I finally lost the long-running argument with Most Recent Doctor and had to start chugging blood pressure meds (thanks, Mom! …Love you, love those genes!), which aren’t supposed to have performance side effects, but… sure seems like… aw, who can tell?  Net result, after wrapping up last summer’s Grand Prix with a whimper at Lone Gull, I fell off the cliff.

Since then, it’s been socially enriching but often athletically lame runs.  The few races I hit weren’t really races:  slugging out Stu’s at a moderate training pace (had to do it, it was the last running, no regrets), cruising Boston at an even slower clip (sure, a surprise qualifier, but it’s all relative, and six seconds doesn’t win a repeat dance ticket), and then the train wreck that wasn’t at Mt. Washington, which never was a race, anyway.  Though I’d be remiss not to record in these pages my intense dismay when my nearly twenty-year wait to run that Just One Hill I’ve so often hiked was unceremoniously chopped in half by the organizers under questionable circumstances.  Boo to you, Mt. Washington Road Race.

So, no racing for this lad in over a year.  Why pay to run slow?  I can do that for free.

But there have been a few bright spot runs of late, and they make you wonder, have you still got it?  Is the ‘it’ still in there?  Should you chase it? Or just keep lumbering on pleasantly?

Sometimes you need a little nudge from your friends to push you over the (good) edge.

So when those clubmates, they who have enticed so many to make poor (or excellent, depending on your perspective) life choices, goaded me to shake my stupor… Damn it, had to.  A mere week ahead of the event, I signed up for the Western Mass Ten-Miler.

Seriously.  Don’t overthink this.  Don’t plan ahead.  Just jump in.

It’s a tradition in this column not to quote numbers; these stories are for all at any level of ability.  Numbers are irrelevant, and let’s face it, they’re boring, and, as already noted, everything is relative.  In keeping, I won’t here.  But suffice to say my velocity has slipped a lot, and while I accept I’m getting older and inevitably slower, I don’t have to like it.  So, Western Mass Ten?  Let’s go, and target an even-minute pace boundary that I hadn’t hit in over a year at anything longer than a track interval.  Roll the dice.

The funny thing is, telling this story to non-running friends, the first thing they focus on is the ten-mile part.  They, of course, miss the point.  Sure, I’m slower now, but the real joy is that ten miles still isn’t an issue, and I’m immensely glad for that.  Hey, it’s only ten miles. A typical Sunday morning… that would kill most of my co-workers.  I’m thankful to the sport and my buds for keeping that real as the years go by.  But, back to the point, moving at a pace that seems respectable to me?  That certainly was an issue.

This was, in short, a delight of an event.  The hosting organization, the Hartford Marathon Foundation, pretty much did everything right.  No, let me edit that, they did everything right.  And yes, you heard that from me, who can, and usually does, find something to complain about (you listening, Mt. Washington?).  Yes, I’m guilty of that – usually for good reasons so I’ll own it – but that makes it all the more impressive when a race elates me.

From Northampton, (a town I’ve spent little time in, and which by the end of the day I’d realize what a gem I’d missed,) we were shuttled to UMass Amherst, where, to my delight, one of my highly competitive (and favorite) clubmates, on recovery from her outstanding run at the Chicago Marathon and therefore not looking to push any limits, offered to accompany this old decrepit guy looking for redemption from the World of Meh on the point-to-point trajectory that would bring us back to Northampton, seeking what we’ll call ‘X’ minute pace.  I hate to call her service pacing, since we really didn’t know what our speed would be, but the service is the point:  Clubs give you the joy of people who, based on where they are at that particular moment, are willing to turn a race into a supportive event, or do oh so many other things for you.  Case in point, at the same time, two other clubmates were equally offering similar services to a third.  We are, in our very genes, tribal.  It brings out the worst in us.  It brings out the best in us.

But all that settled… a race!  At last!  It’s been too long!

We set out on a slight upgrade and by the mile were already ahead of that hoped for X.  I hadn’t expected to reach terminal velocity for a few miles.  Bonus.  And from there it only got better.  The juxtaposition of targeting a pace with the attitude of “it’s only ten miles’ turned into almost a comedy.  After a few miles of streets through Amherst, we hit the rail trail – the Norwottock, part of the Mass Central, which will eventually connect all the way to just a mile north of home-sweet-home – and hunkered down.

After all, it’s only ten miles.  Actually, by then, eight.

Soon, we weren’t cranking X.  We were cranking a lot quicker.  So maybe there still was some ‘it’.  It wasn’t a cruise, it was work.  And that was glorious, because I hadn’t felt that ‘racing isn’t support to feel comfortable’ feeling in a long time.

It’s only six miles.

Mid race, she’d admit that her coach might not be thrilled with the pace we were laying down – she was supposed to be recovering, remember – and that she couldn’t keep it a secret from him – a good reason why I don’t use Strava.  I suggested she just step on her watch.

It’s only three miles.

If I have one complaint about this event, which was, as noted, perfectly run, is that the course got a little tedious.  The rail trail was delightful, but uniformly so.  Can you complain about that?  Answer?  No.  But it made our focus on the pace all that much more front-and-center.

Working hard, my verbal commentary degraded into grunts.  I wasn’t sure I could hold the effort for the distance, but isn’t that the glory of pushing the envelope?  My high-tech watch would later tell me (erroneously, of course) that my heart rate reached a level that would kill a younger person and most livestock.  Clearly an aberration, but amusing.  And it felt great.  Someday, there may no longer be any ‘it’ left, but that Sunday wasn’t someday; there was still ‘it’.

Two miles from the end, we crossed the Connecticut River on a rail bridge the map hints is barely more than a quarter mile long.  By then, it felt like three quarters.  Toward the end of the traverse, my guardian angel, who’d tried so hard to keep her competitive genes in check, could stand it no longer, and put down the hammer, dusting me by a minute and a half by the finish.  I thought I’d lagged, but the data would show that was all her, coach be damned, finally having a little well-deserved fun of her own (later she’d tell me how great it felt to pick off oh-so-many in that last mile-point-five).  Meanwhile, rather than fade, I held on and even gained a few seconds at the end, and wheezed into Union Station like a tired steam locomotive.  Nowhere near a best, but not so bad when those glorious age-grading tables were engaged.  And satisfyingly agonizing.

Could I get back to the world of the living?  Could I hit that target pace, not seen in a year?  Yes.  With a little help from my friends, a better phrase was eviscerated.  And would I have even tried this without said friends alongside to push me back into the pool?  Probably, no.  Oh, and did those other two clubmates bring home their charge?  Of course.

Remind yourself that there is no last time, no ‘not going to do that anymore’ – at least till we’re in the ground or our legs fall off.  Even then, take a break, get back on the horse; let your friends talk you into it.  Use every drop of your ‘it’.

Postscript:  Two weeks later (since I never get these stories out in time) a different clubmate asked if I’d pace her in an upcoming race I wasn’t really planning to run.  Seriously, how can I not?

Failure to Achieve Expectations

 

It’s April, so yes, it’s Boston Marathon time, and yes, I made another trip to the dance.  And this year I flat out failed to achieve my expectations.

Of course, my expectation was a PW – Personal Worst – and that was the up-side.  My realistic expectation was a DNF – Did Not Finish – which, being a local, can simply mean fading into the crowd and hitching a lift home (handy having that escape hatch, eh?).  So strong was that expectation that I got a little testy prior to race day, snapping a bit when well-meaning folks wanted to track me.  People!  It’s going to be a train wreck!  So.  Please.  Just.  Don’t.  My heartfelt apologies to any who caught that vibe, including Dearest Spouse.

But it didn’t turn out that way.

Despite the last year (really, year and a half) of nagging injuries leading to new nagging injuries, subsequent crappy training, resulting lousy fitness (I know, I know, I hear you say, but you still run marathons… just go with it, it’s all relative), toss in a medical scare that took a year to resolve, and my mood was dark.  How dark?  As in, haven’t posted to this blog since August dark.  And it’s not that I haven’t written; there have been multiple aborted attempts to write something that maintains my positive attitude toward running and racing into antiquity.  But getting to that positive message has been tough, and subsequently those essays ended up on the cutting room floor.  That dark.  Surely, I’ll be over this and back in shape by Boston, right?  But crap, here it is, and I’m not… dark.

So, I showed up in Hopkinton, lined up, and set off on a jog to see what happened.

As an old co-worker used to say, “Cut to the car crash,” and the car crash is that I failed to achieve my expected DNF, failed to achieve my expected PW, and instead ran a Boston qualifier time for next year (though not by enough to get me invited back to the dance, that being how the system works).  And I have to say, I lost some credibility, having always been an anti-trash-talker, downplaying expectations, but this time being pretty far off-base.  Eh.  I’d rather be oh-so-wrong in that direction.

Before you say, “I’ll never believe you again,” keep in mind the reality.  The nagging heel injury – circa late ’23 – yes, twenty-three, the fight has been that long, flared beyond ‘ignore it’ stage by last summer, and though I finished the USATF circuit last year, the last couple outings were Meh and Tragic, respectively, as my training saw more and more recovery gaps and my waistband just saw more gaps being filled.  Interspersed with that was the year-long saga of the debris of the late ’23 – yes, twenty-three again, the fight has been that long – saga of the defective meds, resulting UTIs, and doctors proclaiming doom and gloom – which took a year to resolve and admittedly took a chunk from my mojo energy.  Then the roughly three hundred and fourteen medical and PT appointments to cure the heel (mostly, not entirely, successful; snake oil was involved which I deem to have been… interesting, but pretty much just snake oil and a boat payment for the podiatrist) which allowed an uptick in training that succeeded in breaking other stuff.  Which left me staring at March having logged nothing longer than a broken up fifteen-miler, ah, but I’ll run (the penultimate) Stu’s 30K then pop in a twenty-something and be ready… but Stu’s fouled up a knee so badly as to force another three-week break.  Just weeks before Boston.

So, I mean, c’mon, I had my reasons to be glum and of low expectations.  Don’t track me, please, it’s going to be ugly.

But last Monday dawned as close to perfect as you can hope for in any marathon, cool, dry (actually, very dry), sunny, some breeze but nothing troubling, and I had nothing to prove, and it was… freeing.

Also freeing was starting in the last corral (of the second wave) and expecting to run a half-hour behind my qualifying time (at best).  All those folks starting with me had similar qualifying times, and most were hoping to beat those times, which meant they all took off, I didn’t, and there was nobody behind me, so… the quietest, most open-road Boston I’ve ever experienced.  Not lonely by any means, but not crowded like usual.  At least until the over-achievers from the third wave started catching up around Wellesley.

It was never easy and never fast (though the famously quick downhill mile one clocked in the quickest mile I’ve run in months), but it was never awful, either.  I recall thinking somewhere around mile five or six that the way I was feeling was more like what I’d expect at twenty-three, but it really never got any worse, and hey, with no goals, trundle on.  Freeing.

For the number of times I’ve advised Boston newbies to use great caution in burning energy high-fiving twenty-six miles of crowds, I just didn’t care this time and plunged on in when I needed a lift.  There was a lot more hootin’ and hollerin’ than usual, including plenty of quite intentional shouting out of mile and kilometer marks, notably crass in response to the Boston Athletic Association’s decree that “foul language will not be tolerated on the course”.  Well, damn, let’s test that out!  Tell that to the young lady who tracked me down at the finish to tell me that my “foul” shout at twenty-three (“Three [bleep]ing miles to go!) gave her the boost she needed (yes, I watched for young kids before those verbal emanations…)… freeing.

So many uplifting moments; it seemed when I’d get a little dragged down one would appear, or I’d just start shouting out and make one happen, because, freeing. At sixteen, Dearest Spouse seemed to have a troubled look but later explained it was merely relief that I was smiling and happy and very much alive after all that bellyachin’.  At twelve, twenty-two, and twenty-three, my club peeps manning volunteer stations gave me huge lifts as I tried to perfect the art of hugging without stopping – and without hurting them.  Random shout-outs – by name – all long the course – how DO they find me?  A lot of recurring chit-chat with other like-minded unpressurized runners.  And the comic moment of the day, when I opted to partake in the scream tunnel and dove in for a peck-on-the-cheek and was soundly rejected “OH GOD NO!” by a seemingly welcoming young lady chosen at random.  I mean, you were hanging over the rail invitingly.  I mean, do I really look that old?  Even with a hat and shades?  The youngster next to her was more than happy to take up the slack, and the laugh I got from this was yet another lift.

But all aimlessness must come to an end, and when it became apparent that at my leisurely pace I most certainly would not DNF, the OCD Runner Head of course started doing the math of at least coming in under the next hour increment.  And when it became apparent that barring a faceplant, that would happen, next came the math about the PW, but of course I hadn’t committed my previous PW to memory since I didn’t expect to be close to it, so it was merely a guess.  And when it seemed I might have a chance at flipping the second digit of my finishing time down by one – really, a re-run of last year but twenty minutes slower – I made that last turn onto Boylston, glanced at my watch, and swore a bit because I knew my last walk break at the monumental hill over the Mass Pike at twenty-five (the One I Most Despise) was going to make that digit flip very hard… but not impossible.  Ah, life would have been so much easier if I’d just walked a full minute back then and made it impossible.

Once upon a time one of my sprints probably looked like sprints.  At my age and in my condition, what passed for hauling ass down Boylston Street would have made a good video for Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks.  There was a lot of grunting and the best I can say is that that last segment was a hair quicker than mile one and yes, I even passed a bunch of people.  Let’s just say I had about three minutes of racing after a nice long run.  It wasn’t pretty, but it was satisfying.

At Boston, you never quite know which mat or line is the actual finish, nor did you know which was the actual start, so when your watch says you nailed it by four whole seconds, it might be wrong, and you’ll have to wait to find out.  Turns out it was six seconds, and it also turns out that flipping that second digit down a notch made it a qualifier.  Honestly, that was so far out of the realm of possibilities at the start of the day that it didn’t occur to me till later.

Which brings us back to the positive message with which I like to end these treatises.  This week’s recovery runs still have me feeling a bit broken and a bit old (that might be the last two days working on a home improvement project on the floor, getting back up oh my god… but hey…) and I’m still not in the shape I want (though at least I got this great twenty-six mile training run in last week), but it’s all relative.

Last month I hit twenty years since returning to running after that twenty-plus year gap since high school.  Twenty years ago I couldn’t make a few miles non-stop, I weighed more than I wanted, and my knees hurt.  So the fact that even a few miles are an effort now, I once again weigh more than I want (though less than back then), and my knees hurt…  So what?  I’m twenty years older, and this running gig has kept me in the game, plus blessed me with an amazing community.

If that’s the result of failing to achieve my expectations, bring on the failure!

Little Victories

[ Ed Note:  Yep, this race was a month ago.  But this is about stories, not news.  If I’ve done this right, it just doesn’t matter.  (repeat: it just doesn’t matter!) ]

Part of my strategy of aging is to take victories where I can find them.  Sometimes they’re small.  But you still walk away with a win, at least as you defined it.  Age will get me some other day, but… not today.

A few weekends back brought the Special Agony of a Road Mile, a rather rare event these days, but one that the leadership of the USA Track & Field New England Grand Prix series thought would be a fun twist on the usual annual race series.  Fun is, in this context, a questionable word; phases like diabolical and evil genius come to mind.  But so it was to be; the best indication it was “fun” being that not a single participant I spoke to thought this was in their wheelhouse, so we were all in the same boat of, hey, whatever, let’s go get us some agony!

Leading up to this, my training had left a lot to be desired.  A persistent issue with the left heel, of which Dr. Foot Doctor assured me that nothing was broken, just yet another round of chronic tendonitis, brought both quantity and quality down notably.  As such, I’d run no track workouts for weeks leading up to a race that was, in effect, a track workout.  Nothing like being prepared!

I’d been balancing that injury against life for a while (and still am as of this late writing), pushing into races while backing off on training, repeatedly hoping the thing would heal, but just as repeatedly beating it up again, so of course, it didn’t.  I’d like to think I’m smarter than that, but let’s face it, I’m really not.

Since recovering from Boston, this tendon-induced see-saw has produced a couple of Mostly Meh races – first in Clinton on the famed Hill From Hell (Meh yes, but still took the 60s…and 50s…and 40s… but hey, it was a small race, right?), and then in Harvard (the town, not the college), on the other famed Hill From Hell, where in a repeat of last year I missed the 60s crown by seconds thanks to holding back on the killer downslope due to… of course, the heel.  To be fair, those bracketed a decent 5K at the Grand Prix series in Needham, so it hasn’t been all bad.  Just mostly.

But I certainly wasn’t in top form when along came the USATF-NE Grand Prix race series number five, a.k.a. the accursed Road Mile.

Please, God, no.

The last time I raced a road mile was a good ten years back, and that barely counts since it was all downhill and a tad short.  And to be fair, there was a track mile around that time, with not entirely horrendous results.  But that was in another lifetime.

Plus, the mile is universally recognized as a not-fit-for-human-consumption distance.  It’s too short to go aerobic, which is what we distance runners do, but it’s too long to go anaerobic and survive on your bloodstream oxygen.  You’re going to suffer.  But dumb as a mule, I’ve set out to complete the Grand Prix series this year, a feat for which you’re designated an “Iron Runner” and awarded a season-end tchotchke, so there was no backing out.

Through the mysteries of the Grand Prix scoring system, I went into this in third place amongst the sixty-to-sixty-four collection of fossils in New England.  I knew that wouldn’t last, and it didn’t; spoiler alert, I slipped, though surprisingly by only one slot – remember, this was in nobody’s wheelhouse.  And I can’t complain about being ranked among the foolish fossils of New England.  Aren’t we on the theme of Little Victories?

There’s a “Loop Road” behind Hopkinton (Massachusetts) high school, a school that most runners know only because it hosts the Athlete’s Village for the Boston Marathon, that happens to be mostly – but not entirely – flat (we’ll get back to that) and almost exactly a mile around.  When the USATF-NE people were trying to find a place to bring their evil idea to life, this venue jumped out and screamed, “Pick me!  Pick me!”  I was, frankly, relieved, since if I’m only going to race a mile, I’d hate to drive two hours, and this spot happens to be only twenty minutes away.

But the Gods of Road Construction intervened, and half the loop went off limits, so we ended up with an out-and-back; half a mile out, around a mini-traffic-island-loop, then half a mile back, which turned out to be slightly uphill.  How, you ask, can you make a mile sprint even worse?  That’s how:  Add a u-ey and make the third quarter – the worst in any mile – an upgrade.  Joy!

The plan was to have a separate heat for the masters men, USATF only (they ran a separate race for the non-USATF “All Comers”), and I tried to explain to Dearest Spouse how, in the absence of the usual masses behind the USATF speedsters, she should expect to see me pretty far back in the pack, read, damn near the end.  Then at the last minute, a lifeline, because the event had grown so large, they split out the sixty-plus USATF men into a separate heat.  Fifty of us, ranging sixty up to a ninety-year-old.  Cool!  I won’t be last!  OK, so this wouldn’t be quite so embarrassing.

Warming up for an event like this is simply not possible.  Outside of marathons, my fastest mile is almost always the at end of the race.  This isn’t age, it’s genetic, and goes back to my high-school days, where I’d be tagged for the track two mile which, for me, consisted of seven laps of playing with my food and one lap of beating up my rivals.  So on that Sunday, I figured five miles of warm-ups might suffice to get my bones close to loose, but certainly wouldn’t have the pumps primed.

It's hard to build a full story around a race that takes but a few minutes.  We’ll work it down to bullet items (gloriously not bulleted, because really, outside of work emails, they’re no fun – and they’re probably not fun there either).  Commiseration with my fellow fossils before the gun.  Mild shock that after the gun I wasn’t instantly several light-years behind the leaders.  Hitting the quarter-mile, on the downslope, where the race organizers thoughtfully posted a race clock, at a pace that made me think my “below X minutes” might be possible.  Coming off the downslope to the flat, passing Dearest Spouse, who’d honed her photography aim on earlier heats.  To the turnaround at a pace that a mere quarter mile after “maybe under X minutes” quickly turned that to “then again, not”.

And then the race began.

On the return trip, with the field pretty much sorted out and already in agony (did you notice the prevalence of the word “agony” in this article? …it’s not by accident), I am passed by… heck, I don’t know him, but this is a team sport (I didn’t mention that before, but it is) and he’s wearing a jersey of a team that’s likely a contender… and besides, he passed me, and I still have pride if nothing else… and this cannot stand.

This is a good time to point out that as I’ve aged, I’ve discovered my inner Rafa Nadal, that is, it’s easier to grunt than to keep silent.  If that makes no sense to you, it would take too long to explain, but Dearest Spouse will understand.

I am grunting.  Bigly.

Said rival I learn later is named Paul, though I did not know that at the time, but that’s irrelevant at the moment.  Did I mention?  I will not let this stand.

As the upslope makes itself known, that third-into-forth quarter-mile being the reverse of the initial first-into-second quarter-mile downslope, I dig deep.  I think of those middle school kids I used to coach:  Hills are your friends.  And I grind past Paul.

But we’ve still got a quarter to go and he doesn’t intend to go down easily.

I can feel him off my shoulder.  I can smell him (figuratively, not commenting on hygiene) coming back to re-take the lead in this micro-race.  Because the universe has compressed to this micro-race.

No.  Just no.  In the universe that has shrunk to the ten-foot radius around me, I’m not going to let this happen.

In the last tenth, the course flattens, bends to the right, finish line, hold this dude off.  Everything gets tossed in the furnace. Which at my age isn’t a lot, but it’s what I’ve got.

Little victories.

It really didn’t matter in the end.  My team beat his team by six seconds, even after accounting for our respective team leaders, both of whom are built on Alien DNA, so if he’d been a half-second ahead instead of a half-second behind, we’d still have won the team competition.  And the time that the race officials recorded didn’t make sense based on what was on my watch, and even if it had, I wouldn’t have broken that “X” minute mark.  And I wasn’t that pleased with the actual number, whether mine or theirs.  But none of that mattered. In this tiny universe, I told myself I would beat Paul.  I made sure I would beat Paul.  And I beat Paul.

Little victories.  Take them where you can 

…

Photo Credit for the 2nd photo: Leslie Poitras, https://www.facebook.com/I.Run.Run.Ran

This One’s Gonna’ Leave a Mark

A week after last Monday’s Boston Marathon, this morning’s run was so cold and breezy that braving it in shorts with no jacket seemed like a pretty bad idea for a mile or two. And two days ago, it was cool and comfortable enough (well, comfortable is questionable as it rained pretty solidly) that clubmates who ran an alternate local marathon – one run on a flat rail trail, a notably un-Boston-like course – turned in times so stunning that they made me feel a tad bit the fool for running Boston’s hills instead (oh what coulda’ been, right?), even before factoring in the weather. Plus, it should be noted that those alternate marathoners only got to their race after a two-week delay since on their original date, a week before Boston, their course was inundated with over a foot of snow.

Cold, cool, even a snowstorm, so goes New England in April. Except, of course, for one day. As seems oh so typical, the stars aligned and Marathon Monday rolled around as the warmest day of the month (really, I checked the weather service history), so the dress of the day was decidedly summer. And in the chain reaction that only a marathoner can truly appreciate, add a few more degrees, baste with full sun, sprinkle in the major-marathon logistics which mean a lot of exposure even before the gun fires, and the heat multiplies its effect on your body in ways you don’t expect.

A few miles into this one I thought, “Yeah, this one’s gonna’ leave a mark.”

For most, once the marathon is over, days pass before taking that first tentative stride to get back on the horse. Or weeks. For me, I prefer an active recovery. People think I’m crazy (hint: not wrong), but I’m usually out for a run, albeit very slowly, the next day. And while I did get out for several miles of walking with Dearest Spouse both on marathon evening and the day after, it was, unusual for me, an extra day till I rambled out at uber-slow pace for a little recovery jog. That sounds like a trivial difference, but it’s not; it was indicative that this one was, as I’ve now said to many, was a tough day at the office. Even a week later, the legs are still heavy and a few surprise gifts from last Monday keep giving, making clear that my thinking early on was accurate.

Interestingly, once my quads stopped screaming – a hallmark of any hard marathon effort, enhanced by Boston’s downhills (and let’s face it, if they don’t hurt, you probably didn’t try hard enough) – the initial injury that signaled just how tough a day it was reappeared from the painful haze. Usually, you go into these things knowing your weak spots and what you expect to break, so when those spots start to cause grief somewhere between miles one and twenty-six, you’re not surprised. But the left quad going nuclear well before mile ten – as in, not simply feeling tired or worn but just plain injured – was a surprise. Followed by the left calf going into spasm as early as sixteen. And these were piled on the obvious issue: did anyone mention it was hot?

Despite all this, Boston 2024 wasn’t a train wreck. The result wasn’t what I figured I was in shape to turn in, but given the conditions, it wasn’t half bad. Had I not already been qualified for next year’s dance, this still would have requalified me by over twenty minutes. So really, no complaints. But as the forecast for mid-sixties jumped in the last two days to around seventy, married with the full sun that’s a special treat of the nearly shadeless pre-emergence-of-foliage Boston course, it was ugly just standing in the starting corrals. The addition along the “Perp Walk” (the trek from the Athletes’ Village at the high school to the start area) of several gallon-jug sunscreen stations plus volunteers armed with the spray-on variety for backs and shoulders was a huge and appreciated plus, but not burning doesn’t convey staying cool.

Knowing cool wasn’t in the cards (unless, of course, you think my middle name is Cool, in which case I suggest you’re delirious…) I opted to hit the first half at whatever felt comfortable, not actively backing off, since with the coming hell of the late miles already predetermined, slowing early would only mean being out there longer. And indeed, the first half rolled out at a decent clip, cutting down the miles remaining, before the body had a chance to start reacting to conditions. Yet I couldn’t escape feeling as though I simply wasn’t trained as well as I thought I was. Later I’d hear that feeling echoed from many others. Everything was harder.

Which is intriguing precisely because most of those people, myself included, concluded that we were in fact trained as well as we thought. In my case, since last posting to this venerable, or if not venerable then at least long-lived chronicle, I’ve raced the first three of the USA Track & Field New England Grand Prix series – having irrationally decided to try to complete the full series this year – and turned in three pretty good days. At the Bedford Super Sunday 4 Miler, the New Bedford Half (a perennial favorite), and the Frank Nealon 15K (also a favorite), I certainly didn’t win anything – that’s a near impossibility in the super-charged competition of the Grand Prix – but all three resulted in age grade ratings in the upper seventies, pretty much where I’ve historically camped out save for a few eighty-plus races a few years back. Plus, I was actually on track with logging long runs this spring, rather than my typical, “Oh, I’ve got a marathon when?” eureka moment followed by jamming in a few twenties. Sure, the last few weeks leading to the race were a little scattered (but experiencing totality of the eclipse up in Maine was one of several good reasons for training interruptions), but all in all, right up to our morning-before shakedown in Hopkinton, I couldn’t have been in much better position unless I shaved a decade off the sixty-one years I’m hauling around.

But by Framingham, well, ugh. This one’s gonna’ leave a mark. So, soldier on.

Twenty minutes of thin cloud cover heading into Natick offered brief respite, but quickly I’m back to searching out what little shade bare trees can offer (there being just one brief pine-forested section leading into Wellesley). Somewhere past the halfway mark, or maybe even before (it’s cloudy, my mind, that is), the left quad springs a leak, so to speak, with a sharp muscle pang amidships. Yeah, it hurts. Where’d that come from? Who knows? Damn the torpedoes. Soldier on.

At Lower Falls I almost miss Dearest Spouse and Dearest Offspring the Younger (and Wonder Dog), and never have a chance to yell to them to expect that the next ten miles are going to look rather alarming on their tracking app, not that they would hear what I say anyway. Almost immediately on passing them, the left calf starts to spasm. The walls start closing in. Soldier on, we’re counting down now.

Into the hills the walk breaks start. I’ve done enough of these to know they’re refreshing (not exactly like Junior Mints, but…) and usually, in the long run, help your time. Or help you to not completely unravel. Today, more the latter. Break on Hill One. Break on Heartbreak (but never at the top, the TV news crews like to camp there). Soldier on.

Beacon Street is seventy-five miles long, I’ll swear under oath. A spectator offers to lend his bike. It’s tempting. I’m toast. Another break, fortunately timed before I come upon my volunteer clubmates manning the street crossings around twenty-three. The break makes me look like I’m in good shape. Fooled them. Really, it’s seeing them that lights up my smile. Huge lift. Soldier on.

Kenmore. A mile to go. On another break. Coming up on the Boston Strong bridge, I think of the year of the bombings, I think of David Ortiz, a.k.a. Big Papi, shouting out to a packed Fenway Park, “This is our fucking city!”. I don’t just think it, I shout it. The woman next to me, not quite on a break but not moving much faster, shouts out, “Let’s fucking do this!” and we both take off for the Mass Ave underpass. You take inspiration where you can find it.

Around the corners, onto Boylston Street. I’ve been watching my watch, doing the math, ever since things started going to hell back in Newton. While my time today won’t matter a whit – as noted, already re-qualitied, and nobody will judge times on a day like this – pride never dies and I’m thinking that I’d rather the ten-minutes digit not flip over to the next higher integer. I’m counting minutes, counting seconds, and I know I can’t take another break. And the crowd goes wild. No, wait, it isn’t the crowd (though they were wild, all day), it’s the calf. It’s going full-on spasm. If it seizes, that digit will flip, or worse. I shift into upper body running. Over-exaggerating arms and shoulders to will myself down the street, taking stress off the leg muscles. And it’s working. But time is tight.

Twenty feet to the finish line, just when you think you’re there, you’ve pulled off another one, out of nowhere some Wing Nut decides he’s going to hot-dog for the photographers in the finish line bridge. He tosses is arms in the air and cuts left, right into me. What. The. Hell.

No lateral control at this point, and no mercy. I give the dude a mighty shove with all the mass I can garner from my wimpy little fun-sized frame. Two-armed heave, shove the dude aside, hope he doesn’t hit the pavement (he didn’t) but don’t care if he does (sorta’ wish…). On the finish line video you’ll never see this if you don’t know it happened and don’t look really closely. But seriously. What. The. Hell.

And like that, it’s in the books. Fifteenth Boston, thirty fifth (official) marathon. It’s a habit. Oh, and that digit didn’t flip. Not by much, mind you, but math is real. Like birds. And climate change.

A week later, yep, this one left a mark. That quad pang is lessened but still there, so yeah, that wasn’t overuse, that was something that went pop. Run gingerly for a while. The legs are still heavy, so while my brain may hope I’m recovered, the body is still tired. But that body is old and it fought through a difficult day. And marks will fade.

Finally, a fun note to wrap this up: Remember that bit about watching my watch toward the end (which, I note, is memorialized in the Overpriced Marathon Pichas That I Never Buy)? Well, I leaned later that simultaneously, in a galaxy far, far away, Dearest Offspring the Younger was watching my progress on the (much improved, pretty downright real-time and accurate) app. Said Offspring to Spouse, “Do you think Dad’s going to make it in [before that digit flips]?” To which Spouse replied, probably right when I was checking my watch for the eighty-third time, or possibly when I was body-blocking the Wing Nut, “You know your Dad. He knows exactly how much time he’s got.” Ah, so true, so true. Touché.

Postscript

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that this year’s was the worst Boston Marathon expo I’ve ever seen. Other than the Montana-sized primary sponsor booth with astoundingly costly stuff, there was a lot of open floor space and little running related content. But hey, you could buy a new roof, gutters, or windows. Or dog food (OK, people run with their dogs, but c’mon…). You could be assaulted by at least a dozen highly aggressive vendors pushing pain relief (at least that was running related). But if assault became a problem, the North Las Vegas police force had a booth. Really nice guys, great respect, and had fun chatting with them, but they had a booth? But the weirdest? You could get your hair done. Seriously. At a stand of about twenty hair styling stations. And another set of them, nearby, similar. And yet another booth doing weaves and extensions. The writer at this link described it well. A completely different kind of What. The. Hell.

Note: Most Excellent Photo @Mile 24 courtesy of Rod Hemmingway, Photographer Extraordinaire.

Going the Distance?

Recently I opted to skip a race that my local club had targeted and descended upon en masse. Based on the results, it looked as though had I gone I’d have had a pretty good chance of walking away with the Fastest Old Fart medal, though there’s certainly no assurance of what coulda’ woulda’ shoulda’ happened. But I let it slip away, c’est la vie. Sure, it was cold as hell that day, but that’s not what held me back. As one of my club-mates put it a few days later, I took a principled stand and chose to give this one a pass. Go ahead, call me an elitist, I can take it. 

Let’s come at this from another angle. Those of you outside the New England running community who actually read these essays (which, if you drew a Venn diagram of said audience would result in an infinitesimally small intersection) probably don’t know of a regional magazine – yes, old school real-live printed on dead trees – called New England Runner. It’s a labor of love by the folks who drive it, and seriously, subscribe. Send them a few bucks. They deserve it.

In this month’s edition of said venerable publication, the also venerable Dave McGillivray, he of Boston Marathon and many other sources of fame, posted a column discussing the accuracy, or lack thereof, of GPS measurements of race courses. His article is of high merit; most of his points entirely accurate, though some I would dispute a bit technically because I’m an OCD geek. Only a few really raise the eyebrows, like suggesting that a runner missed the start or finish lines by fifty feet (five feet, sure, but fifty?... seems unlikely, but remember this). But the merit of his arguments aside, he focused on the GPS aspect and didn’t address a key point: a lot of race course are short or long because a lot of race directors just don’t care or don’t know they should care. 

Let me counter the previous statement by saying that a lot of runners just don’t care, either. And not caring is their right, and you may rightly and happily place yourself among that crowd. I don’t. 

What’s the purpose of racing? If your point is to prove you can run a distance, I’ll give you that close enough is probably close enough. Your office mates who have a hard time getting across the parking lot hear “half marathon” and don’t care if it was a tenth of a mile short (frankly, they probably don’t know what length it should be to begin with). If your point is to have a fun outing to run with your friends, again I’ll give you that close enough is probably close enough, though I would hazard you can do that for free (so long as you don’t need Yet Another Cheap Sweatshirt or various other swag) pretty much every day of the week or with your club or local buds. But I hold, in perhaps what you might interpret as a snobbish tone, that neither of those are racing. if your purpose is to race, by which I mean you care about your performance, which means you need to measure your performance, then a race director that doesn’t care is, quite frankly, ripping you off. 

Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of reasons to show up at an event, the most common non-truly-racing one being that you want to support the cause that the event is being run for. If that’s your gig, fork over some coin to fight E. Harvey Thripshaw’s Disease while going for a run, once again, that’s your right. I’ve done it gladly (well, not for Thripshaw’s Disease, but you get the idea). But notice I used the word ‘event’ here, not ‘race’. When asked to come to a ‘race’ that’s not a race, where I am at best lukewarm to the cause (not saying it’s not worthy, but there are more worthy causes than any one human can ever support), my reaction is decidedly tepid.

I recently partook in an event, and in this case I clearly call it an event, because I wasn’t racing. I was pacing, meaning that I didn’t shell out any cash – my volunteering was enough to score the Cheap Sweatshirt and post-race banana. It also meant that I didn’t care about my time other than bringing home my fellow paced runners within a minute of their target, while distracting them from their exertions with lurid and obscure stories. Such a task should have been fun and easy, since we pacers only pace at paces where we are not stressed. Fun it was. Easy was a little more of a challenge since the course was not only almost certainly short, but because only five of the thirteen miles came in within two percent of their advertised one-mile distance. 

Wait a minute, you doth protest, two percent? Aren’t you being at the very least persnickety, bordering on curmudgeonly, and edging well past nit-picking? Answer? No, I’m not. 

First, let’s hop back to Mr. McGillivray’s statement that you might have missed the start or finish line by fifty feet. I found that almost laughable, but let’s presume it’s plausible. Fifty feet is only one percent of a mile. Two percent is a hundred feet. So yeah, two percent is a lot. 

Second, when you’re pacing runners for an hour-fifty half marathon, two percent is ten seconds per mile. Our job is to bring our sheep home within a minute of, but never a second over, our pace time. Being off by ten seconds a mile over thirteen miles makes that kind of tricky. But hey, that’s our job, right? And besides, two percent is probably within the margin of error of the GPS watch, even having been extremely careful in pegging the splits exactly at the mile markers. 

Trouble is, that two percent error range applied to only five of the thirteen miles. The other eight ranged up to six and seven percent, swinging wildly from long to short. Now you’re up to, and occasionally exceeding, three hundred feet and thirty seconds off in a single mile. 

After this roller coaster of inaccuracy, which made it tricky for me and my fellow pacer to agree on how to compensate, it was no surprise when the finish rolled near with my watch reading notably short – whereas, here I am in full agreement with Mr. McGillivray, said watches will usually read long. And that short measurement included some weaving and dancing in the last half mile to coach people in and make sure I didn’t cross the line too soon. 

Yah sure, I hear you say, these things happen. But those folks paid for a half marathon. Many of them probably wanted to better their performance from previous half marathons they’ve run. How can they do that when their course was likely a minute shorter than a real half marathon? They have not gotten what they paid for. 

Certainly plenty went home happy to have run something close to a half, happy with their intentionally cheesy Christmas-themed swag, and utterly thrilled that they had the chance to witness the vendor tent near the finish line offering artisanal IVs in any flavor including cherry (yes, this happened, and yes, I looked it up, and yes, it terrifies me as it should you, and no, that wasn’t the race director’s fault, though I did make up the part about cherry). But had I paid for and raced that ‘event’, I would have been bewildered at best. 

Then this happened. The post-race survey. Now, kudus for even asking for input, since many races don’t, but this one made crystal clear, if it hadn’t been before, that this was a consumer event, not a race. For the question, “What motivated you to register?” there appeared six options plus “Other”, and not one of those six made any allusion to the concept of a race. It’s a tradition, it’s a bucket list (I hope they meant a half-marathon, not this particular event), to get fit, to recover from illness, just to say I did it, and, of course, for fun. Nothing wrong with any of those. But don’t you think that a race survey should have the option of saying, “To achieve a time or performance or place goal”? 

Who cares if the course isn’t accurate if you’re not really holding a race? 

I’m staying away from the fact that this event was put on by a for-profit event promotion company, because to be fair, I’ve partaken in some of said company’s events that were in fact quite well done. And because, as the conclusion of this story will show, this problem is not limited to or tied to that for-profit situation. I’m also leaving names out to protect those you may view as guilty. 

Remember that principled stance? The race I took a pass on? That one was a local 5K raising money for a good cause.  I checked the web site and noticed it said it was USATF sanctioned, which, since I have a little background knowledge here, I can tell you means essentially the organizers had obtained liability insurance through USA Track & Field. A good thing, to be sure. But if they knew enough about USATF to utilize their sanctioning service, certainly they must also know that the real prize is a USATF course certification. A USATF certified course has been measured by accepted standards and can be assumed to be accurate. Huge. (I note there was no other language on their site indicating ‘wheel measured’ or any other nod to having paid attention to whether their 5K was 5K.) 

So I wrote the race director and politely asked that since I noticed they were sanctioned, were they also certified? Frankly, I expected the answer to be no, because certification isn’t a trivial exercise. And had it been, I would have accepted that answer; after all, it's a local 5K fundraiser.  But I was taken aback by the actual answer, which was no, but was followed by, and I quote, “Out of curiosity, why do you ask?” 

Parse that. We’re running a race and we have no idea that there is value in showing our course is accurate. 

It’s one thing to get to a race and discover the course accuracy leaves something to be desired, but when you know up front that the organizers haven’t made it a priority… well, as the airlines like to say, we know you have other choices, so in this case, yeah, other choices. 

Reports from friends who ran the event indicated that the course was pretty close. How close? Who knows? Meanwhile, I penned a polite response to the race director, reproduced below, and took the principled stand. I can’t say that I’ve always taken this stand in the past, nor can I say that I’ll always do so in the future – chances are good that I’ll let many imperfect races into my plans; it’s a case-by-case decision because as I said, there are lots of reasons you might participate on any given day. But it’s always your choice where you spend your time, effort, and dollars, and if you truly want to race, you’re on solid ground if you insist that the folks putting on the event are in fact holding not an entertainment event, not a fund-raiser, but indeed a race. 

Thanks for the response. Course certification assures an accurately measured course and is a HUGE asset for any race. Without it, no time can be relied on to be valid for any purpose, whether personal, club, or any other sort of record.

There are far too many races where “close enough” is the approach. “Close enough” is simply not close enough. I don’t mean to sound elitist, but as a moderately competitive 20-year veteran, if I’m going to pay for a race I want to know I can count on accuracy and validity for personal and other comparisons.

Thanks