tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52054301975998742262024-03-13T08:43:41.271-04:00The Second LapA running commentary on running in this, my second time around.Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.comBlogger369125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-69837883939244079312024-02-01T19:52:00.000-05:002024-02-01T19:52:00.037-05:00Going the Distance?<div><br /></div>
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. <div><br /></div><div>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 <a href="https://www.nerunner.com/">New England Runner</a>. It’s a labor of love by the folks who drive it, and seriously, subscribe. Send them a few bucks. They deserve it.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <a href="https://montypython.fandom.com/wiki/Thripshaw%27s_Disease" rel="nofollow">E. Harvey Thripshaw’s Disease</a> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCZdf9d13ZfBqa18G_Pnt5rKTlLZPTzyS28HaN3OHw8Si2m4syi2fogNwa_-FgNpVNui2H6do8uLTg59hhG341KgsEM4j8S-POtBDcQv8sX0AWR-CLv4XTfr8upvWOQihoQSk9qFQR_BXvuDKVunZ_GG-s1yr1MJiCnv-T0LGr9tL7SioNyvGyVnVluQ/s422/GMC-367%20survey.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="422" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCZdf9d13ZfBqa18G_Pnt5rKTlLZPTzyS28HaN3OHw8Si2m4syi2fogNwa_-FgNpVNui2H6do8uLTg59hhG341KgsEM4j8S-POtBDcQv8sX0AWR-CLv4XTfr8upvWOQihoQSk9qFQR_BXvuDKVunZ_GG-s1yr1MJiCnv-T0LGr9tL7SioNyvGyVnVluQ/s320/GMC-367%20survey.png" width="320" /></a></div>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”? </div><div><br /></div><div>Who cares if the course isn’t accurate if you’re not really holding a race? </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.) </div><div><br /></div><div>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?” </div><div><br /></div><div>Parse that. We’re running a race and we have no idea that there is value in showing our course is accurate. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i>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.</i></div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>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.</i></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Thanks</i></p></blockquote><p><br /></p><p> </p>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-38651526827536680772023-12-12T10:24:00.000-05:002023-12-12T10:24:43.329-05:00B Game<div><br /></div>
Bring your A-Game, they say, whoever they are. But sometimes you have to bring your B-Game. Or worse. And that’s not the end of the world, so long as you can still fire up a game to bring, especially as you get older and creakier by the day. <div><br /></div><div>Since last we met, a lot – and I mean a lot – has happened. A whole bunch of blog posts have been started, never finished, and never published. When famous people do that, three hundred years later someone finds the unfinished manuscripts, literary critics go wild, and Sotheby’s makes a small fortune auctioning off crinkled papers. Not likely in my case. More likely you didn’t notice. But a lot has happened, including, if I may, a bunch of A-Game races that came with stories all worth telling, had I only completed the task. Now they’re just old news. But a smattering of vignettes is worthy here, so… </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRXAP6S1a34m1zimDC5bJMLjAD44TBg0QXmtlQaZqNassJ2ts1uHE_-fdDl6cO1CfhLdj07TC2sqw0cr_0wxM-pwSSkPUnb3rglYTzYi04wSXRQex928i0L2NcShK-qf13-CKVIRYeqDCeSaaihLXGt8-7JLWyu2YKkluihQM09e-qjISfVl5T_QjNt8/s1290/GMC-366%2001%20Vashon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="968" data-original-width="1290" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRXAP6S1a34m1zimDC5bJMLjAD44TBg0QXmtlQaZqNassJ2ts1uHE_-fdDl6cO1CfhLdj07TC2sqw0cr_0wxM-pwSSkPUnb3rglYTzYi04wSXRQex928i0L2NcShK-qf13-CKVIRYeqDCeSaaihLXGt8-7JLWyu2YKkluihQM09e-qjISfVl5T_QjNt8/s320/GMC-366%2001%20Vashon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Never being too old to try something new and stupid, in July I tried Sleepless from Seattle racing. Having volunteered for over a decade and even been race director for our club’s big summer 10K, this year I figured it was finally time to sign up and race it, which I did. And the day after paying up, Dearest Spouse and I made our west coast plans to visit Dearest Offspring the Elder, plans that had us flying home overnight on race day. Let’s call it unfortunate planning. So, after some utterly sublime Pacific Northwest trail running, it was red-eye time, and no, I cannot sleep on planes, so the resulting sleep deprivation, multiplied by subsequent hours in the sweltering afternoon sun setting up for the race (still gonna’ volunteer, right?) ensured I looked and felt my best by starting gun time. This was not a new experience worthy of becoming a habit. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7s85NQDTcdhdBF74Cu3EOkaYr16fSkYjO3sRS2SP2i0950LStE-_NxaIBvIUNyepJmUbpbNyshAPK7eMKrAvB2Frj4v52_llZW5KBt3hXyea4sxJovDE-zQI4qwibQz28rx5Zn-2LTOsmQg-lc43m8-5bAenXaq4edmZqAOgQEewrGggb3yJ2u0uAs0/s2048/GMC-366%2002%20Sleepless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7s85NQDTcdhdBF74Cu3EOkaYr16fSkYjO3sRS2SP2i0950LStE-_NxaIBvIUNyepJmUbpbNyshAPK7eMKrAvB2Frj4v52_llZW5KBt3hXyea4sxJovDE-zQI4qwibQz28rx5Zn-2LTOsmQg-lc43m8-5bAenXaq4edmZqAOgQEewrGggb3yJ2u0uAs0/s320/GMC-366%2002%20Sleepless.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>In stifling heat and humidity I managed to win the Old Farts Division and set a couple records, and had the fun of looking utterly unhinged while shouting to course-side supporters that my One True Desire was to be horizontal. By the way, that beer in the parking lot offered up by a clubmate was probably the Most Sublime Beverage of the year. You know who you are, Sarah. Thank you. </div><div><br /></div><div>August served up two USA Track & Field New England Grand Prix races. These USATF races are basically Royal Ass Kickings since every ringer in New England shows up, but the competition inspires performance, and as such both came out rather pleasingly. Five miles at Bobby Doyle in Rhode Island, ten miles at the New Hampshire Ten on a brutally hilly course landed a few more club records along with some trademark Death Warmed Over finish photos. Inspired by chasing those records, I had to go back on the course at New Hampshire post-race to retrieve a few body parts that flew off near the end. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggc4C4zfn2vR3qFsyzhN33-jWEJ7TbNJVUnGn4IwcKKFOAWAzr9PKk8xo0uC4bqlecl8MN-hnMrTlQ8Q22LXMqDlrrcmKbHLX1Uvm_ictAtCq4c3O9yigD1rhAhfM6m2P5xTrCjgdakThKdMBhNMAUzK3SQGaSk7bocdezz62-fxvmKzMnOxc_DjaOBWM/s1600/GMC-366%2003%20NH%20death%20warmed%20over.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggc4C4zfn2vR3qFsyzhN33-jWEJ7TbNJVUnGn4IwcKKFOAWAzr9PKk8xo0uC4bqlecl8MN-hnMrTlQ8Q22LXMqDlrrcmKbHLX1Uvm_ictAtCq4c3O9yigD1rhAhfM6m2P5xTrCjgdakThKdMBhNMAUzK3SQGaSk7bocdezz62-fxvmKzMnOxc_DjaOBWM/s320/GMC-366%2003%20NH%20death%20warmed%20over.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>And then in October came the USATF marathon championships at the Cape Cod Marathon. This event was my first marathon way back in 2005 and, notably, inspired creation of this blog. Returning eighteen years and nearly four hundred blog posts later was sweet. But the new course now runs the last five miles flat-out into the wind; why, oh why? Having burned five minutes off my Providence time, Dearest Spouse was surprised at my early arrival in downtown Falmouth, but even more surprised when my first words were, “Well, that was a train wreck!” based on the actual train wreck of the last five miles into the wind. Yes, it’s all perspective, but hey, another club record, and, go figure, third in the Old Farts at a USATF championship race. </div><div><br /></div><div>In short, it was a good run. A-Game, all of ‘em. It’s fun to hit a new age group. But then things went, shall we say, a little south. And the last two months have turned B-Game at best. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, my club-mates would look at my recent results and say, hey, not bad at all. But I look at them and say, yeah, respectable, but not what’s possible. And thus we get to our point tonight: the reality of racing into your sixties. After all, continuing this adventure into advancing age is what this column is all about. The reality is that you run into headwinds, not just literally at Cape Cod, but figuratively from unexpected angles. And what happened in the last couple months was clearly an unexpected angle. So let me violate HIIPA rules and tell you a story. </div><div><br /></div><div>Three letters: UTI. Not being one to leave undefined acronyms hanging out there, for any of you who don’t recognize it, Urinary Tract Infection. You hear about your female friends having these. You don’t usually hear it from your male friends, unless they’re about eighty. You’re hearing it now. They suck. </div><div><br /></div><div>What do they do to you? Fever, chills, night sweats like you’ve never swam through (sleeping on towels), and ruining any semblance of decent training. Running? Sure. Running at any pace that will prepare you to toe the line to race? Not even close. </div><div><br /></div><div>How do you get them? Well, we’ll get to that. It has nothing to do with morality or exotic nations. </div><div><br /></div><div>Right about the time I took a flu shot and a COVID booster, strategically planned for the week after Cape Cod, life went downhill fast. The first couple day seemed like those shots knocked me for a loop; after all, I’d never done both at once, and though I’ve been Team Moderna throughout COVID, this time I had to go Team Pfizer for availability, so I figured that was the source of my distress. And this brings up one of the big problems in any human life, young or old. There is no control group on what’s going on inside your body. It’s a sample size of one. What would have happened to the Parallel Me who didn’t get those shots? </div><div><br /></div><div>But those micro-chip laden vaccines had nothing to do with it, and by the time I’d figured that out, many sweat-soaked bedsheets later, I was downright relieved to see those e-coli counts emerge from the pee cup and be told to start sucking down antibiotics. At least I knew what was going on. And things got better. For a while. And then they didn’t. You’re seeing this coming. Without getting graphic, it was ugly. Thirty seconds into any run, well, it was time to run into the woods…but ineffective. Yes, it was back, UTI Round Two. Essentially this meant six weeks of getting out to run, but never feeling good, never getting in any quality training. And I blamed it on the UTIs. But there was another angle.</div><div><br /></div><div>We old guys have a weakness. It’s a grape-sized thingie that likes to swell up when we get old, keep us from peeing, and on occasion kills us (fear not, we’re not going there, but having lost a friend that way just a couple years ago, my head certainly did for a while). There’s an entire industry built around prostate meds, and while I’m pleased to be on very few meds compared to my age peers, my count is not zero; this is one place where I am compelled to support Big Pharma. </div><div><br /></div><div>There’s another thing, and that is, as a pharma advertisement that I saw probably thirty years ago said, but for some reason has stuck with me all that time, the pill you take was never tested. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mQBKdW1OqSAHe1_FT8AfU0jVgHOxuga0n7opwERHhpyOArceN_la_KJ6dAG1MinQbbw0D079zHGEkV2ZQqDatR6jfNyQmjDbNlMhGW4CEEOyglVrwJKB16SExOPmevHG5Jr6E41ovcwpKP5h7h3I7cu9dUD2rvSdqorxuGuAE-8zj0rwo2_Nw3Y4x9g/s937/GMC-366%2004%20Abnormal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="937" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mQBKdW1OqSAHe1_FT8AfU0jVgHOxuga0n7opwERHhpyOArceN_la_KJ6dAG1MinQbbw0D079zHGEkV2ZQqDatR6jfNyQmjDbNlMhGW4CEEOyglVrwJKB16SExOPmevHG5Jr6E41ovcwpKP5h7h3I7cu9dUD2rvSdqorxuGuAE-8zj0rwo2_Nw3Y4x9g/s320/GMC-366%2004%20Abnormal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Before even starting Antibiotics Round Two in response to a lab test in which everything known to man appeared in my pee including strontium, PCBs, green paint, Dijon mustard, DEET, and several other mysterious substances, one morning I very suddenly and magically felt better. After about seven weeks of agony. As in, like, wow, how did that happen? </div><div><br /></div><div>What happened was that the day before I’d shifted from one ninety-day batch of meds to the next, and discovered that the previous batch seemingly was no better than sugar pills. Useless. Having burned out one bottle and moved on to the next, the change was instantaneous. Overnight, everything was better. Cheap crappy meds, resulting, um, retention (sorry, not being scientific here), was almost certainly the cause of all of this… UTI One, UTI Two, weeks of misery and crappy running.</div><div><br /></div><div>Am I pissed (pun intended)? You bet. But you can’t get time back. It happened. (For the record, the mail order pharmacy offered to refund my four bucks, like that would help.) And the result was that instead of returning to decent training after Cape Cod, what racing savvy I had faded into daily slow jogs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which meant that on Thanksgiving, when I’d signed up for the Stow turkey trot, where I knew the course and more importantly knew it was certified and accurate and simply hoped to hit my pace from the Bobby Doyle five-miler from August… No dice. Did I win the Old Farts division? Yeah, but it wasn’t what I was shooting for. No strength, no zip in the legs, no hammer to put down. </div><div><br /></div><div>And a week ago at the Frosty half marathon that my local club opted to target, and which I signed up for the week after that body-parts-a-flyin’ New Hampshire Ten and anticipated great things, results, again, respectable. Second in the Old Farts. And a really fun day out with the buds. Not unhappy. But not what I’d hoped for. </div><div><br /></div><div>Both times I just hoped for a sliver of what went down in the summer races. But alas, neither were to be. Legs have no zip after two months of just-barely-out-there training. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bring your A-Game… and I did in July, August, and October. But Stow and Frosty? B-Game. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings us back to the philosophical aspect of this column, where I say, “So what?” Life is going to toss curve balls at you. Eventually one of them will bean you in the brain and it will be Game Over before you have a chance to say, “Game Over.” I have to admit that in the depths of my recent ordeal I had fears of much worse, and UTI diagnosis fell clearly in the, “Oh, just that,” category. As angering as it was to realize that yes, this was caused by someone’s serious negligence, that goes away when you realize you’ve figured out the cause and it isn’t the start of something seriously bad, and if the worst result is that I ran decent but not quite to target in the last couple races, I am seriously lucky. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because I only have a couple more decades to expect that to continue. I hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>You can’t bring your A-Game every day. Celebrate the B-Game days. Even the Cs and Ds. Because they’re still game days.
</div>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-68513755441078167122023-06-04T21:10:00.001-04:002023-06-05T13:41:09.413-04:00Vindication<div><br /></div>
Once again time escapes; it’s been a month since the event that spawns this tale, but if I’m doing my job, it’s a good story whenever it sees the light of day, and time should be irrelevant. After all, Hamilton had been dead for over two hundred years before Lin Manuel Miranda got around to telling his story, right? So I’ll try to weave a compelling tale of blame, redemption, and vindication, tied together by, of course, time, that’s worth ten minutes of your time. Maybe toss in some suspense, mysticism, and murder (Murder?!), just for intrigue.
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Blame! For six months I’ve been vocally (yes, my clubmates sigh, very vocally) blaming the New York Road Runners and the New York City Marathon for what I considered to be a substantially suboptimal performance in the Big Apple last fall. That blame sprang from the many reasons I’ve documented on these pages which moved the needle from “there were a few issues”, typical for any race, to “I’m never going back”. Suboptimal wasn’t just an opinion but was quantified in a disappointing time, and though I’d told myself (and anyone who asked) before the event that time wasn’t important, that New York was simply a grand tour, an adventure finally achieved after ten years of almost comically not running, let’s be honest here. Yours truly doesn’t typically pay to go for a run and not care, at least somewhat, about time. In the back of my mind, I had a pretty solid view of what I expected. But it didn’t happen, and while I alone had to own it, I found plenty of really good reasons to blame New York.
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Redemption! My inbred Catholic Guilt kicked in saying I should simply own it; plug my pie-hole, and not blame someone else. Besides, how could I claim I shoulda’ coulda’ woulda’ run “Time X” – all but for New York’s epic fails – when in fact I hadn’t run “Time X” in many years? Stand and deliver, or shut up. Cue the video feed: Providence Marathon, a few weeks back, I stood, and I delivered.
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Vindication! I am vindicated. My guilt assuaged; my blame justified. New York, that one was indeed on you, because at Providence I ran “Time X” and then some. And rather decisively got back in the game.
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Let’s not grow outside our shoe size though. As pleased as I was with the way the day turned out, slicing twenty-five minutes off the Tragedy of the Five Boroughs, I later ran into an old teammate from my Greater Boston days and learned that he, just as well ripened as I, eclipsed my Providence time by nearly half an hour at Boston. So much for being the fastest old fart in town. Not even close. Which reinforces that this story isn’t about a marvelous feat; it’s about that vindication, and confirmation that this racing-into-the-age-of-decrepitude game isn’t over. Not yet.
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Suspense! Twenty-five minutes off New York sounds (and was) great, but having any idea of what time to expect in any marathon is a crap shoot at best. The funny thing about the marathon is that every one of them – every single one – is a mystery. You really have no idea. You can’t race them every other weekend like short races (if you are inclined to spend a lot on race entries). If you’re going to race a marathon, truly race a marathon, not just cover the distance, your body can only handle it a few times a year. And your fitness changes constantly. So each time you do it, you don’t know where you stand. And it’s worse if you’ve had a long break since racing one, which was the case for New York, and since that didn’t turn out to be much of a race, it was the case again this time.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6otptqs3C2Bq21aqPSqEv8m6xOF1TS1VlLR_M9OLYIySkN5I4sGUBpWvqW_h-XB2HbblkwJ3EI3pyr5fkGy_bl6iq0xuLxcDAk2OdSEvZ07GTIdproVbrdwbFRNOL4RT4d6mVYdQFnob-TIYiJQpcDH6z7Lidsx1tFNIwe6LtAc8eF0E8nymvDTK/s1856/GMC-365%2001%20Puzzle.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1856" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK6otptqs3C2Bq21aqPSqEv8m6xOF1TS1VlLR_M9OLYIySkN5I4sGUBpWvqW_h-XB2HbblkwJ3EI3pyr5fkGy_bl6iq0xuLxcDAk2OdSEvZ07GTIdproVbrdwbFRNOL4RT4d6mVYdQFnob-TIYiJQpcDH6z7Lidsx1tFNIwe6LtAc8eF0E8nymvDTK/s320/GMC-365%2001%20Puzzle.jpg"/></a></div>Mysticism! Then again, if you’re into spirits and ghosts and things like that, there was an omen that gave a hint that the gods were smiling on us. I regularly devour the Washington Post online crossword puzzle, and one of their offerings is the “Mini Meta”, a series of six small puzzles throughout providing clues for and culminating in Saturday’s meta puzzle with a zig-zag answer. That week’s answer – on race eve? You can’t make this up. Providence. Seriously?
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Enough sensational introductory words, on with the story!
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New York was my return from a long marathon break, thanks to injuries and COVID, three and a half years, not counting the quasi-virtual-not-a-race Boston of ’20 (official, yes, it counts, but certainly not a race). Thus for New York I set my goal – the one I wouldn’t tell anyone about – conservatively. And missed it. I tanked early, around seventeen. Erase those New York problems (Blame!), and I figured I could reclaim about ten New York Minutes pretty easily. So, mental note, Providence goal – the one I told very few about – let’s reclaim those ten minutes. And then, maybe a bit more.
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In the starting corral I conveniently found the pacer whose target would have delivered sixteen minutes ahead of that New York result. Ten minutes plus a little aspiration. Seemed reasonable, even though the day promised to be a lot warmer than anyone hoped (and it would hit the eighties by early afternoon – hot when I was out there, hellacious for those not already off the course, not to mention that the weeks leading up had been unusually cold so nobody was truly acclimated). I made quick friends with the pacer. Made friends with the those to be paced. Wondered if I’d hold that pace. Because, as I said, every one is a mystery (Suspense!) and you just don’t know.
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OK, let’s go.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdZj84x3JFfI8AjBeeBb11KoLfPi50j5_zgPie1l249h9dnMIcvGI8irgJ9GviA_zUEZp8G7vPHjFV0Ipml1DPYqwnaCGHFaefQc5VWwu57M4ZkvKMpy5mwABYGZgOZPdhziUMW1uw-U9DEV067Gg_3WTbtVbVLuBNGUmh2F-YYuT2--iPlgZZwSA/s816/GMC-365%2002%20mile%202.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="569" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdZj84x3JFfI8AjBeeBb11KoLfPi50j5_zgPie1l249h9dnMIcvGI8irgJ9GviA_zUEZp8G7vPHjFV0Ipml1DPYqwnaCGHFaefQc5VWwu57M4ZkvKMpy5mwABYGZgOZPdhziUMW1uw-U9DEV067Gg_3WTbtVbVLuBNGUmh2F-YYuT2--iPlgZZwSA/s320/GMC-365%2002%20mile%202.jpg"/></a></div>I never saw that pacer again. After Black Cat, back in March, where Mile One was a bit irrationally exuberant, this time I made a point of going out comfortably. After all, that race had been a mere twenty miles and I’d turned into burnt toast by eighteen; this one had those pesky extra six. And this time the start didn’t seem fast; on the contrary, people were flying past, making me wonder if I was sandbagging it. But even cruising carefully, my pacer was gone, apparently long behind me, and I didn’t care because I was comfortable. The Mile Two photo (thank you races who just give away the photos with the price of admission and spare us the incessant spam from the photo hawkers!) looks, well, comfortable. (Yes, non-marathoners are permitted to puzzle at that statement. Comfortable. Grin.)
Pace angst alleviated, mile one clocked in about where I’d hoped, a shade slower than Black Cat with the hope of lasting a bit longer than Black Cat. And just having Black Cat as a comparison – well, priceless, and it went through my head how fortunate I was to have had club-mate Paul sell me his spare entry to that derby.
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And then a funny thing happened on this day at the office. Nothing. There were no big events. No alarm bells. No crises. Just humming along. It brought back that old advertisement (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHzeGEHWMjo" target="_blank" rel="nofollow">which is worth watching!</a>) from the eighties about the piston engine goes boing-ditty-boing-ditty-boing but the Mazda rotary engine goes mmmmmm…. I know you have to be of a certain age to appreciate that reference, but isn’t this column all about being of a certain age?
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Up hills, down hills, click, click, click. The big hill at mile six I’d scoped out on a course preview with clubmate Sam a few weeks earlier? Less than ten seconds off mile one. The downhill on the far side of that one? About ten seconds quicker than mile one. The nasty sharp rise at twenty leading into the long climb to twenty-one, still a mere ten or eleven second lag. Training chits were being redeemed. The engine hummed. We (me and whoever happened to be alongside at any given moment) chatted idly while I ignored (or more accurately, managed) the heat, which intensified slowly but surely, and we soaked up the course, which really was lovely, especially the lilacs, oh my, the lilacs. On my death bed, let me inhale lilacs!
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Dearest Spouse positioned herself at a nifty spot where we’d pass twice, first arriving from the east, then the west, and heading out first to the south, then the north, covering all four points on the compass. The first time, around mile ten, I was chatting up a fellow traveler who I’d find had later dopped some forty-plus minutes off our pace. The marathon will do that to you.
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Shortly thereafter, I spotted my pacer, except it wasn’t the same pacer I’d met at the start. It was the guy ten minutes ahead. Not really certain it was a good idea to be not just sixteen but twenty-six minutes ahead of New York, I held back a bit. Brain, recalculate expectations. Really, should I be <i>that</i> far ahead? At New York I’d fallen just a minute and a half shy of re-qualifying for Boston so that was really the only “must notch” item on the list. Everything else was gravy. Avenge those ten minutes, then… Did this make sense? We weren’t even at the halfway mark. Was another New York style (is that thin crust?) mile seventeen crash coming?
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But everything is relative. Twenty-six ahead of New York was still more than thirty behind where I was in the bad ol’ days, and the bad ol’ days weren’t so long ago. Brain said it’s wasn’t irresponsible to be in this neighborhood. So sure, let ‘er fly.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oRkB8-3Mv3eop_JMs8JMtUk85Z2s75UqF3zt-Mrhd5w0P6H27HXmDqm_q3jJYSI_KW6NBouIDOh7rOjBB_GKe5t3eewVtHV-hmHDCD3vkkDz1-v-WYZjqRdyy6MOwHeBj470ld7HmIf1X4VlP8Eo3yNrBVHA0LF4pB1uGVGVq6k9qTNEWc0bBDFj/s361/GMC-365%2004%20graph%20no%20axis.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oRkB8-3Mv3eop_JMs8JMtUk85Z2s75UqF3zt-Mrhd5w0P6H27HXmDqm_q3jJYSI_KW6NBouIDOh7rOjBB_GKe5t3eewVtHV-hmHDCD3vkkDz1-v-WYZjqRdyy6MOwHeBj470ld7HmIf1X4VlP8Eo3yNrBVHA0LF4pB1uGVGVq6k9qTNEWc0bBDFj/s320/GMC-365%2004%20graph%20no%20axis.jpg"/></a></div>And the Mazda goes mmmmmm… Click, click, click. Post-race analysis would show this as one of the most consistent marathons I’ve run, even splits save a late (and small) blip which didn’t show until I stretched out the graph axes.
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That pacer? I really couldn’t avoid catching him. And once in the fold of his flock, I’ve got to heap on the praise. He was the definition of a terrific pacer, chatty, encouraging, vocal at every mile marker, a pied piper leading his band of merry men and women. I was a few strides in front of his gang when we passed Dearest Spouse again at the Four Points at mile sixteen, and I stuck with our little posse up the slap-in-the-face at twenty and the climb to twenty-one, along the stretch of supreme ugliness (really the only unattractive spot on the course, otherwise, did I mention it was lovely?) from twenty-two onto the bridge back over the Seekonk River back towards downtown. (Seekonk! Home of what our club nicknamed the “Not the Murder Motel” where we bunked the night before, in contrast to the place they’d stayed for a previous race in the area, which apparently <i>was</i> the Murder Motel…but I digress…but I did tell you I’d wind murder into this somehow?) I only lost touch with Herr Pacer around the end of mile twenty-four when the last of several PUDs (Pointless Ups and Downs) finally started to do me in.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUe51ax1Mjr-Owz8sP37GR-r8PNWFmECepcgIZRsY_cODT-PKHJwjF1S02BX59qQk0xKbJ6wu_djI6YnwgSNdqC9ofiGmBxzGuIvGrpnZ4pgfgmHJQZFUnx_jO6wE6DEPZM9ZmK8rTaFcTdPwoa6_mqWmLPaL7b4L_3PdmO96fKvx0ybsUPfhIz_H/s1354/GMC-365%2003%20mile%2016.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1354" data-original-width="1156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUe51ax1Mjr-Owz8sP37GR-r8PNWFmECepcgIZRsY_cODT-PKHJwjF1S02BX59qQk0xKbJ6wu_djI6YnwgSNdqC9ofiGmBxzGuIvGrpnZ4pgfgmHJQZFUnx_jO6wE6DEPZM9ZmK8rTaFcTdPwoa6_mqWmLPaL7b4L_3PdmO96fKvx0ybsUPfhIz_H/s320/GMC-365%2003%20mile%2016.jpg"/></a></div>Perspective here. Fading a bit in mile twenty-five is nothing to complain about. For that matter, even twenty-five clocked in within ten seconds of mile one.
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And the Mazda goes mmmmmm…
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Sure, twenty-six was ugly, but it’s supposed to be. And Providence had a special treat in its back pocket, a short, sharp climb halfway up Statehouse Hill a tenth before the finish. Nasty indeed, and well played, Providence, well played.
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I may have lost my pacer (this time ahead of me) but lost less than a minute off his clip by the finish. So, twenty-five minutes ahead of New York rather than twenty-six, no complaints. Dearest Spouse, not expecting that outcome, had hung around at sixteen to cheer on our clubmates, and barely made the finish to witness those iconic final Death-Warmed-Over moments. Admittedly I did see it as a possibility, but kept it quiet. And I doubted it back around eleven, but got over it. The marathon is a mental game. Yes, you have to be able to physically do it, but you also have to be able to convince yourself that you can, and stop yourself from stopping yourself.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUlOF-9WljE7uQRMe-eNtT9miw7NkOxrNpNgF1aFjfmiaYHasrDDUa7WrUOUfTKvh7hYhQEihUqIok_fOmnkoB1bQYcgACqi2GhDZauTKfCqVYqFu6nRfvhUwXCdp4_Nr1oPBeuPcf9w0BGXXAPlFQbqwr4GbONtAkamwvsnBI_QyBSdi5r6GkeCOu/s762/GMC-365%2005%20finish.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="545" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUlOF-9WljE7uQRMe-eNtT9miw7NkOxrNpNgF1aFjfmiaYHasrDDUa7WrUOUfTKvh7hYhQEihUqIok_fOmnkoB1bQYcgACqi2GhDZauTKfCqVYqFu6nRfvhUwXCdp4_Nr1oPBeuPcf9w0BGXXAPlFQbqwr4GbONtAkamwvsnBI_QyBSdi5r6GkeCOu/s320/GMC-365%2005%20finish.jpg"/></a></div>It took a few minutes to resolve the mystery of whether there were any other old farts ahead of me, the answer to that being a satisfying no. The next closest sixty-something was seven and a half minutes back, so yes, first race as a sixty-something, chalk up a win. We’ll take it. But more so than the win, which was sweet, was the redemption. Since the knee injury back in ’19, the resulting gap in racing that spanned into and beyond the COVID era, doubts were sown and grown. That Sunday in Rhode Island reminded me that it ain’t over till I decide it’s over. Take that to your bank of inspiring thoughts. Don’t let yourself accept that it’s over.
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And as for that vindication? Well, New York was hot, but Providence was hotter – less humid perhaps, but full sun the whole way. New York had its bridges for so-called hills, Providence had a few decent climbs (mile six to seven alone eclipsing anything on the New York course) as well as a number of those pesky PUDs. So as for conditions, let’s call it a wash. But unlike New York, Providence didn’t screw up on even a minor, let alone an epic, scale. (Granted, Providence’s logistics paled in comparison to New York, but what they had to do they did well, save perhaps for a curiously long course). That alone bought me those ten minutes. Vindication, indeed.
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The rest we’ll chalk up to not letting the fat lady sing. You age, you hit a milestone (sixty!), you inevitably have gaps, injuries, and you doubt what you can still do. Don’t. Just don’t. Go out and test it and see what happens. Take it back. Oh yeah, and let yourself go mmmmmm…Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-48130793392529537152023-04-23T18:42:00.006-04:002023-04-23T19:36:19.515-04:00The Worst Possible Day<div><br /></div>
Sixty? How the hell did that happen, and why wasn’t I notified? And how did weeks go by before this little ditty saw daylight? Time is flying, so I must be having fun, right? Truth be told, when any of these articles make their way out of the cage matters to me but it’s irrelevant to you so long as I repay your donated ten minutes with a good story, right? So I’ll give that a shot.
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I’ve always preached that one of the joys of this sport is the concept of age groups, which give you the opportunity to start all over again with a fresh new game as that time flies. And as one of those new games – the sixties – edged closer, two things were apparent: first, that once that day came, I should get out there and race, and second, that the last thing I’d want to do just prior to that big day would be to race. After all, why spin your wheels getting beat up by a crowd almost universally younger than you when you can wait a few days and beat up a crowd almost universally older?
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I blew it on both ends. I raced on the worst possible day. And to make it worse, twice since then, the universe has thrown races literally at my feet and I haven’t raced. So much for my own advice.
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Less than a week after the big day – a day so advanced that it doesn’t even qualify me for AARP, been there, done that long ago – a half-marathon paraded itself, not once, but twice (out-and-back) past the door of the fine abode in which Dearest Spouse and I had arrived the previous night. And only two weeks after that, another half-marathon paraded itself within a block of the door of Dearest Offspring the Younger’s new home, with enough turns in the neighborhood that with a brief walk, that one passed twice as well.
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And I wasn’t in either of them.
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But the day before? The day when I rang up at fifty-nine years, three-hundred-sixty-four days? Less than twenty-four hours prior to the moment of my arrival (the one time I didn’t complain about showing up at four in the morning)? The day of several well-known races in New England that I was determined not to race? The Worst Possible Day? Yeah, I raced on that one.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzpOV55klhMhgHHAv0J5B-0Uf3VgWcJCVduXFv42LFwnQs4lonxr-diUcuqZaQmOlA5tnJCbQBz9dENPgrS22UftO3E61m2_7xHKgsbauwLwYCapayprchxo0FJHxF059sW6z1fQtTwr3JCw6P_U_OaXPDeWLGhKD4t-y_rSp_AeB7G1PWf6eIpoT/s493/GMC-364%2001%20Sept-52.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="493" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAzpOV55klhMhgHHAv0J5B-0Uf3VgWcJCVduXFv42LFwnQs4lonxr-diUcuqZaQmOlA5tnJCbQBz9dENPgrS22UftO3E61m2_7xHKgsbauwLwYCapayprchxo0FJHxF059sW6z1fQtTwr3JCw6P_U_OaXPDeWLGhKD4t-y_rSp_AeB7G1PWf6eIpoT/s320/GMC-364%2001%20Sept-52.png" width="320" /></a></div>It occurred to me to try to find a technicality. Surely there must be some way to wrap legalese around the whole <a href="https://www.timeanddate.com/calendar/julian-gregorian-switch.html" target="_blank">Gregorian versus Julian calendar thing</a> and claim I’d in fact hit sixty a day early. No dice. Even a careful reading of the history of this astronomical mess wouldn’t get me out of that hole any more recently than about a hundred years ago in Turkey (the last country to switch off the Julian calendar, in 1927). But hey, September of ’52 – 1752, that is – when the United States switched over and skipped over half the month must have been a hoot, though we wouldn’t have had a Labor Day parade.
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OK, so I wasn’t sixty yet. Besides, why rush it? Ninety is just around the corner anyway, right?
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But let’s work backwards. The first swing-and-a-miss came at the Jersey Shore, two towns down from, and a short boardwalk stroll up to, the famed Asbury Park, during a reunion with the twisted minds I had the pleasure of hanging out with back in college, the crew that gave Rensselaer its infamous underground satire publication known as The Polemic. The true joy of the weekend was that they haven’t changed, just as twisted, just as much fun, and well worth renewing those ties. But the disappointment of the weekend was seeing all those runners parading past the beach house. Twice. To borrow from The Boss, the cops may have finally busted Madame Marie for telling fortunes better than they do, but she didn’t send her clairvoyance ahead of time so that I’d know there was a race going on.
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My angst at missing out (that’s AOMO, not FOMO, mind you) was multiplied when I checked the results and found that based on my half-marathon split from the previous week’s twenty-miler (the one I shouldn’t have run, remember?), I would have taken my shiny new age group by over five minutes. And this was no slouch of a race, it was two thousand strong, just in the half. But hey, the weather was dreadful, chill off the ocean, rain, and wind, wind, and did I say wind, so I didn’t really want to be out there. But, well, let’s be honest. Sure I did.
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Then it happened again two weeks later. This time I had a couple days’ notice; had I been paying attention, I’d have had more, but context is everything. I’m sure that USA Track & Field announced the national masters championship half-marathon long ago, but who knew I’d be in Syracuse that weekend? Once I knew my plans, that last-minute email with last minute top-o-rack pricing, and uncertainty of schedule during our brief visit to Offspring the Younger, well, swing and a miss, strike two. As it turned out, we did walk the block to the course, plus the extra half mile to see a second pass, and while I wouldn’t have won this one by a long shot, disasters aside I’d have likely hit the top ten percent of similarly-ripened old farts in a quasi-national-class race. AOMO redoubled.
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Coulda’. Woulda’. Shoulda’. But hey, they were fine weekends anyway. And I’ve still got one hundred and nineteen months of being sixty-ish.
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But weeks earlier with merely one day left of being fifty-ish, the equation added up differently. Why race on the very last day of your class and have to go toe-to-toe with folks ten years your junior? Perhaps because it’s that much more fun if you can proverbially kick them in the shins? Or you could say, rather than avoiding that day like the plague, why not give it one last shot?
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There’s an easy way not to race: just don’t sign up. When race day gets closer and the price goes up, if you’re like me and of frugal mind, well, who wants to pay last minute prices (read: Syracuse)? But even those best laid plans can be foiled. When a club-mate mentioned he had entered one of the races of the day, the Black Cat Twenty-Miler in Salem, Massachusetts (there’s also a Ten-Miler, those who race the twenty are just twice as stupid; having finished the ten-mile course, being dumb enough to turn around and do it again) and having changed his plans, he couldn’t use it. The race organizers were pleasant and liberal with their transfer policies, so in a fit of stupidity I bought him out of his bib. Yep, let’s race on the worst possible day.
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It wasn’t entirely on a whim. With no Boston Marathon on my calendar year, I’ve instead targeted a smaller regional marathon a few weeks further out. A twenty-mile race would be a great shake-out. It was just a really bad day to do it.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucy_W3Kg-cisnWS3w4XYzNbMMxIXz30fbGh5fcSSYx17pzJ8MVVkTWUtmhQxJQ5FWMjgcQX81fcXSOCNAe74XYwZUSUGJHBx4jarE2Fgpzycg7yKqfRWiYFKgp35pci4sIzmvcbGlaB_Q3ULHYLZTm-7c50O3mkC8Aksls1ssYxUwwg_R69qu4doQ/s1029/GMC-364%2003%20Shake-Out.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1029" data-original-width="863" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucy_W3Kg-cisnWS3w4XYzNbMMxIXz30fbGh5fcSSYx17pzJ8MVVkTWUtmhQxJQ5FWMjgcQX81fcXSOCNAe74XYwZUSUGJHBx4jarE2Fgpzycg7yKqfRWiYFKgp35pci4sIzmvcbGlaB_Q3ULHYLZTm-7c50O3mkC8Aksls1ssYxUwwg_R69qu4doQ/s320/GMC-364%2003%20Shake-Out.jpeg" width="268" /></a></div>Being, as noted, of frugal mind, I’ve never been one to sign up and pay for a race simply to cover the distance. Maybe if I lose my mind enough to join my ultramarathoning friends that will become a goal, but for now, if I want to run twenty miles, I just run twenty miles and don’t pay for the pleasure of doing it. If I’m going to pay, I’m going to put in an effort. So even though this race was intended as a shake-out, I figured it too warranted a shake-out. And said shake-out, two weeks prior on the Boston course (wrapping up with good ol’ Johnny Kelly and compadre Dan) turned in the pace I targeted for the race, so, um, revise plans, I guess. That’s what shake-outs are for.
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Plans revised, our merry band including a very large club contingent headed for Salem, and when the festivities commenced it was now perfectly rational to head out on that sunny, slightly breezy morning at a pace that would have seemed a bit hot only two weeks prior. And it was my intention to head out a bit hot. After burning off adrenaline in the opening blocks, it was time to settle into the hard work – not just the physical, but the mental work of remembering how to race these distances. The New York Marathon, for its various failings, wasn’t a good test, so really this was virgin ground after that long injury and COVID gap. What kind of pace can I burn? What can I sustain? And though I didn’t admit it to anyone, the truth was I hadn’t written off my age group. Even on that last day. After all, it’s a (paid-for) race.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6T4aIWxWD2xkihoYaC5-Uf1wjfHjSfXCmvbK6W6d8zzZDYutkgTuK18-ZAmtBAYgejtGosyUQzd95D4PjnRXDo-D4MgyJeAMOYk8feg-pVyOZZB2YKfeQqruTSbY_DrSB_AHyMtmEHu1_Q-V2m0RNWMfeE7Vy8DytEIe34WacB4MI_SyqSsViRGCS/s2048/GMC-364%2004%20Merry%20Band.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1418" data-original-width="2048" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6T4aIWxWD2xkihoYaC5-Uf1wjfHjSfXCmvbK6W6d8zzZDYutkgTuK18-ZAmtBAYgejtGosyUQzd95D4PjnRXDo-D4MgyJeAMOYk8feg-pVyOZZB2YKfeQqruTSbY_DrSB_AHyMtmEHu1_Q-V2m0RNWMfeE7Vy8DytEIe34WacB4MI_SyqSsViRGCS/s320/GMC-364%2004%20Merry%20Band.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Black Cat isn’t a huge event, about five hundred total, sixty-forty on the ten milers versus the stupid folk, but since all run the first ten together, it’s big enough that you really have no idea where you stand. Save a small loop in the first mile, it’s an out-and-back, and for the feeble-minded, another out-and-back. Approaching the first turnaround, you see the leaders coming at you, and you wonder, ten or twenty, and how old does that dude look? And what about the couple of fifties guys in my own club who I know are pretty quick? Where were they at the start? Now, wait a minute, don’t get ahead of yourself, you’re still the old man of the class here. But seriously, how old does that dude look?<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvxqTSMAVO8QeYCeT4hIf_QjvTNTwCef1xmo7DH-NBEAiK8TgQuczaX1K0JYVLTGMQlaYwA3KdinybQYY8-8oEAiAJQwRYY6YVoNc1Afcr0zt04L5eq36oQLM_pfmp78Y3ke5eDFPxO3NmW-_fD5q8aYm2Gr-0y_JFHpDS7oN5jd_T-QzuAQ-ACe5/s1608/GMC-364%2005%20Black%20Cat%20Start.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="1608" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvxqTSMAVO8QeYCeT4hIf_QjvTNTwCef1xmo7DH-NBEAiK8TgQuczaX1K0JYVLTGMQlaYwA3KdinybQYY8-8oEAiAJQwRYY6YVoNc1Afcr0zt04L5eq36oQLM_pfmp78Y3ke5eDFPxO3NmW-_fD5q8aYm2Gr-0y_JFHpDS7oN5jd_T-QzuAQ-ACe5/s320/GMC-364%2005%20Black%20Cat%20Start.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The turnaround – somewhere around five and a half – was a bit odd in that it really wasn’t there. No cone, no sign, just an oddly placed water stop (at the turnaround?). I shouted out, “Where’s the turnaround?” and got the very strange answer, “Where ever!”. Um, really? In a race? That, and the oddly mismatched mile-markers – four and fourteen, seven and seventeen, and so on – all spaced a quarter-mile apart, led me to believe something was a bit amiss and it was; the course came up short; but otherwise the organizers ran a fine event (remember that liberal transfer policy!) (and food, food, plenty of food!).<p></p>
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But that aside, I couldn’t figure where I stood at the turnaround. Nor could I be sure who was behind me, or how far, since again, tens and twenties, cats and dogs, Hatfields and McCoys, all mixed together and all on the other side of the road outside of my range of visual acuity. But hey, I’ll figure it out on the second lap, right?
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Meanwhile, around mile seven a clubmate crept up on my shoulder, or should I say someone crept up, as I had no idea who it was at that moment. All I knew was something gasped and wheezed something along the lines of, “How the hell are you going to do that for another ten miles?”. Before I realized who it was and realized he knew I was going twenty while he was trying to finish ten before hitting his expiration date, I responded vaguely, “I have no idea, it’s a voyage of discovery.” Poetic I suppose, but I really had no idea what would happen in the second period. Truth was, I was surprising myself with the steady, and still somewhat hotter than expected, pace.
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The thought of gauging my place on the second time around was a fine idea that had no legs either. Approaching the second turnaround, again the leaders were obvious, but again, how old does that dude – going the other way, on the other side of the road – really look? Then a new twist, the “sunshine starters” – the slower folks they allow to start an hour early, got mixed in. You’d think you could tell the difference between a race leader and a sunshine jogger but after the first ten or so fast folks, it’s not so clear. Some of those leaders slow down. And some of those sunshiners have spurts of motivation. I resigned myself to having no idea where I stood, but taking solace in the fact that that slightly hot pace was holding up.
<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLjKBML835AVco9JULnFVPatA7tI7nnDKWiNZar7LTYt3WsKbI0dKVeDwoe6qdzYflbIgeGj9ilos4cjc1D1Bk7hNGE64Um1maTzrXtjaaMVayph0rMYAfmEhJCmIEgWfPcuOmbbBhR18wHZdna-x3TV-v2R-kGoXIfELDVcurYpCinNtpGrM162M/s2048/GMC-364%2006%20Black%20Cat%20podium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLjKBML835AVco9JULnFVPatA7tI7nnDKWiNZar7LTYt3WsKbI0dKVeDwoe6qdzYflbIgeGj9ilos4cjc1D1Bk7hNGE64Um1maTzrXtjaaMVayph0rMYAfmEhJCmIEgWfPcuOmbbBhR18wHZdna-x3TV-v2R-kGoXIfELDVcurYpCinNtpGrM162M/s320/GMC-364%2006%20Black%20Cat%20podium.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>Two hundred twenty-milers get pretty spaced out and lonely by the end, but after a painful last couple of miles (they should hurt, it’s a race, remember?) I came up on, well, how old is that dude? At that point I didn’t care, take no chances, take no prisoners, take that dude down, and I did. News flash, he wasn’t fifty-ish, it didn’t matter. News flash, I didn’t care, it felt good. And news flash, sure, I would’ve won the sixties by over twenty minutes, but guess what? I wasn’t sixty. I was fifty, and got beat by about ten minutes, but kicking all the rest of the fifties in the shins to take second wasn’t too disappointing. On the worst possible day to race.<p></p><p> </p>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-75790626499980350522023-01-08T20:46:00.000-05:002023-01-08T20:46:48.365-05:00Eighty-Five Days<div><br /></div>
In seventy-eight days, I’m getting notably older. Yes, this piece is titled eight-five days; that was a week ago, and we’ll get back to that. As the quirky band <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2bo_u_YmW8" target="_blank">They Might Be Giants noted years ago, between then and now, I’m even older</a>. So are you. And now you’re even older.
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But yesterday morning’s run, a quick club five-and-a-half miler on a chilly thirty-degree morning, didn’t make me feel older at all (not that there aren’t some that do…) Yesterday’s struck me as both unique and not so unique at the same time. Arriving late as usual, I pulled in just as the crew pronounced Go and headed out, so it was a quick dash out of the car, zero to sixty faster than a Prius (which isn’t hard), to settle in with the tail end of the two-dozen-ish pack. After a re-group at the far end of the out-and-back route, I cruised the return trip near the front of said pack, hung for ten minutes to chat as our soldiers filtered in, opted to forego the post-run gathering, jumped in the car, and headed home. Elapsed time about an hour. And on the way home it occurred to me that I wasn’t sweaty and I wasn’t entirely certain I’d even gone for a run, though I knew I had (no, we’re not talking early-onset Alzheimer’s, just that I felt no impact from the effort).
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlaQDPfz76u34TdlSGmY-yKawC6AROR-E35zxOvsKH42RuJ_zv8H1ri8eAAWkB4kPfb9EdnmQduLwF2_vkHFxMo44WoUksVWxlu_q8xlA9qUDKhwZHWWbpc2fKHtpZv3-DJDX3jAO5m-RLvNAbMIvGDdEPadI9v_ifCuq7dAx7FuDFBeozdq8szdVH/s2048/GMC-363%2001%20HCS%2010-Miler.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlaQDPfz76u34TdlSGmY-yKawC6AROR-E35zxOvsKH42RuJ_zv8H1ri8eAAWkB4kPfb9EdnmQduLwF2_vkHFxMo44WoUksVWxlu_q8xlA9qUDKhwZHWWbpc2fKHtpZv3-DJDX3jAO5m-RLvNAbMIvGDdEPadI9v_ifCuq7dAx7FuDFBeozdq8szdVH/s320/GMC-363%2001%20HCS%2010-Miler.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />One could posit a similar thought for today’s outing, a bit more ambitious club ten miler at what, for my recent abilities, registered in at a fairly zippy pace. And though this time I couldn’t claim lack of sweat, again, as I left, I certainly didn’t think, holy heck, that was ten miles. I was just pleased to have logged a solid workout with good friends.
<div><br /></div>In fact, this morning twenty, count ‘em, yes twenty hardy club-mates showed up at a hair over twenty degrees (you can count ‘em degrees, too) and hammered out those ten miles. This crowd doesn’t blink at these things. Go ahead, ask your co-workers and friends if a cold Sunday-morning ten is their idea of fun. Go ahead, I dare you.
<div><br /></div>You may be what you eat, but you are also what your peoples see as their norm. And I love these peoples.
<div><br /></div>And so, the fact that in seventy-eight days I’ll hit a milestone that makes most people lament their impending (if not already in progress) demise, I’m just looking forward to being in a new age class. And I love that lack-of-dread feeling.
<div><br /></div>Don’t get me wrong, as I’ve said many times in this column, neither I nor my compatriots are immune to the ravages of time. I can’t outrun injuries, illnesses, and little gifts from the medical gods like those blood clots a few years ago, and my demise may come tomorrow. But meanwhile, sixty is just an opportunity. It’s time to line up the jets to see what that opportunity may unfold.
<div><br /></div>Owing to some of those injuries and hibernation from COVID, my race count in 2020 was, wait for it… One. And that one, the virtual Boston, doesn’t in my mind count as a race (hint: we didn’t race). For 2021 it was… Zero. And until my zero-dollar deferral entry at the NYC Marathon broke the logjam (and also proved that staying away from crowds due to COVID had been a good idea), the goose-egg was still on the board for 2022.
<div><br /></div>The problem with going three years without racing is that you forget whether you remember how to race, and you also lose track entirely of what you’re capable of doing in a race. The only way to learn how to race is to race.
<div><br /></div>Wait, I’ve been doing this for how long? And I still feel like I need to be re-educated? Go figger’
<div><br /></div>New York at least reminded me that I remembered how to manage a day at the Office of Marathon Execution, even if the results, thanks at least in part to those epic fails documented in this space, weren’t exactly what I’d aimed for. I learned that I still knew how to manage what a race throws at me, but that event didn’t tell me what I could do.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m2xS3YmVXVeeD3Ln1Pe7alazsgs3tzZ2_YNd2tm6wm2TC-cyZRspr4r-oQTijl6kuqYdbbvop_Nl4e6JtZ1zdVvnG2aTCixORqFOoa9s8Gzx81wHfuC8gEJmsC-5UVbX3WgJYMTISAHtch7-4ChOkz1oWrAHKpInunu3yH6xTFtsQOnZH4plqNG4/s1416/GMC-363%2002%20Ten%20Miler%20finish.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1416" data-original-width="1365" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m2xS3YmVXVeeD3Ln1Pe7alazsgs3tzZ2_YNd2tm6wm2TC-cyZRspr4r-oQTijl6kuqYdbbvop_Nl4e6JtZ1zdVvnG2aTCixORqFOoa9s8Gzx81wHfuC8gEJmsC-5UVbX3WgJYMTISAHtch7-4ChOkz1oWrAHKpInunu3yH6xTFtsQOnZH4plqNG4/w193-h200/GMC-363%2002%20Ten%20Miler%20finish.jpg" width="193" /></a></div><br />So it was that a few weeks later I toed the line for our club’s famously hilly Thanksgiving weekend ten-miler. No expectations, no pressure. Just exploration of the possible. And I found there was at least something possible, though it wasn't yet pretty. What I targeted for a pace and what I turned in were about a half a minute apart from each other – in the good direction – but I certainly wouldn’t call it well-executed. This was a case of being fried by Mile One and holding on for nine more. Still, the only way you learn to race is to race.
<div><br /></div>A week later I did something I hadn’t done in three years and dusted off some lightweight racing-ish shoes (would my feet even work in those virtual slippers?) to test out what a race really meant. This time with a team of old Squannacook friends (old friends, and just plain old, too) at the Mill Cities Relay, a team that had no reasonable expectation of winning anything, so again, no expectations, no pressure (really, all about the post-race!). Just see what you can do with skinny shoes and only five miles in front of you. And again, the pace targeted and the pace attained were a half minute off – again in the good direction. And this one felt good. Another race, sort of, and starting to learn to race.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrJwyhlpdX5OStL1CdZiCJoDNM9K5NvJxDhSVgyYAh_gdOV3L04OrdpVyLkWA7ZKh5uwwl-E4G4_ceZ6bElqnbk8x66kG_ekua8V-Le7riv_LAsisATEG9hxAkQ4XSlvwk8YR_AHd18Xvc2Ezi6M9XwGB92SEr8twxUR2_GB33HG5YhzRbnh1P44q/s1402/GMC-363%2003%20Mill%20Cities.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1402" data-original-width="1210" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrJwyhlpdX5OStL1CdZiCJoDNM9K5NvJxDhSVgyYAh_gdOV3L04OrdpVyLkWA7ZKh5uwwl-E4G4_ceZ6bElqnbk8x66kG_ekua8V-Le7riv_LAsisATEG9hxAkQ4XSlvwk8YR_AHd18Xvc2Ezi6M9XwGB92SEr8twxUR2_GB33HG5YhzRbnh1P44q/s320/GMC-363%2003%20Mill%20Cities.JPG" width="276" /></a></div><br />Cut to New Year’s Day (the day after joining the Squannies for a casual half marathon – because resting the day before a race is always a good idea, right?) it was time to try out a real race (no offense to my local club, the ten-miler is real, it just wasn’t real for me). Back to an old haunt, the Freezer Five, with real starting and finish lines – not a relay leg, another five-miler in skinny shoes but this time with a benchmark, a test of sorts as to whether I’ve re-learned to race.
<div><br /></div>It was hardly a Freezer, clocking in at a screwed-up-climate fifty degrees, but with a stiff headwind on the outbound that made for a challenging day and necessitated adjustments on pace and split expectations. The end result was about the same pace as Mill Cities, and a full five minutes slower than what I’d clocked on this course ten years ago, but hey, that was ten years ago. Whatever number was on the clock this time, I felt the racing drive, maintained the intensity (the Death-Warmed-Over look on my face in the race pictures proves that), and even took out a younger friend at the finish line that I didn’t think I’d ever beat again (I have to assume he had a bad day). So yeah, I think I’m learning how to race again.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeK_rDM-4B3Hm0845PG_rfU7rs3zTH7Vmo8mMteuhg47MFo52pmRDOOlZJwmRD55zt4lcBfRffOqcddt6941p8sGQsgRmgPS4mNJ7kG5oBMdnmkxDMxaJkThttVYv_zXczUBkOCFZz5X9D0RE55L1u4QXYc44j7LC7Ff6aQxgKrliO5UqAbc79nZu5/s750/GMC-363%2004%20Freezer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="750" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeK_rDM-4B3Hm0845PG_rfU7rs3zTH7Vmo8mMteuhg47MFo52pmRDOOlZJwmRD55zt4lcBfRffOqcddt6941p8sGQsgRmgPS4mNJ7kG5oBMdnmkxDMxaJkThttVYv_zXczUBkOCFZz5X9D0RE55L1u4QXYc44j7LC7Ff6aQxgKrliO5UqAbc79nZu5/s320/GMC-363%2004%20Freezer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />But here’s the kicker: Being at the high end of my age group, them there’ youngsters knocked me off the podium. But had I been eighty-five days older, I would have won my division.
<div><br /></div>There’s an opportunity out there.
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<b>Loose Ends Department</b>
<div><br /></div>Revisiting my rant on the NYC Marathon, where I tried to stay positive but didn’t succeed all that well, I lament, was I fair? Did I overblow this? Was the shuttle fiasco (the COVID super-spreader event) just a darker shade of normal? Did I imagine the whole thing about traffic and fellow runners’ poorly predicted and/or overly optimistic finish times? Was my criticism of New York’s entirely unpoliced self-seeding system unwarranted? Did I come across as callous and elitist?
<div><br /></div>Answers: Yes, I was fair. No, I didn’t overblow this. Callous and elitist? You’ll have to judge that.
<div><br /></div>Let’s start with the shuttle bus disaster. One word: Crickets. Not a peep from the New York Road Runners. I foolishly expected communication about this fiasco. A simple, “Gee, we’re aware of this, and we’re sorry,” would have gone a long way. But… Crickets. I reached out to them and got a tepid form reply and nothing since. And there’s never been a follow-up survey on the race itself, just the one I cited last time that asked only about sponsors.
<div><br /></div>But was it only me? No. My patron saint of the gorgeous pictures from the ferry wrote:
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Very disappointing about the bus situation; some colleagues from work who also ran it mentioned that they 1) were 45 minutes late to their corral so had to start in a later wave due to bus snafu, and 2) overall finished 30-45 min behind their goal / expected pace.</i></blockquote>
<div><br /></div>Next, how about the seeding and the resulting traffic?
<div><br /></div>I took Dearest Souse’s advice and punched in a few bib numbers from my corral to see how those folks fared. What I saw confirmed what I’d experienced. Of the first ten I looked up, only two finished remotely near the seeding time for my corral. But because it was a rainy day and I was resting to recover from COVID, and mostly because I'm a nerd, “punching in a few bibs” became an analysis of the hundred bibs in my range. And the results were…affirming and infuriating.
<div><br /></div>Recall I submitted 3:55 as a seeding time and came in about three and a half minutes ahead of that, so I was pretty much spot on, despite all the obstacles in my way. So, Wave 3 Corral B was in the 3:55-4:00 range. And of the hundred bibs in my range, merely twenty made it home by 4:10.
<div><br /></div>OK, I hear you, it was warm and muggy. That explains people sagging late (I too sagged late). It doesn’t explain people sagging at five miles, or sooner, like walking up the Verrazano at the start. And I hear you say, but Saint Beautiful Pictures just said that the ferry bus fiasco made people run behind their times. But only a portion of the runners took the ferry.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIH6pKfuTwgVZ9FzmHfyfW9ad6YNtpYs4n_dEmp39OJbe4lPhfKmtn41bshcZtrUnwY_lrlkRpYOja8h_WCgvTOO3CFGAr3-pV-Tl_BOb3Tnd4pddNug8Ld565Eq8iV-8ZfCnCwv6IYSpxg5gvv4SPbQ4SRfXrSKLguj963OA1N7bqW1iOsowGv0d/s491/GMC-363%2005%20NYC%20Finisher%20Chart.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="491" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIH6pKfuTwgVZ9FzmHfyfW9ad6YNtpYs4n_dEmp39OJbe4lPhfKmtn41bshcZtrUnwY_lrlkRpYOja8h_WCgvTOO3CFGAr3-pV-Tl_BOb3Tnd4pddNug8Ld565Eq8iV-8ZfCnCwv6IYSpxg5gvv4SPbQ4SRfXrSKLguj963OA1N7bqW1iOsowGv0d/s320/GMC-363%2005%20NYC%20Finisher%20Chart.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />The average finish time in this group (86 finished of the 100) was 4:44, fifty-three minutes behind me. And the average place was 22,488, 14,950 places behind my finish. My estimate of passing 14,000 people wasn’t far off. Three people had a really tough day, taking over six hours, and that skews the numbers a bit, but not much. Only four finished ahead of me. Seriously?<p></p><p>So no, I didn’t imagine that, either.
<div><br /></div>And though this is a trivial point, I also mentioned how anti-social the field was and lamented that I had only one meaningful chat through the entire twenty-six miles. As fate would have it, that one friendly guy, Johan, referenced in my previous post, concurred, after reading that post, wrote:
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I think you described it best, why I did not enjoy myself as much as I might have (or did in a previous marathon). I must agree – not many people were chatty and that took away from the experience.</i></blockquote>
<div><br /></div>So no, I didn’t imagine any of this.
<div><br /></div>Does this change anything? Of course not. But it does make me feel better to know that I wasn’t complaining idly.
<div><br /></div>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-84312874348557731572022-11-12T21:05:00.002-05:002022-11-14T10:30:23.638-05:00Fifth Time’s A Charm<div><br /></div>
Say something positive, she said, after hearing my rantings over all the things that went wrong at Sunday’s New York City Marathon. As usual, Dearest Spouse is right. Stay positive.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYoy2Ch6xsmoAGAsEL5VhoZAEELNPW55UhnmxeFdc6tb-PHOSjhKRishHFUOyEU4pAqS1jkOE8U9784yOenktsrjLqN9NQw2P2nr9ZnRGv6N1-EPENd0ccYDMYKlDeIv3ceI6IrI5MjIJEQFuDi0Wt4XdubNVZ00E7EKxJs418qu5V5VWEgN_Q1l41/s2107/GMC-362%2001%20back%20bib.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="2107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYoy2Ch6xsmoAGAsEL5VhoZAEELNPW55UhnmxeFdc6tb-PHOSjhKRishHFUOyEU4pAqS1jkOE8U9784yOenktsrjLqN9NQw2P2nr9ZnRGv6N1-EPENd0ccYDMYKlDeIv3ceI6IrI5MjIJEQFuDi0Wt4XdubNVZ00E7EKxJs418qu5V5VWEgN_Q1l41/s320/GMC-362%2001%20back%20bib.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Positive: I failed to break the world record. I finally ran this thing. It took five tries (the bib on my back proved it), and you may recall <a href="http://thesecondlap.blogspot.com/2022/03/going-for-world-record.html">my previous post</a> where I posited that should I miss on this fifth try, zero for five just might be a record. But the record of futility was not to be. It happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>Positive: The odyssey through the five boroughs that is the New York City Marathon is an epic journey, an unparalleled experience, a bucket list event. It’s an entirely different character from Boston, which leads you from the Hinterlands to the Big City; this one is a journey through cultures and neighborhoods and cityscapes that are perpetually changing and delighting the eye (in most cases). Starting on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, astounding in scale when you’re not in a vehicle (and amusing as the EZ-Pass gantry keeps flashing as it photographs all those runners without transponders), through Brooklyn’s skyline which dazzles like Emerald City with vistas of soaring towers perfectly aligned to the avenues, through Queens over the 59th Street Bridge, which, despite what the others will tell you, is NOT a significant hill (nor was the Verrazano for that matter), to the almost hominess of the brief stretch through the Bronx, nothing spectacular, just fine folk cheering you on till you cross the Last (****ing) Bridge, and on to the dramatic finish in Manhattan and Central Park. This was something I had to do, and it was an amazing day. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrVBUkh0xoxqb4Lss6rlsLrCiYPyl0ggfUWyG1GUW8CneeXe8OrJHlPHlm-NU_YzYfV2DqXL-pO9fp6q-MWgg3lYOUbW8JtTkgw27AJvaeRDC8QQ5hdxkucdOnkcFvV1h46tFY0l5Qd8KYUgXhOXNUDWOmuaxsFK3GHUqjJFCHlo3xwFwmrM7FBgl/s2270/GMC-362%2002%20boroughs.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2270" data-original-width="1896" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCrVBUkh0xoxqb4Lss6rlsLrCiYPyl0ggfUWyG1GUW8CneeXe8OrJHlPHlm-NU_YzYfV2DqXL-pO9fp6q-MWgg3lYOUbW8JtTkgw27AJvaeRDC8QQ5hdxkucdOnkcFvV1h46tFY0l5Qd8KYUgXhOXNUDWOmuaxsFK3GHUqjJFCHlo3xwFwmrM7FBgl/s320/GMC-362%2002%20boroughs.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>Positive: I returned to racing not only for the first time since COVID (not counting the virtual Boston), but also since the injuries of the summer prior. And yeah, I’ve still got this, even if I am a hell of a lot slower now. I remembered all that tribal knowledge gained over the years of managing heat and water and pace and all that jazz, and the marathon racing mindset (even if slow and not truly racing) came right back. I loved being back in that zone. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then, also Positive: The COVID test I took Thursday morning. Yep. Those 50,000 friends I hung out with Sunday? Apparently not all of them had my best interests in mind. My two-and-three-quarter-year streak of avoiding the ‘rona has ended. Symptoms are mild, no major worries – went for a run, did yard work, hacked up a lung. I should’ve known when they blasted out New York, New York at the start that they were singing, “Start spreadin’ the germs…” </div><div><br /></div><div>So I’ve done my duty to go positive. But there were a whole bunch of things that were positively not positive, two of which seriously impacted the outcome, one of those being, well, inexcusable. I can’t tell the tale without going, um, let’s say, anti-positive. </div><div><br /></div><div>Despite my complaints about certain aspects of the Boston Marathon over the years, I have to say I’m spoiled. The Boston Athletic Association has this game figured out, or maybe it’s just Dave MacGillivray we have to thank. The New York Road Runner’s Club’s execution of the New York City Marathon? For an event billed as the largest marathon, period, an event that has been staged for over fifty years, I expect you folks have the big things figured out. Minor flaws I let slide. But…what happened Sunday wasn’t minor. </div><div><br /></div><div>First things first: I will never ever ‘dis’ the volunteers. Thousands of them. Every one giving it their all. Every one of them awesome. I thank them. I praise them. Chalk up another positive. </div><div><br /></div><div>But the professional organizers who hung me and thousands of my compatriots out to dry and hamstrung many of our race performances? Thumbscrews for you. Inexcusable dereliction of duty. </div><div><br /></div><div>That’s a pretty serious charge there, so let’s go into it. In New York, you can reach the start on Staten Island by taking a bus from mid-town Manhattan or by finding your own way to the tip of the island and taking the ferry, which sounded like more fun (there are other options, but we’ll simplify). Off the ferry it’s a twenty-minute shuttle bus to the starting village. Or at least it’s supposed to be. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiwEErs2-IeGkUIleG1O-a5XbMBsAXJBXLYzBod_Ueoc4OR7Eg4iKyEYopWU0-kFYYgghI_WoZUMzdCpPiA1tnsQByWMRz1TgpmY0__iMNttWJ-fAK5uGnWbe-mmCQ92PmSaosSAMwPt5Zb3Wxvb3QoWTe62Wsk53TrESohxPUkoYW8e09Buuc6C-/s3129/Image-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3129" data-original-width="2925" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiwEErs2-IeGkUIleG1O-a5XbMBsAXJBXLYzBod_Ueoc4OR7Eg4iKyEYopWU0-kFYYgghI_WoZUMzdCpPiA1tnsQByWMRz1TgpmY0__iMNttWJ-fAK5uGnWbe-mmCQ92PmSaosSAMwPt5Zb3Wxvb3QoWTe62Wsk53TrESohxPUkoYW8e09Buuc6C-/s320/Image-2.jpeg" width="299" /></a></div>To this point, my day was going swimmingly. Awake? Early (even slept well). Out of the hotel? Early. On the subway? Train rolled in as I cleared the turnstile. Ferry? Again, early, slated for the 7:00 but on board the 6:15. The ride? Phenomenal, hanging out on the rail in a mild breeze, the company grand, the views of the city and the Statue of Liberty divine, our Coast Guard escort showing off with speed-boat joy-ride loop-de-loops (awesome pic courtesy of fellow runner and ferry-mate Lily!), what a trip! Docked at Staten Island, all is well. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then it all went to hell. </div><div><br /></div><div>I struggle to understand what came next. There simply was no plan at the far end. And it’s not like they haven’t done this so many times before. Who was asleep at the wheel? And why have we heard nary a peep of apologies since? </div><div><br /></div><div>We walked off the boat into an unorganized mass of humanity stretching a city block and a hundred people deep. No lines, no order, no guidance, no assurance you’d ever get out. On the far edge of this mass, a string of buses would pull in with no defined stopping or loading points and the mass would surge. After several surges, the mass morphed from pleasant to so tightly compressed that you couldn’t squat to rest or stretch your legs, let alone sit. The clouds burned off and we broke out in sweat, dehydrating before even arriving. Everyone tried to be polite, but order didn’t simply break down, it never existed. Another string of buses, we’d shove forward a foot, with forty yards to go. But with no order on the loading edge, no lanes, no safety barriers, just a swarming mass, even the buses had a hard time slipping in, compounding the situation. We found ourselves jammed hip to hip, far more intimate than even friends should be. Runners fruitlessly raised hands yelling, “Wave One” or “Wave Two” and tried to slice through to board, and we tried to oblige, but it just wasn’t possible; they missed their starts and had to join later waves and fight the traffic, oh the traffic, we’ll get to that part of the story, trashing their goals. Still having a mask in my pocket from the subway ride and for the bus, at some point I realized this was no longer an “outdoors” situation and I donned it, knowing I’d missed any window to avoid COVID exposure. It’s no surprise I’m now coughing, popping Paxlovid, and have a voice made for late-night radio. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two. Solid. Hours. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two hours standing jammed crammed baking trashing my legs, wobbly and fatigued before I finally boarded a bus. Having started the morning early on all counts, I stumbled into the starting village a mere ten minutes before my corral was scheduled to load, hyper-fatigued, having missed pre-race nutrition and hydration (in part due to the odd layout of the village where water was hard to find, but to be fair, the starting corral system was phenomenal), and trying hard to compartmentalize what had just happened into the “it must have been a bad dream” box while my legs and body quivered. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let’s back up for a moment and recall that over the last few years, I slipped from rather competitive to entirely not. But over this past year, I was starting to feel pretty good again. While I never expect to return to the low-three-hour range, never mind the old sub-three days, I came to New York with no public goals but a back-of-the mind thought that I could probably notch a qualifier to return to Boston. And sure, the forecast was for too warm, but experience pays, I could manage that (and I did). But I didn’t expect to have to manage being wiped out before the race started. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then we’re walking onto the Staten Island Expressway, and who cares? Start spreadin’ the news! I’m leavin’ today! I want to be a part of it! New York, New York! To hell with all that came before, we’re running across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and I’m in geeky engineer heaven, staring up at the towers, scoping the drop off the side to the harbor, humanizing the normally violently vehicular space. This supposed biggest hill, which truly rises to about two hundred and fifty feet, is so gradual that as a born-and-bred hill runner, I don’t even notice. My first mile split sucks, but that’s more due to traffic than the fact that I’m rising to the top of the bridge. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ah yes. Traffic. Problem number two charged to the New York City Marathon, and, to be fair, many of its participants. Because yes, there are fifty thousand people you have to get through the streets of New York, and that’s hard, so there are a couple of things you do. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY0XyqGSvgXrVhNDN7Sz3X_7FAYSqycNk47qrVxp9ZK--9i6M43wQ7y6wknzTmk7lMH-H2_gzUDrjAqFiW8aj_0PSi3wpFMN988BLetKQfgb0UgQMuoBIfHE04Iua1xOhJ8-2Qva_40G2idok7kwRVgXkrlimHBzZWuC7Are5O0PPwkacn_7G_0aPE/s596/GMC-362%2003%20Pamplona.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="596" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY0XyqGSvgXrVhNDN7Sz3X_7FAYSqycNk47qrVxp9ZK--9i6M43wQ7y6wknzTmk7lMH-H2_gzUDrjAqFiW8aj_0PSi3wpFMN988BLetKQfgb0UgQMuoBIfHE04Iua1xOhJ8-2Qva_40G2idok7kwRVgXkrlimHBzZWuC7Are5O0PPwkacn_7G_0aPE/s320/GMC-362%2003%20Pamplona.png" width="320" /></a></div>For starters, crowd control. There is not an inch of the Boston Marathon where the crowd impinges on the race. In contrast, there were numerous places in New York where crowds didn’t know what the curb meant and nobody was assigned to tell them. The fans were wild, loud, supportive, multi-cultural, inspiring, fantastic. But they didn’t seem to realize that we really needed those streets. In places the course was no wider than a lane and a half, if even that. It felt like the running of the bulls in Pamplona. </div><div><br /></div><div>Second, revisit the self-seeding system. This is hard, and I’m not sure what the answer is; maybe, with my big-city-marathon experience limited to Boston, which is based on qualifier times, maybe I’m just not used to being in the masses of a major marathon? Narrow lanes wouldn’t be a big deal if most everyone was moving along, but that wasn’t the case. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since you’re seeded on your self-predicted time, it would seem that never has there been a group of people more out-of-touch with their abilities than the participants of this marathon. I can’t quite fathom how so many of those seeded around or ahead of me were so slow – nor can I fathom the numbers of walkers, even early on, and how many of them seemed to have no clue to move out of the center of the course. At some points such as heading up the 59th Street Bridge, I’d estimate ninety percent of the field was walking. Sure, it was warm, and sure, that impacts some people differently than others, but that doesn’t explain what I saw. </div><div><br /></div><div>The numbers were staggering, as was the impact. Long-time readers know I try to avoid quoting numbers; this is about telling a story, not numbing you with stats. But numbers tell the story here. Consider that the time I forecast, which was only a few minutes slower than what I ran, slotted me for a bib in the mid-twenty-eight-thousands (out of about sixty thousand bibs). But I finished around seventy-five-hundredth (out of nearly forty-eight thousand finishers), a rough gain of twenty-one thousand places from start to finish. Of course, many started in different waves, so the more accurate measure is that I finished at about fourteen-and-a-half-thousandth based on (first wave) gun time, or in other words, I passed fourteen thousand people. If you do the math, that’s one person every second, and even if you assume a bunch of unassigned bibs and no-shows, both likely, you could drop that to passing three folks every four seconds, a rather insane amount traffic. </div><div><br /></div><div>In short, I was weaving around someone roughly every second. </div><div><br /></div><div>Layer that atop the crowd control issue, toss in more than a few sight-impaired runners with triple-wide two-guide entourages (don’t get me wrong, those folks are amazing and I don’t bemoan their guides, I bemoan the narrow course), and there were places where I was literally stuck. This race became a twenty-six-mile game of tag, deking left, swooping right, surging into gaps, backing off from blocks, every few strides. Exhausting! </div><div><br /></div><div>Alright, I hear you saying, you can’t blame the race for runners being out-of-touch with their inner gazelles, and you’re right. This is, to be fair, hard to fix in a marathon where most do not have to qualify. But may I suggest, dear organizers, that no matter how a runner gets into your race, if they can’t provide an actual half- or full-marathon time (just for seeding, not for entry), maybe you don’t entirely trust them to make it up themselves. Provide guidance, which I don’t recall seeing during the sign-up process. Maybe extrapolate from their ten-kilometer time. I really don’t have a good answer, but try something, because what you’ve got doesn’t work. </div><div><br /></div><div>But let’s move to the third traffic issue: And this one’s entirely on you, New York. </div><div><br /></div><div>New York rightly welcomes “streakers” – those who have finished a large number of previous New York Marathons. They’re obvious, they wear back bibs with their finish count, which is great. But New York puts them up front, even in the first wave. Ask anyone who has completed thirty-something of any race, and after you notice that they’re well ripened, you’ll hear them tell you they’ve slowed down and shouldn’t be up front. Hey, I’ve had my first corral days too, but guess what? I’ve slowed down and I shouldn’t be up front, either, no matter how many times I’ve run a given race. Many of these folks looked like they weren’t going to make it another block. And there were a surprisingly large number of them. More obstacles that just didn’t have to be. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know I’m sounding like the elitist, but… passing three people every four seconds on an unnaturally narrow course. Let that sink in. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihY5ByOZiajbl4ni6N90NSpJG6RRRgv1SkUBQHGdf_CO-Ag8myZxj0RoP0km224gOKGt6eT5NFl3xHsEryx6lt_4WUPR7Nf1jNreGOgoZNLIKzKKwPsLcMOD5QAbK4DFOR6y99xZ725tWOPlj3mrlX65rtdqedHbBcCg9YV2VfdcySndWav3ezLlTE/s1287/GMC-362%2004%20First%20Ave.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1287" data-original-width="914" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihY5ByOZiajbl4ni6N90NSpJG6RRRgv1SkUBQHGdf_CO-Ag8myZxj0RoP0km224gOKGt6eT5NFl3xHsEryx6lt_4WUPR7Nf1jNreGOgoZNLIKzKKwPsLcMOD5QAbK4DFOR6y99xZ725tWOPlj3mrlX65rtdqedHbBcCg9YV2VfdcySndWav3ezLlTE/s320/GMC-362%2004%20First%20Ave.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>Adding this up, the pre-race bus melee leg trashing followed by agonizing and energy sapping unnecessarily thick and funneled traffic from start to finish meant my zone of solid performance ended about five miles earlier than it should have, around seventeen rather than in the twenties. Shortly after meeting Dearest Spouse on First Avenue (best. picture. ever.) (and about the only open part of the course), both calves announced they were really pissed off by all this extracurricular punishment and started twinging. With nine still to go, knowing that twinges beget full on cramps, I had to back off despite having plenty in the cardio bank. That outside stab at a Boston re-qualifier faded, save one last push near the end to try to reel it back in, which did in fact lead to a brief full-on calf seizure.</div><div><br /></div><div>One might say you can’t draw a straight line from one of these events to another, but, well, yes, you can.</div><div><br /></div><div>But let’s finish this by going back to positive. I wasn’t in any way unhappy with the outcome. Crossing the line and knowing that the rigors of the marathon were reduced to a good day’s work is a feeling I can’t deny is deeply satisfying. I’d made the tour, soaking in the grand and the obscure along the way. And after the race (did I mention the fans were, other than crowding the course, amazing?), strolling through the streets of Manhattan (which Dearest Spouse navigated like a pro and found me easily), I was truly heartened by the support of the city. We had about forty blocks’ walk back to the hotel, and on almost every streetcorner New Yorkers congratulated, extolled, fist-bumped, or in some way expressed their adulation. Thank you, New York, that almost makes up for the COVID!</div><div><br /></div><div>Bucket list: Check, done, number thirty-two in the books. </div><div><br /></div><div>Repeat list: Nah. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><u>Short Takes</u></b> </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Personal Worst:</b> Not counting the virtual Boston of 2020, which was an official marathon, but I just can’t call a race, this was my slowest marathon. Yet interestingly on an age graded basis, it was only close to my slowest, edging a post-injury Boston and my very first one at Cape Cod. So in other words, seventeen years later I’m back where I started. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>It’s Just Not the Same Game:</b> I’m used to Boston, where the time I ran would have me soundly crushed in the results. In New York, it put me at the top twelve percent in my age group, and I’m in the last year of that age group. It’s just a different world. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Bad Vibes? Really, No Vibes:</b> Part of the fun of a marathon is chatting it up with your fellow runners. While we did that a-plenty through the pre-race ordeal and again in the post-race walk-off, I’ve never experienced a less social crowd in-race. Part of the problem was that I was blowing by nearly everyone around me. Of the small subset near my pace, far too many were buried in their ear-pods and oblivious to all around them, something I highly frown upon. Of the remainder, several just didn’t respond when I tried to start up a conversation. Which makes it all the more notable that the ONE runner I had any decent chat with starting on the 59th Street Bridge and heading up First Avenue, Johan from the Netherlands, ended up in the shot that Dearest Spouse took on First. I was able to track him down and was pleased to hear he ran a personal best. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>It Was Only Us, Really:</b> It's worth noting that those who used other offered transit options to the start had no idea what we ferry folks had just lived through. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>By The Way, Mile Markers Matter:</b> Yeah, one more gripe. It didn’t surprise me when I missed the six- and seven-mile markers, as I often miss markers (and New York’s were annoyingly right on top of water stops, so taking a split while navigating water stop traffic, not the best arrangement). As such I expected the split on my watch at mile eight to look like three miles. Instead, it looked like about two and a half. There was no way that number made sense, and there was no possibility I’d have taken that split if there wasn’t a mile marker, so, um, yeah, what’s with that? Missed nine, so let’s find ten and I can reset my mental pace with easy divide-by-ten math. And there it is on the left side, the ten-mile marker, click the watch! Wait, what? Ten seconds later, there’s ten again, this time on the right side (and if you’re thinking, New York has three course groups, green, blue, and yellow, this was two miles after they merged, so that wasn’t it). Two ten-mile markers, ten seconds apart? Why is this so hard? </div><div><br /></div><div><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzPqFJsKtMfRGEppqa3SImOUCNKMEc8g4I6Hz03uopiXV2REj7oqO1ONMIAgxq9NVPtJeR3A9TYSSb6TIQn1NeSasbvWlyPc1iVljJvYFSgBeyiUDGkaYOqxb1TH6gTQiNFK5OqYS0B0UsRMd-1csQDLQeDnCdilwl26GQw3PjXU05aKHN0W97Ps9/s1811/GMC-362%2005%20backpack.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1811" data-original-width="1282" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzPqFJsKtMfRGEppqa3SImOUCNKMEc8g4I6Hz03uopiXV2REj7oqO1ONMIAgxq9NVPtJeR3A9TYSSb6TIQn1NeSasbvWlyPc1iVljJvYFSgBeyiUDGkaYOqxb1TH6gTQiNFK5OqYS0B0UsRMd-1csQDLQeDnCdilwl26GQw3PjXU05aKHN0W97Ps9/s320/GMC-362%2005%20backpack.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>You Call This Recovery?</b> Knowing we’d be kicked out of our hotel Monday morning long before our afternoon train, we packed in backpacks to go mobile. Mine grew obscenely and probably weighed in at twenty-five to thirty pounds (not that Dearest Spouse’s wasn’t significant also), and with that behemoth on my back, somehow our brief city stroll turned into an eight-plus-mile odyssey. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Why Tell Us? Tell New York Road Runners:</b> You survived my moaning. Why am I telling you, not them? Well, the post-race survey arrived Tuesday. Good, I thought, I can unleash about the bus fiasco. Nope, it was all about, “What did you think of our sponsors?” Seriously. Nothing about the race itself. Just about the coin. Sad.</div>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-70722526842320922202022-03-31T17:15:00.002-04:002022-03-31T17:15:38.750-04:00Going For the World Record
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<p>When I was a kid, we would actually read the <i>Guinness Book of World Records</i>. There was always a copy around the house and I seem to recall we’d actually buy a new one now and then, expecting to see new and interesting factoids, yet it seemed each version had the same creepy picture of the guy with several-feet-long fingernails (which, with the birth of the Internet, is no longer shocking of course). Sis may recall all of this differently, but it matters not since this paragraph is, after all, just a set-up.</p>
<p>Because I’m going for what I figure must be a world record. I’m certain it’s not in the aforementioned book. But it has to be a record. And I’ll be very happy if I fail in my attempt.</p>
<p>People try for years to get into the New York City Marathon. Year after year they enter the lottery, they get turned down, they try again, they get dinged again. I, on the other hand, have had a different sort of New York problem: I keep getting in, but I’ve still never run the race. Not Did-Not-Finish, mind you. Did-Not Start. Did-Not-Show-Up.</p>
<p>Four times. How many people can say that? And now I’m going for a fifth.</p>
<p>I’m in again, and if I don’t run, well, seriously, can you think of anyone who’s been registered to run New York <i>five times</i> and has never run the race? That’s gotta’ make the Fred Lebow edition of the Guinness book. But as noted, I’ll be happy if I fail in this attempt because, hey, after all, it would be cool to finally run New York.</p>
<p>For the record, I’ve never had to deal with the lottery. My entries have always started as a qualifier – for which there aren’t all that many slots in New York, but they do exist. And from there they’ve all gone south in one way or another. First time, skipped due to an injury. Then came Hurricane Sandy, but I took the refund rather than the deferral (yet they still sent me shirts and medals – very sweet of them!). Third try, another one skipped due to another injury, though that time I took a deferral, which landed me in the next edition – my fourth try – which was body-slammed by COVID. For that one I took yet another deferral and, fighting injuries at the time, pushed it out a year to this year’s race. And whaddaya’ know, along comes the registration window and I am finally feeling like I might make it marathon distance by fall. Plus, as I was pondering whether it made sense to shell out another New-York-sized entry fee, it occurred to me that I’d opted not to take the refund the last time, so when the invitation came in, it rang up at zero dollars. Two words: Saw-weet! So here we go, attempt number five. I waltz into either Central Park or the record books at oh-for-life.</p>
<p>Now, I hear you saying, what’s all this talk about marathons? Didn’t you walk away from Boston just a few months ago? Haven’t your injuries of late pretty much hinted that marathons might not be the best idea for a frequent hobby? Yes, I hear you saying that. And yes, I did walk away from Boston, including my continuous streak, which means it’s now harder for me to get back into Boston. And yes, going back to the old days of three marathons a year are probably not the best medicine, but hey, now and then…</p>
<p>And besides, you’re missing the point. After a few years of struggling with all sorts of injuries – my last race was in the fall of nineteen and resulted in a torn meniscus, followed the next summer by more injury struggles that led to far more cycling than running (which, in the first year of COVID was just fine with me), and followed by yet another summer of barely running – well, after all that, I’m finally mostly back in one piece. I’ve put in a few consecutive months of decent training, and while I’m still sucking wind, I’m actually starting to feel like a runner again. In short, I’m a few years older but I’m not dead yet (and still looking in awe of our clubmate “TB76” who’s still running strong and inspiring us at yes, that age).</p>
<p>At this point, my perspective is entirely different. I might well compete again, but I don’t have to. Those “lost years” of injury fog – which, I note, weren’t lost at all, due to the cycling and lots of hiking which notched a few lifetime goals – notched me up a few years but also in the age grading tables, which have always been my measure of reality. You can’t just compare today’s pace to five years back and lament, because your tires have five more years on them. And using those beloved tables, even yesterday’s training run, had it been a race, would have ranked with some of my lower-end ten-miler races from years back. So my wind-sucking of today isn’t really that bad. And next year, when I hit a new age group, well, I’ll never say never, it could be fun to seriously toe the line again. Because Dearest Spouse thinks I don’t have enough award crap in my office already (not).</p>
<p>But as noted, I don’t have to compete, I can just enjoy. I’m loving just going for the runs. Our club runs have never been more fun, because as for pace, well, I just don’t care, it’s just great to be out with friends (COVID sort of taught us that, you think? …and it also taught us that if you didn’t run today, who really cares if you shower?). Really, as for the marathon thing, other than knowing I have to remind myself how I used to keep going for twenty miles, the rest doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>So, New York won’t be like the marathons of old, tweaking and tuning and fretting the training, the gear, the logistics, the everything just to get it all right for that great time. It won’t be a body-punishing death-warmed-over struggle to shave off a couple more minutes. I’m just going for a run. I’m going to soak up the five boroughs. I’m going to see a million New Yorkers. I might even, at the suggestion of my native New Yorker running buddy the Brooklyn Barrister, even do something as cheesy as putting my name on my shirt just to rile up the crowd and have a little – no, scratch that – a lotta’ fun. I’ll get there when I get there. And if I waltz into Central Park instead of the record books under the category of Non-Completion, it will in fact be a waltz.</p>
<p>Remind me of that so I remember to do a little dance step over the finish line.</p>
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-91598107566932706162021-09-28T19:41:00.000-04:002021-09-28T19:41:10.220-04:00State of the Unicorn
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<p>There comes a time to walk away. There also comes a time to accept that it’s OK for someone else to walk away. I’m not running the Boston Marathon this year. No unicorn this year. Don’t ask me to convince you that I know what I’m saying. I know exactly what I’m saying. Yes, I’m qualified for this year’s race, and yes, I’m entered (and paid for it), and no, I’m not showing up.</p>
<p>This ends a fourteen-year run of qualifying and running every year. It ends my ten-year-streak status that gets me in with a simple qualifying time rather than having to make the time plus the ‘cut-off’ (which makes qualifying harder, being over seven minutes this year). It ends a chapter of my life that frankly, I never expected to happen in the first place, but it was grand, it helped define me, and it will never leave me. Hella’ run.</p>
<p>I’m fine with it. But it’s become clear to me that some of you I’ve spoken with might not be fine with it. Let me be blunt: please get over that. You need to be fine with me being fine with it. Stop being amazed. Stop trying to talk me out of this. I’m thrilled that I’ve had this experience. Be thrilled with me. I’m not dying. I’m good.</p>
<p>First and most importantly, my body says no. Too many parts are saying that it just doesn’t make sense to pile on that additional wear and tear. From here on, I run for fun. I run for joy. I run when I can without too much ensuing damage. But the “hinges” (as a friend I hadn’t seen in years referred to them the other day) are requesting that I don’t punish them further at the moment just to cover the twenty-six into Boston for the fifteenth (official) time. I just don’t need to.</p>
<p>That’s the second part: I’ve nothing to prove. I’m not going to run fifty of these, or forty, or even twenty-five. Any of those numbers are a grand achievement. But so is fourteen. How many people have run fourteen consecutive Bostons – each time as a qualified runner? (Hint: I don’t know, and I don’t care.) I’m thrilled with what’s happened since that first one in ’07, the one that was almost cancelled due to what at the time we thought was an awful storm (oh, if we’d only known what was coming!). I’m thrilled at the levels of success I’ve had along the way. There are no woulda’ coulda’s in my rearview mirror.</p>
<p>The body says that if I push my training hard enough to do anything more than jog the race, various parts will rebel. At the moment, it’s the left Achilles, and also the left knee, but at any given time of late it has been any number of parts. But things have always hurt in the past, right? Given better timing, might I have worked around some of these issues? Sure. This time, though, those aches and pains not only intersected with training, but had I pushed it, would have likely pushed off other life goals. You can’t hike mountains if you can’t even walk, right?</p>
<p>Age? Of course, but that’s not admitting defeat, just management. Wear and tear from years of pounding the pavement? Yep, but I wouldn’t trade those miles for anything in the world. I may have wounds, but I also have the wins, actual, metaphorical, and emotional, and I’m still in fine mettle compared to the average Joe my age. (Have you seen poor Joe?)</p>
<p>So why not just jog it? Take that victory lap? In one word, Delta. And in a few more words, the ratio of Delta to gain.</p>
<p>Don’t get me wrong. The Gods of Boston are trying to do the right things. For this year’s race, you have to be vaccinated or test negative. But wherever you set up a security periphery, there is danger at that edge. You can’t get in to get your bib until you’ve met medical mettle. But you’ll be among crowds to get to the med tent to show your vaccine card or get your test. And those crowds will come from places like Mississippi (with apologies to vaccinated folks in Mississippi, but no apologies whatsoever for the unvaxxed). So you’re still in a crowd, and it’s still, um, Delta. (And oddly, it seems you can go into the expo no matter who you are, but hey, I could be reading that wrong, and I could skip that anyway as there aren’t as many freebies as in the golden age anyway).</p>
<p>So there’s a risk. But life is a risk. We fly, we drive, we eat fast food, and certainly none of us realized the risk of getting blown up in ’13. But we take those risks for reasons. Here, there’s just not that great of a reason.</p>
<p>If I had a chance in hell of re-qualifying for next year, that would tilt the equation. But there isn’t. Running Boston this year was always going to be a joyride, a victory lap. Jog out number fifteen, spend a lot more time high fiving the crowd, maybe soak up the scream tunnel a little more, do those crowd waves, you know, live it up, soak it in.</p>
<p>But why risk it in the age of Delta? Not just me, but why put Dearest Spouse at risk? And Dearest Offspring the Younger, who now being just an hour and a half up the road, we tend to see more often (the Elder being six air hours away is reasonably safe from any foolishness I might propagate). It’s just not worth the risk for a shirt and a fun run, especially when my drawer of shirts runneth over years ago. And the crowd will probably be rather meager anyway.</p>
<p>So let it go. Let the Achilles heal (they take way too long) so I’ll be running in the winter, the spring, and beyond. Make sure I can continue to hang out with my running buds, the best friends one could ever hope for. Ponder that I might be dumb enough to even jog New York next year, since I’ve got a reserved entry thanks to my fourth attempt at running it was again cancelled (and if I register and don’t run it again, I might set a record for not running New York five times – that’s gotta’ count for something, right?).</p>
<p>At the end of the day, Boston is just a race, and I’m not willing to risk “Long COVID” and propagating the next mutation of the virus, let alone the health of my family, for just a race. It’s changed, too. Once the ultimate mecca, the grandaddy, the pinnacle of marathoning, well, it still is, but it’s also become just another product, marketed incessantly in order to expand its brand. Yes, the race almost died in the seventies when prize money emerged at other races and Boston resisted, so yes, you have to keep up with the Joneses at some point, but this year’s pitch for their virtual event shed all semblance of glory and stature. To refresh you, they advertised a virtual event well before they announced what the real event would look like. They offered an absurdly large number of entries – I believe it was seventy thousand, though I haven’t fact-checked my recollection. For a hundred and twenty-five bucks – I kid you not – you could go for a run on your own. A shirt was fifty more. I can’t lie to you: that blatant money-grab lowered their stature in my eyes more than a few notches. This on the tail of last year’s virtual event mobile app which featured pre-loaded glamour photos of supposed participants, which, if real, were amazingly and consistently genetically superior to average-looking marathoners, and which, as a marathon app, failed to cover the basics like measuring the course accurately (it rang up twenty-four for me) and submitting results successfully (I had to do it via email to the support team). It does make you wonder where the priorities lie.</p>
<p>Then there are the realities of COVID. While they are holding the event this year (others are still cancelling, most recently Mount Desert Island marathon which again threw in the towel in the face of pressures on the local medical system due to the virus), it’s not all that much of an event. Unless you’re an elite, there is no start this year. There’s no Athlete’s Village. The bus drops you off in Hopkinton, you walk to the start, and when you get there, you go for a run. We all knew that with chip timing it never really mattered when you started, but the start was the event. Even if you were in the second or later waves, you heard the announcers, saw the flyover, felt the excitement. Now it’s kind of like a garden fountain, buses hauling runners from Boston and dropping them to drizzle back to Boston in a continuous flow. One almost suspects you could get to Boston, get on a bus, and just do it again. All we need is the little statue of Buddha next to the stream as the water trickles down the rocks, waiting to be pumped back to the top.</p>
<p>And not to mention, the community of agony will be gone. I can’t count the number of times I’ve shared snacks, cups, and whole water bottles with my fellow runners. We always instinctively trusted our strong bodies to overcome any passed pathogens. No longer. I wouldn’t even want to be behind someone breathing heavily. Mississippi again (and sorry again to Mississippi vaxxers). And it’s not just me. If the Gods of Boston thought it was safe for you to be close to your fellow runners, there would be a real start. There isn’t, because it isn’t.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uV5_38yFFaw/YVOmquRgbyI/AAAAAAAAFBA/kl-M-mIy0WgHQuNsPIkofhA2htSbt71IwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1020/GMC-360%2B01%2BBoundary%2Bhonor.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1020" data-original-width="646" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uV5_38yFFaw/YVOmquRgbyI/AAAAAAAAFBA/kl-M-mIy0WgHQuNsPIkofhA2htSbt71IwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-360%2B01%2BBoundary%2Bhonor.jpg"/></a></div><p>So this summer I’ve focused elsewhere. Some cycling again like last summer to be sure, but more toward the mountains, where I’ve wrapped up some significant life-long goals. Within a three-week span I wrapped up the Adirondack 46ers, the Northeast 111, and the New England Hundred Highest summit lists, the latter a truly unique experience, finishing on the Canadian Border at Boundary Peak. (True, when arriving for my annual physical a week later and being asked whether I’d been out of the country, having hiked for three miles along the border – and back – the answer took a little explaining.) Those goals were nearly forty years in the making.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehY7kDun4Sg/YVOmwOPZydI/AAAAAAAAFBE/ponDOm3gktA1n787bCBTuHZhN6d5HaoeACNcBGAsYHQ/s1551/GMC-360%2B02%2BBoundary%2Bsummit.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1551" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehY7kDun4Sg/YVOmwOPZydI/AAAAAAAAFBE/ponDOm3gktA1n787bCBTuHZhN6d5HaoeACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-360%2B02%2BBoundary%2Bsummit.jpg"/></a></div><p>My point is that the restless adventurer soul isn’t going to curl up in a corner and dry up because I stop running one race. I may hang back for a while, let various parts heal, and return at a little lower intensity, but return is most certainly in the cards. Probably not to Boston, but hey, been there, done that. On to the next chapter.
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-82794093565280605022020-11-22T21:07:00.037-05:002021-08-26T16:49:08.958-04:00Announcing the Janice Cattarin Memorial Scholarship for Women
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<i>Note: This site hosts my long-running running blog. Today I’m using it as a convenient platform to post about the endowed scholarship that my sister and I have created in honor of our mom, Janice Cattarin, who passed away in July of 2020. The first section of this post is a short briefer on the scholarship – what you need to know to donate and enhance the endowment. After that are some additional stories about mom that you may enjoy. And after that, navigate the blog if you’re so inclined. I haven’t written much in the last year, but there are plenty of stories archived for your enjoyment.</i></p><p></p><p><b><i>For the “Just Let Me Donate Now! Quick!” folks… </i></b></p><p><b><i>Go to <a href="http://www.sunybroome.edu/gift" target="_blank">www.sunybroome.edu/gift</a>. Under Designation of Gift, check “In Honor” or “In Memory” and enter “Janice Cattarin Scholarship”. If your employer offers matching gifts, the Foundation qualifies!</i></b>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Janice Cattarin Memorial Scholarship for Women</b></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3VCW07IDu4/X7sT-gxy--I/AAAAAAAAE9w/BJSIKPC1exkz-_qxHffHjqfwRl1vGIhgQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/2010-08%2BJan%2BCattarin%2Bat%2B72.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1622" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3VCW07IDu4/X7sT-gxy--I/AAAAAAAAE9w/BJSIKPC1exkz-_qxHffHjqfwRl1vGIhgQCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/2010-08%2BJan%2BCattarin%2Bat%2B72.jpg" /></a></div>Janice Cattarin believed strongly in the value of education and worked actively to further educational opportunities for women in the Southern Tier of New York, her home for nearly 60 years.
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Widowed at age 28 in the mid-1960s with two young children, Jan was fortunate that her late husband’s employer IBM offered her a position shortly thereafter. That was possible in large part because she was also fortunate to have had the opportunity to earn a degree earlier in life. Her education likely made the difference between just getting by as a single mother and the quarter-century-long professional career she enjoyed at IBM, which spanned numerous functions until she retired in 1992. Her family benefited tremendously from the value of her having the education which enabled her success.
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In 1967 Jan joined the Binghamton chapter of American Association of University Women, an organization founded in 1881 with the mission to advance equity for women and girls through advocacy, education and research. She was active in the organization for over fifty years until her death in 2020. She held nearly every office, attended every meeting possible, and volunteered at every event, and most importantly was active in the AAUW Scholarship Committee. She received the Binghamton area Women of Achievement Award in 1984 for her work in AAUW.
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The Janice Cattarin Memorial Scholarship for Women was established by her children to honor their mother, to give back to the community that was her and her family’s home, and to recognize the value of education for women, especially those who find themselves in a changing or difficult life situation where education offers the opportunity to raise themselves and their families to success.
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<b>SUNY Broome and the Janice Cattarin Scholarship</b>
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SUNY Broome, formerly known as Broome Community College, offers an ideal environment to maximize the impact of the Janice Cattarin Scholarship. It fulfills the educational needs for those striving to elevate their situation while holding costs low, but student resources are also often low, and there is always need.
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It is intended that the Scholarship will operate in perpetuity, awarding several scholarships annually. Recipients will be chosen by a committee made up of SUNY Broome faculty, family, SUNY Broome academic affairs staff, and members of the Binghamton Chapter of AAUW.
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<b>Giving to the Janice Cattarin Memorial Scholarship for Women</b>
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The Janice Cattarin Memorial Scholarship for Women is administered by the Broome Community College Foundation (a.k.a. SUNY Broome Foundation), a 501(c)3 foundation affiliated with SUNY Broome. Gifts are tax-deductible to the extent allowed by law.
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Gifts can be made online or by check as detailed at <a href="http://www.sunybroome.edu/ways-to-give" target="_blank">www.sunybroome.edu/ways-to-give</a>
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Online gifts can be made at <a href="http://www.sunybroome.edu/gift" target="_blank">www.sunybroome.edu/gift</a>
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Under Designation of Gift, please be sure to check either “In Honor” or “In Memory” and enter “Janice Cattarin Scholarship”. The full scholarship name isn’t required; the staff will identify the gift and designate appropriately.
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The Janice Cattarin Scholarship can also benefit from matching gifts from employers who offer this benefit. Please see details at <a href="http://www.sunybroome.edu/matching-gifts" target="_blank">www.sunybroome.edu/matching-gifts</a>.
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<b>About the SUNY Broome Foundation</b>
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The Broome Community College Foundation strives to be among the most supportive community college foundations in the State University of New York System and in the country. The Foundation aims to assist needy students, recognize and honor high-achieving students, help faculty and staff provide the best instructional environment possible, and encourage innovation and achievement on campus, especially where government funds are either unavailable or insufficient.
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Each year, about 87% of the SUNY Broome student population need additional funding to attend school. Without this help, attending college would be a little to null opportunity. Through the valiant efforts of the College alumni, businesses, community friends, foundations, associations, organizations, SUNY Broome faculty, staff, and students, the Foundation is able to award over $1,000,000 each year to deserving and financially disadvantaged students. The Foundation’s priority is to provide private financial funding to our students through merit scholarships and grants-in-aid.
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Additional information on the SUNY Broome Foundation can be found at: <a href="http://broomeccfoundation.org" target="_blank">broomeccfoundation.org</a>
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Broome Community College Foundation, Inc.
<br />PO Box 1017
<br />Binghamton, NY 13902-1017
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For additional information about the Janice Cattarin Scholarship Memorial for Women please feel free to contact:
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Catherine Abashian Williams, MPA, CFRE
<br />Executive Director, Broome Community College Foundation, Inc.
<br />williamscr at sunybroome.edu
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or Gary Cattarin, son of Janice Cattarin at cattarin at comcast.net
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<i>Note: That's the facts bit. The rest is for your enjoyment.</i>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>More About Mom and the Scholarship</b></span>
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Let’s start with the frank part: Many who’ve run with me, worked with me, or just crossed my path have heard me lament about the trials and tribulations of caring for my aged mother (from afar, Cindy did most of the up-close leg work, bless her…). Truth: The last decade has been a rough ride. Mom did plenty of things I’ve complained vocally about as my form of ‘talk therapy’. Elderly people are frustrating in many ways. I probably will be too at some point, even if I’d like to think that I’ve learned some things not to do from mom.
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But here’s the other frank part: Before all that, Mom was all the nuts. To use a bad sports metaphor, she wasn’t just thrown a curve ball, she took the proverbial beanball. I’ve mentioned repeatedly – in her obituary, in the scholarship brief above, and many other times – how she was widowed early with two young kids. You know that part. What else you should know is how she got up out of the dust and made it. And not just eked it out, but made it comfortably and with style.
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She told me once that after dad’s death, she’d considered moving from our home in Upstate New York back to Ohio to be near her parents. But she didn’t. She kept on, and made her own life in New York. IBM was invaluable in making that happen, but they were only the third part of the equation. Her education was the first, her spirit the enabler, and IBM provided the vehicle.
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Mom & Dad moved to the Endicott area when Dad the engineer took a job with IBM in 1961. In the five years before he passed, he made quite a mark; when I co-op’d there in 1980, people introduced me as Bob’s son. That was an eye-opener. Tom Watson’s IBM took care of their own in those days, and they hired mom the year after dad's death. Sure, they needed every able-bodied brain they could get, but mom’s education opened doors that led past a basic job to a professional career. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
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As a young kid, you don’t see the significance of a lot of things; they just are. When the Chevy wagon went away for the ’67 Firebird, it never occurred to me that mom was young and single and cool. It just meant that when we piled in the car with the neighborhood kids for a ride to McDonald’s, which in those days was take-out and we often ate in the car, it was a tight fit in a tiny backseat. But somehow we fit; we were little, and she was young and single and cool and on top of that, a professional woman.
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She wasn’t the only one. IBM was ahead of its time. We spent plenty of time with her professional women friends. It seemed perfectly normal to me. But looking back I can see all the things I didn’t notice then. That small klatch was still an anomaly, even at IBM, and almost non-existent outside that orbit. It was still a man’s world. Mail still came to Mrs. Robert Cattarin a decade or more after dad’s death. She just didn’t let that stop her.
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She dated a couple of people but never remarried. She finished the job, so to speak, of raising us, all on her own. Sure, she had help. For years she employed our caretaker, Mrs. Lucas to be there when we got home from school, since she couldn’t be (and yes, she was smart enough to file and pay the employer portion social security taxes, unlike a later Supreme Court candidate who didn't). Her parents would move in for a week each year and scrub every surface and fix every broken thing. And we had the best neighbors in the world. Bill next door was there for anything we needed. Not because of sympathy for that single mom next door, but just because that’s who he was (and still is, for that matter).
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By the time I was in high school it had finally dawned on me that the reason I had to coordinate with mom for dinner plans almost daily over email (yes, in 1980, we were both IBMers, she for real, me as a high-school co-op) was because her calendar was, well, crazy. She was crazy involved.
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You learn how not to grow moss from such a person.
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So back to the scholarship. Why? The scholarship is endowed at the SUNY Broome Foundation and benefits SUNY Broome students. SUNY Broome is the new name for what we knew as Broome Community College (SUNY, for those of you non-New Yorkers, is the State University of New York system). Neither I nor my sister nor mom went to SUNY Broome (though my younger kid did get a fine education at another SUNY school). So why there?
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The year after dad passed, mom joined an organization called the American Association of University Women, or AAUW. I don’t know how she learned about it or what spurred her initial sign-up, but it’s not hard to guess that educated professional women in the 60’s were not in the majority, and that the social and intellectual rewards from hanging out with people of her type were a big draw. Mom had attended Stephens College in Missouri, which at that time was a junior college, and then Ohio University in Athens, Ohio (not to be confused with THE Ohio State University), so she had a degree, which, as I’ve noted, probably made all the difference between just making it and making it nicely. I can’t say that IBM wouldn’t have hired her, but I can speculate that they wouldn’t have put her on professional track without her education.
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AAUW has been all about advocating for women’s education since their founding in the nineteenth century. Today, when women make up more than half of all college students, that might seem like an anachronism. But when broken down by field, there is still a long way to go. I’m an avid reader of Scientific American, and they’ve run countless columns about how far we are from gender equity in science and research, for example. And even now, there’s no question that traditional women’s roles persist. Not that that’s wrong, but it adds a challenge to a woman trying to come back from life’s curve balls – or beanballs – and lift themselves to success.
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Mom worked tirelessly on almost everything that AAUW did. And one of those things that AAUW did was to create a scholarship fund endowed at SUNY Broome, targeting ‘non-traditional’ women students. Not teens just getting started, but women who have taken a curve ball or a beanball and are trying to lift themselves and their families to success. That was mom’s story. My story is what it is because she succeeded.
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When mom passed and we wanted to designate a charity for gifts, because we didn’t want flowers and in the age of COVID had nothing to do with them anyway, so sis and I opted for the AAUW scholarship fund as a worthy target. Then when the dust settled, we decided to earmark funds she’d given us years earlier to the same cause. In light of our substantial gift, the AAUW chapter considered renaming their scholarship in mom’s name, but in the end we opted to set up a separate endowed scholarship in her name with the same goals and selection criterion as the original fund. This means more grants to more students. And hopefully more success stories and successful and happy families. And it also serves as a gift to the community which she called home for nearly sixty years, and which gave sis and I our starts.
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The scholarship is administered by the SUNY Broome Foundation who’s significant size means the endowment enjoys perpetual professional investment management. The Binghamton AAUW Scholarship Committee will judge applicants, though sis and I can also chime in if we wish, and the Foundation will ensure that if AAUW and sis and I are long gone, they’ll continue to administer the scholarship and award grants. So this really is a perpetual gift.
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When was the last time you were able to be a part of a legacy?
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Please consider donating to the scholarship fund.
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And thanks for reading this.
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By the way, you can read <a href="https://www.legacy.com/obituaries/pressconnects/obituary.aspx?n=janice-ann-cattarin&pid=196474897&fhid=13278" target="_blank">mom’s obituary here</a>.
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-59685750709946751422020-09-18T16:00:00.002-04:002020-09-18T16:36:09.826-04:00On Six
<p>Was it just two weeks ago that I broke my blogging silence? Answer: slightly more, but pretty much, yeah. And did I call that one, “Take Six”, whereas I’m calling this one “On Six”? Answer: yeah, but that is purely a convenient coincidence. And when you read this story, should you assume that the last episode was an intentional setup for this one? Answer: Not on your life. Really. It wasn’t.</p>
<p>Sure, I hadn’t published in ten months (nearly eleven, but who’s counting?). And sure, I said it was anyone’s guess as to whether I’d run the Virtual Boston Marathon, with the smart money resting on No. And yes, I did run it a few days later. But it wasn’t a setup. I didn’t know. Trust me on this.</p>
<p>Eagle-eyed readers will notice that my previous post saw the light of day on the last day of August. Truth is, it came out under dark of night somewhat after midnight on the first day of September. Having failed to poke my head above water since last October, I felt a weird drive to publish earlier than the month before hitting a solid year of silence. And I came so close to getting it done, missing by about twenty minutes, that I backdated it into August. Call it cheating, and shame me. I know this sounds weird. It just mattered at the time. And this confession matters now, why?</p>
<p>Because that was Tuesday, the first of September, and so far as I knew, there was no way in purgatory (or lower) that I’d run Virtual Boston. Sure, there was a part of me that wanted to do it, but the event window was opening in mere days and I had run a grand total of nine laps around the track – two and a quarter miles – since swapping the running shoes for the bike shoes back in mid-May. And that was absolutely the truth. At that moment.</p>
<p>The very next day, my clubmate Dan turned things up-side-down. </p>
<p>At noon on Wednesday – yes, the very day after posting that it’d be nearly unthinkable that I’d run a “VBM” – Dan pinged me: “Do you think you could run a half marathon? Would you join us for the first half of our Virtual Boston on Saturday morning? We’ll go slow! I promise!”</p>
<p>Game on.</p>
<p>Now, the idea of showing up and running any distance with a group that would have to figure out what to do when I crumpled into a ball by the side of the road after a few miles was simply ludicrous. But as I’ve said often before, the runner mentality doesn’t rule out ludicrous.</p><p>The idea that I’d join them only to run as a pacer or companion for the first half alone wasn’t so much ludicrous as it was a defiance of logic. What’s with this halfway stuff? Why suffer just for that? And me pace them? Seriously, don’t you have that a little backwards? Hey, if I’m in, I’m in.</p><p>But I was by no means in. At least, not yet. Not having run only nine laps three weeks earlier.</p>
<p>So I check my calendar and yup, I’ve got no meetings for the next hour. I lace up the shoes and go out the door and, well, let’s just see what happens.</p><p>Serendipity happens.</p>
<p>We all know that we run together not only because it’s socially enjoyable, but because in doing so we drive each other forward almost subconsciously. You stop thinking about everything that hurts and you focus on good conversation. But doing anything together of late has been fraught with risk; we all know that even seemingly healthy people can be asymptomatic carriers in the Age of COVID. So I certainly haven’t been calling people up to run or bike or hike with (though I’ve toyed with the idea a few times). But as I noted, serendipity happens.</p>
<p>Less than an hour from Dan’s ping, when I step out the door, a (different) friend I haven’t seen or chatted with in a while runs past my driveway. Like this was all planned. I call out, he holds up for me to waddle up to catch him, and we end up cruising a few miles, blissful chatter making me ignore the fact that my body hasn’t run since, when? Which, to be fair, it really didn’t seem to be minding. Rolling home a whopping four and a quarter miles later and feeling fine, I figured Saturday could happen. But I wasn’t going to commit. Not yet. Let’s at least pop in a few more miles on Thursday, and maybe even a loosen-up jaunt on Friday.</p>
<p>Here’s where I say, “Wait a minute, how old am I, and how long have I been doing this? And don’t I know what’s coming by this point?” Denial is powerful. I really thought I’d run a little more before Saturday. I should have known better. My body has been consistent since, oh, let’s say, forever. There’s a three-day recovery from these first-time-for-anything efforts. From the bodily insult on Day Zero, we move to Day One, where the muscles aren’t happy. Then we hit Day Two, also known as Max Burn Day, which is just that. Day Three brings the fire down to Day One level, and the next day we’re in the clear. This, for me, has always been. The weeks-prior track laps had been so slow, with breaks in-between, that they didn’t trigger the sequence. False confidence. But galivanting off with a friend at a real pace (not fast, but at least a pace in the neighborhood of what Dan had planned for Saturday), well, yeah, that pretty much did it. The clock was activated.</p>
<p>Now you’re doing the math and you’ve quickly realized that time may be flexible in the relativistic space, but not here in normal life, and there wasn’t enough of it. From that run on Wednesday, hmm, then Day One, muscles certainly hurt, I’d better rest. Then Day Two, Max Burn Day, landed on Friday and it was indeed quite the burn; running on them now would probably extend it so I’d better not. And yes, that puts Day Three on… Saturday. Mid-day, really. So no, we’re not out of the woods by early morning Saturday. Not even close.</p>
<p>Having thus not gotten out the door again, that meant Saturday rolled around not only with legs still afire, but with a mere six and a half miles on my running odometer since May. Sweet.</p>
<p>And that brings us to the wordplay section of our story. Those of you who have ever done a track workout with me know that one of my old wisecracks is to tell the group that we’ll start (whatever interval we’re doing) on six. Then I’ll start counting, “One! Two! Six!” and bolt. My fellow runners get a humorous break during the workout, and they catch on after the first few times.</p>
<p>So it is. We go on six. And so it was on Saturday.</p><p>Now, Dan’s VBM course started at his home in Hudson, a few miles north of my home, and headed due south to the Boston Marathon starting line in Hopkinton, which happens to be exactly a half marathon (you really can’t make this up, the distance just works out; it’s eerie). This meant we’d be running through my town, bypassing my home by just a mile or so. Not knowing how this whole VBM would go, I told Dearest Spouse that I might be home within the hour.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y2TtEYTTG34/X2Qo4LhIllI/AAAAAAAAE9A/lhBbz5mvVIcati0VLdP_MAslhxS_zcQ_ACNcBGAsYHQ/s1080/GMC-358%2B01%2BStart.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="1080" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-y2TtEYTTG34/X2Qo4LhIllI/AAAAAAAAE9A/lhBbz5mvVIcati0VLdP_MAslhxS_zcQ_ACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-358%2B01%2BStart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The rest is almost a foregone conclusion. Quads, hamstrings, and at least one calf were angry by the very first block from our socially distanced start (which admittedly was virtually impossible to maintain for twenty six miles, though we tried – at least at times) at the chalk start/finish line Dan had laid down in front of his home. Everything north my waist was hunky-dory; the cycling had done it’s work for cardio health, and my brain was deluded enough to ignore the rest, a good thing since the southern half hurt early and just got worse as the day wore on. But chit-chat, ribbing, bad jokes, and even, late in the day, truly horrendous singing kept us going, the three of us who planned to go the distance, and a fourth (later joined by a fifth) along for camaraderie, plus the roadside assistance from Dan’s wife and other friends. I hand Dan a lot of credit for setting all this up – even getting the club’s show clock for the finish line – and for policing our pace to a fault. Riding a wave of adrenaline of stupidity, I cruised past the bail-out-for-home point and just ran. Slowly. Casually. Somewhat painfully. Yet enjoyably. This really was fun</p>
<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B_rD3V1A9DQ/X2QpAyFKBSI/AAAAAAAAE9E/j6ufw1-x5aspc_yCQ2icGEipQakX5pDXQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/GMC-358%2B02%2BHopkinton.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1415" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B_rD3V1A9DQ/X2QpAyFKBSI/AAAAAAAAE9E/j6ufw1-x5aspc_yCQ2icGEipQakX5pDXQCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-358%2B02%2BHopkinton.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>In Hopkinton, we tossed in a loop around the traffic island in front of the common just to ensure we didn’t end up a hair short, which wouldn’t have mattered, since the Virtual Boston Marathon Official App failed miserably: it couldn’t measure distance (twelve-point-oh at the half marathon… cool!), so the results had to be submitted manually anyway. As the saying goes, you had One Job… But we knew the distance and we knew what we did. (The app also failed again later trying to submit results. OK, you had Two Jobs… but hey, it was very good at supplying meaningless rah-rah. Whatever.)</p>
<p>Somehow the Hopkinton cop who cheerfully stopped traffic and seemingly took six pictures of us on the starting line managed to never hit the shutter, so we settled for some disorganized selfies instead. And then we headed north, where, as you might expect, slow and painful became slow and painful at twenty-something miles, a different thing altogether. We’d swapped our southbound pacer companion in Hopkinton for another, so while Marathoner Things One and Two lumbered steadily on, pacer companion Charles dutifully stuck with me when I hit the inevitable walk break zone and dropped back a bit. But by that point it would have taken Jock Semple pulling me off the course to keep me from finishing this foolish folly, and even that might not have worked (it didn’t work for him many years ago, right?)
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FAZ1cGrbsBU/X2QpJyKLZWI/AAAAAAAAE9M/Hp-x6E1IjyYuPzzL-oQOFrUaX8FDyaEOwCNcBGAsYHQ/s720/GMC-358%2B03%2Bsocially%2Bdistanced%2Bbreak.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="720" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FAZ1cGrbsBU/X2QpJyKLZWI/AAAAAAAAE9M/Hp-x6E1IjyYuPzzL-oQOFrUaX8FDyaEOwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-358%2B03%2Bsocially%2Bdistanced%2Bbreak.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>To add a bit of ironic circular closure to the feat, around mile twenty-three we passed the home of that very same friend who’d distracted me on Wednesday’s run and helped me convince myself that this was a potentially possible stupid thing to do. And there he was, out working on the lawn, getting a front row seat to my soon-to-be successful submission to stupidity, marveling at what he was mostly, but not entirely, not responsible for. A few miles later, it was in the books.</p>
<p>If you don’t count those nine laps around the track back in early August, this was pretty much zero to marathon in three days flat. Not to say I wasn’t in good shape from the cycling and hiking, but, well, they’re clearly different muscles. It was by far the slowest marathon I’ve ever run, even counting those uber-casual Groton Marathons. But that entirely casual approach made it fun, right up to the end.
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uSlgUGXnU1E/X2QpOkbBJ6I/AAAAAAAAE9Q/gzUAB0yIoKs_9JfiMeX48_UEUptErnopgCNcBGAsYHQ/s960/GMC-358%2B04%2Bfinish.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uSlgUGXnU1E/X2QpOkbBJ6I/AAAAAAAAE9Q/gzUAB0yIoKs_9JfiMeX48_UEUptErnopgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-358%2B04%2Bfinish.jpg" /></a></div><p>And technically, I didn’t need to do it. The Boston Athletic Association had announced that not running this would not interrupt any Boston Marathon streak, though in generosity they simultaneously stated that doing it would count toward extending a streak. So call this a freebie, number fourteen, and since they’ve basically grandfathered qualifying times into the next edition, fifteen could be in the cards, if the event even happens and I’m able to move when it does. After that, the likelihood that I’ll requalify for future years is doubtful. Heck, in the few brief runs I’ve taken since that day, I can’t fathom how I managed twenty six at all.</p>
<p>But hey, you never know. I didn’t expect to run any marathon on six, either.</p>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-42276906599072850102020-08-31T23:30:00.008-04:002020-09-08T23:43:44.057-04:00Phoenix Riding (Or, Take Six!)<p>To the outside world it seems... He writes occasionally, we read occasionally, what’s the big deal? Heck, we didn’t notice he stopped writing a while back. He didn’t send flowers either. Who cares? </p><p>To the author it seems... Holy Bejeezus, I’ve been trying to write this column now for six months, no, make that nine! I’ve never gotten to a conclusion, and the world keeps changing. I wonder how long before Google locks you out of your own blog?
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<p>This is a running blog, but there’s scant little running going on here. Whatever. My small and anything-but-loyal band of readers know that besides dishing out amusing stories to compete for a tiny sliver of their time, my goal in this now dozen-year-long series of chronicles has been to provide some positivism, some uplift (and this year being Excrement Expo 2020, we really need positivism). Sure, there have been chapters where I’ve railed on various organizations or situations, but at the end of the day, I’m a moderately old guy who tries to keep at it, and in telling the tale of doing so, encourage others, moderately, very, or even not old, to do the same. When my unnaturally excessive activity light winks out, that will be a sad day. </p>
<p>So world, let me say this: I’m not dead yet. I may have some flesh wounds, but I’m in decent shape at the moment, though that isn’t due to running. Or perhaps it is; not physically, but mentally. The running brain, perhaps the lizard part of it, but whatever, it just won’t let you hang up the active life and the desire to stay fit. So when one avenue is shut down, you find a different road. This new one (which really isn’t new at all) uses two wheels. </p>
<p>For years I’ve weathered scorn from non-runners who insisted I’d ruin my [pick your favorite joints – knees, hips, feet, whatever]. And today I write with a diagnosed meniscus tear and unquestionably sore knees. So were they right? Maybe. Maybe not. But even if they were, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s been a hella’ ride, and it isn’t over, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tG25f13s2JA">as Bluto (Belushi) once said</a>, till we decide it is. </p>
<p>Yes, I have sore knees, but consider that before I started running, I couldn’t hike downhill without knee braces. Now, Adirondack Death Marches are a regular occurrence (including thirty-seven miles, five summits, and ten-thousand-foot-plus vertical feet over two days a few weeks back…which was a bit much, I’ll admit…so really, can I blame running for my woes?) I could point out other benefits, but the reality is, If I hadn’t been running for the last fifteen years, I’d bet good money that plenty of other things would hurt a lot more. Motion is lotion, as my most recent physical therapist likes to say (she’s right, of course). </p>
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<p>I’ve completed fifty-seven solar orbits, and when I look at my male ancestors when they were my age (at least the ones that weren’t already dead by then, which is most of them), they look, to be frank, what I think of as old. My beloved Uncle Joe, pictured at about a year younger than I am now, looked like someone approaching sixty, which isn’t a bad thing for someone who was, in fact, approaching sixty (and he made it to ninety-nine, smiling all the way, so he clearly did a lot of things right). But I look in the mirror and I don’t see the word sixty (I know, I’m not supposed to say that, you are, [gosh, thanks!] but I’m waxing philosophical here, so just go with it), nor do I see the appearance of true age in most of my active circle. Maybe it’s just my rockin’ fashion sense compared to Joe’s era (I hear you laugh uproariously) or failings of the photography of his day, but I’d like to think that our mutually-supported active life has staved off decline to the rocking chair by a bit, and I think Dearest Spouse and my clubmates would agree. A few wounds aren’t too bad a price. </p>
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<p>All that being said, the reason I’m in decent shape at the moment is largely thanks to inspiration from Dearest Offspring the Younger, who back in May, while she hunkered down with us for a three-month COVID-induced house arrest (and cooked up for us an incredibly creative menu and breads and desserts and…), suggested we go for a bike ride. Out came the trusty Trek 520, purchased for the princely sum of three hundred eighty-three bucks almost exactly thirty-four years earlier (with thanks to Wing-San for the advice on that life purchase). The same trusty Trek that carried me through Appalachian Mountain Club Vermont Green Mountain Death Rides in the eighties (said sled being held up by a cycling companion, name forgotten, in the pic, circa 1989), and more importantly, carried me on AMC Worcester Thursday night rides where on one fateful evening in 1991 I met a charming lady who would become Dearest Spouse. Yes, said trusty Trek emerged, and its tires, which I couldn’t even pin to a specific decade, actually held air. And now, nineteen-hundred miles later, I’m no longer feeling like a tub.</p>
<p>Cycling isn’t a new thing, it’s just been in hibernation for about a quarter century. And it arrived just in time. When that fateful return to the bike came around, I’d been trying to turn the running thing back on after a six-month healing break, during which, well, we’ll get to all the fun and games that went down during that time of silence in a bit. But truth be told, it wasn’t going so well. My pace was, by my standards, molasses-like, which really didn’t matter, but worse, my body was, by anyone’s standards, rebelling. Then those two wheels rolled in to bring me back from the world of the fitness dead. Not like Phoenix rising, but like Phoenix riding. Yep, there it is, that clever title tie-in. You were waiting for it, weren’t you?</p>
<p>Mind you, that six-month break produced a half-dozen tries to put out some sort of an update on how things just weren’t healing. But each time I came around to, “But things just aren’t healing, I’m not running, and my loving readers, they just don’t care,” and I’d put it aside for a few weeks. Then come back to it. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Perhaps by this sixth try I’ll get it out the door. Heck, by now the article even has two titles! So, Take Six! </p><p> So, in rapid-fire succession, </p><p>Take Zero (because you heard this already): The half-marathon I shouldn’t have finished, and the Cheese Storm Incident (also known as CSI: Marlborough). And… he’s down.</p>
<p>Take One: Death by PT! Which really meant lots of exercises that we hoped would make things stronger without breaking anything else. And sitting on the beloved (not) spin bike at the gym (which you could do, pre-COVID). And getting a bit pudgy. (Yeah, I know, not by societal standards, but still…) The plan was to do this until said knee plateaued for at least three months, at which point we might think about the nuclear option (wait, who’s “we”, I hear you ask? In this case it’s Dr. Triathlon and I, who made a secret plot to run the NYC marathon together… how’d that work out, eh?). And I wrote about it. But you really didn’t care. So I put it aside, unpublished.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EiPyXmDocnA/X03RVNziM7I/AAAAAAAAE8g/RkNXzVPM2Y88xGWgwqXYa0fhfF3u-N_AQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1408/GMC-357%2B05%2BChiricahua.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1408" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EiPyXmDocnA/X03RVNziM7I/AAAAAAAAE8g/RkNXzVPM2Y88xGWgwqXYa0fhfF3u-N_AQCNcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/GMC-357%2B05%2BChiricahua.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>Take Two: Where I prove to have the patience of a puppy. We opt to pull in our dates and jump to the nuclear option ahead of time. But Dr. Triathlon manages to break some of his own bones skiing (I ask him, “When an orthopedist breaks something, who do YOU go to?” He replies, “Me!”), so things get delayed, and next thing you know it’s time for my half-business, half-pleasure trip to Arizona where Dearest Spouse and I plan to hike the deserts after my conference. An unexpected traffic encounter (which happened to be in Phoenix; thus her recovery adds a sort of double entendre to Phoenix half of the title, you think?) puts an end to her hiking plans, but we wander the countryside anyway and I get one day of hiking at a really wild place called Chiricahua (the picture here doesn’t do it justice, you’ve gotta’ go there!), which I’d never heard of before, but which seems to pop up everywhere since. And I wrote about it, or started to, because it while the desert was cool (or hot), the whole trip experience wasn’t very uplifting (you might say it was impactful), so I put it aside, unpublished.</p>
<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r2YnGn4nXeg/X03RgChPd-I/AAAAAAAAE8k/n9iFpGCtDf4UwbkwEAZ-rUL-jbU6A8c5ACNcBGAsYHQ/s1565/GMC-357%2B06%2BPRP.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1565" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r2YnGn4nXeg/X03RgChPd-I/AAAAAAAAE8k/n9iFpGCtDf4UwbkwEAZ-rUL-jbU6A8c5ACNcBGAsYHQ/w309-h320/GMC-357%2B06%2BPRP.jpg" width="309" /></a></div>
<p>Take Three: The nuclear option, PRP, or Plasma Rich Platelets (as opposed to the thermonuclear option, traditional meniscus surgery, which we’d decided is a bad idea for anyone who plans to remain very active). In this chapter, we extract some of my ether of life, centrifuge the daylights out of it in a really cool machine, and come up with a syringe of highly concentrated platelets – the component of your blood that induces healing. Dr. Tri refers to this stuff as “Miracle Gro”, as opposed to the sack of red blood cells left over, which will get you DQ’d for blood doping. Then we inject it into my knee and see what happens. Which, the first time, is not much. And the second time, feeling like a human pincushion, is sadly still not much. Well, you’ve gotta’ go up to bat, right? It was worth trying. And I wrote about it, but besides pictures of the cool blood machine, there wasn’t a lot compelling, so I put it aside, unpublished.</p>
<p>Take Four: It’s now pushing March and looking doubtful I’ll be able to keep my Boston Marathon streak alive. So I hatch a diabolical plan: Cook up a virus in my Level Four Biohazard Lab deep in the basement, unleash it on the world (of course, I had thought of this and started months earlier, because I’m diabolical), and make sure the nation is led by the most incompetent collection of liars, cheats, and morons we’ve ever seen. And it worked. Boston is postponed. Five extra months to heal. My streak might live on… And I wrote about it, but the O.J. Simpson “What If I Did It?” joke was truly tasteless even by my standards, so I put it aside, unpublished.</p>
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<p>Take Five: Said virus forces Dearest Offspring the Younger, now an experienced chef, to abandon her upstate New York outpost and take refuge in Fort Home, resulting in the aforementioned orgy of baking and cooking and pastry the likes of which the world has rarely seen. I don’t believe we ate the same dinner twice. It was, what you might call, an expansionary time. Around the time when Boston was to have been run, I tried to get back out there. I logged about eighty-five miles over a month, not enough to counteract the culinary delights, and of course, the gym was closed. Things were getting desperate. And I wrote about it, but it was just another Oh Woe Is Me tale, so I put it aside, unpublished.</p>
<p>And then: “Hey Dad, let’s go for a bike ride.” </p>
<p>Take Six: Phoenix rides. </p>
<p>[Truth in advertising: Really that was Take Seven. The original Take Six didn’t make it out the door, either. I wrote about the cycling emerging, but wasn’t sure the it would stick, so I put it aside, unpublished. But Seven was pretty much Six, so I stopped counting.]</p>
<p>Once I glued my thirty-year-old cycling shoes back together with silicone caulk (since shopping the Age of COVID is a challenge) and refreshed my bicycle maintenance skills, the bike quickly became a habit, much like running. The first month was exciting, the second settled into a routine, but a good one, and by the third I’d ridden to towns I’d never driven through, not to mention all three neighboring states. It’s been a ride, literally; and one that my knees have been happy about. And no, I don’t know what I’ll do come November. </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0irBO0eXyMI/X03Ru7InuXI/AAAAAAAAE8w/A3Y4k8xVwIAsqTZVtg7CcxfefXYst1q-gCNcBGAsYHQ/s1459/GMC-357%2B07%2BTriple%2BPoint.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="1459" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0irBO0eXyMI/X03Ru7InuXI/AAAAAAAAE8w/A3Y4k8xVwIAsqTZVtg7CcxfefXYst1q-gCNcBGAsYHQ/w320-h240/GMC-357%2B07%2BTriple%2BPoint.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<p>Somewhere in the haze of quarantined days, Boston turned from postponed to cancelled to virtual, and that event comes up in a few days. I’ve run a grand total of two miles around the track in the last three months. But between the cycling and plenty of hikes ranging from those Death Marches to reasonable mountains to some amusing local stuff (triple points!), the summer has seen plenty of fitness restored. Whether it will let me jog a ludicrously slow virtual marathon is anyone’s guess. Whether I’ll even try is also anyone’s guess. Wagers, anyone? </p>
<p>Truth is, this could well be the end of big running miles. Or maybe not, who knows? I have been and always will be a big proponent of running as a source of physical and mental fitness, but I never deluded myself into thinking it would last forever. If this turns out to be a transition, I might not spend much time running, but the running mentality won’t let me sit on my posterior, either. It’s just fitness OCD redefined to another medium.</p><br />Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0Massachusetts, USA42.4072107 -71.382437414.096976863821155 -106.5386874 70.717444536178846 -36.2261874tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-66217077112836502502019-10-27T20:31:00.000-04:002019-10-27T20:31:33.976-04:00The Cheese Storm Incident<br />
It’s fitting, I suppose. My first attempt to run the New York City Marathon dramatically came to an end thanks to a major storm. So it was, again, this time. Sort of. That first time it was Hurricane Sandy, which, after a week of dithering (what to do?), finally put the nail in the coffin of the event. This latest time it was an entirely different and somewhat odd type of storm, which, after a month of dithering (what to do?), it too finally put the nail in the coffin of the event. Such was born the Cheese Storm Incident.<br />
<br />
I suppose I deserve it. I’ve always had an aversion to trash-talking of any sort; you trash-talk and you usually get bit. That’s why I never do it before a race. I avoid it so much that my clubmates regularly ignore me when I anti-trash-talk (if that’s a thing) and point out how crappy I’m usually feeling and how poorly I expect to perform before toeing the line. Even when I really do have a Meh race, they often don’t see it that way, only reinforcing their disbelief of my pre-race grumblings.<br />
<br />
This time, I blew it.<br />
<br />
Granted, what I did would hardly be called trash-talking, but by my standards, perhaps I jinxed myself. I wrote “I Must Run This Marathon”, and I stated aloud far too many times that I’d be running New York come hell or high water (though considering Hurricane Sandy, high water would in fact be a good reason why I wouldn’t run, but you get the idea). I guess that for me that qualified as braggadocio. I opened my mouth. I got bit.<br />
<br />
I’m out. Cancelled. Not only that but sidelined. I’m now oh-for-three on New York.<br />
<br />
To cut to the car crash, as a former co-worker used to say, I’m the proud owner of a complete radial tear in posterior horn of the medial meniscus of my right knee, and, in the wake of the Cheese Storm, it might actually be worse. Dr. Triathlon (we’ll get to him later) prefers the self-healing option, which could take up to (gulp!) six months, though I’m hoping for four. Surgery, says he, only removes material and hastens the onset of bone-on-bone arthritis, not a good idea for the active, athletic type, especially when there’s already evidence of some bone degeneration around the tear. In short, me and the (literal) pain-in-the-ass stationary bike down at El-Cheapo gym are going to be good friends for quite a while.<br />
<br />
Oh how did we get here? How have we sunk so low? How has the ever-increasing entropy of the universe caught up with us? (We? Us? I hear you saying… Yes, you’re just fine, I’m the hurtin’ puppy. It’s just linguistic artistic license. Go with it.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sp9yrE5F03o/XbYzlv9P4iI/AAAAAAAAE2M/p6ux7762eVwig4Y-Rr2ozIqW6ODAljpuwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/GMC-356%2B03%2BBAC.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sp9yrE5F03o/XbYzlv9P4iI/AAAAAAAAE2M/p6ux7762eVwig4Y-Rr2ozIqW6ODAljpuwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-356%2B03%2BBAC.png" width="281" height="320" data-original-width="403" data-original-height="459" /></a></div>It all started in a 5,000-watt radio station in Fresno California… no, wait, that was Ted Baxter (just checking to see how old you, dear reader, really are). In my case it all started with a simple walk around town back in May, prior to Sugarloaf. Or at least that’s when I noticed it. It probably started before that, because the symptom that came on quite suddenly that day, as Dearest Spouse and I neared completion of a long circuit around our beloved city wasn’t so much in the knee as behind it. Suddenly I couldn’t straighten my leg, and later I’d find I couldn’t bend it all the way, either. This, it would turn out, appeared to be the work of a big-ass baker’s cyst, which itself appeared to be the work of an already ticked off meniscus. But at that stage, who knew? I did what all runners do: walked it off, managed the pain. We live for pain, right? Then Sugarloaf came with decent results, so I shrugged it off. Runner mentality.<br />
<br />
But as I’ve previously documented, I really couldn’t entirely shrug it off. I don’t need to reiterate the bitching and moaning of my last post. Suffice to say that during the last Adirondack Death March weekend of the season the pain was manageable, but for days afterward I wasn’t moving too well. And New York loomed. What to do? This called for a Plan, yes, that’s Plan with a Capital P.<br />
<br />
Serendipity dropped an interesting idea. A running bud posted that a half-marathon needed pacers. On Nantucket. Now, I’ve lived in the Commonwealth for over thirty-four years, and I’ve yet to go to Nantucket. I know, it’s just an island, but someday I need to set foot there. And a half marathon would force some decent miles, three weeks before New York. And acting as a pacer would force a slow, comfortable pace. It would be a proof point, a bit of confidence heading into which might be an Epic Struggle in New York. To be fair, it wasn’t the greatest deal around; though the race was free for pacers, the boat ticket and the pacing team shirt rang up to a decent price, but I really didn’t care. It was an Adventure. It was Nantucket. And it fit within The Plan.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l5o1AcwFc5c/XbYz9YBjqMI/AAAAAAAAE2U/CAMvRMKZLxEc1e3JSw3CDrHx8fE4sB9JACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/GMC-356%2B01%2Bxray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l5o1AcwFc5c/XbYz9YBjqMI/AAAAAAAAE2U/CAMvRMKZLxEc1e3JSw3CDrHx8fE4sB9JACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-356%2B01%2Bxray.jpg" width="211" height="320" data-original-width="343" data-original-height="521" /></a></div>Just to be sure I wasn’t running on anything seriously broken, I paid a visit to a new orthopedist, an athletic type we’ll call Dr. Triathlon (I told you we’d get to him) who came recommended by my current physical therapist and spiritual advisor as the best knee guy out there. A couple of fresh x-rays revealed nothing (though I’d never learn why the radiologist put a menacing arrow on one of them), no surprise for what I expected was a soft tissue issue. I left his office cleared to run but a bit perplexed. I was skeptical of his diagnosis (said skepticism would prove apt in due time) that the lower end of my hamstring, which wraps around the inside of the knee where the pain was greatest, was seriously angry. This really didn’t fit the bone-centric pain I was feeling, but hey, he’s the doctor, right? I left with a prescription for some beat-things-into-submission meds.<br />
<br />
Which did nothing. So much for that theory. And the horizon seemed to be sinking by the day. By the time the pacing team shirt showed up in the mail, I was no longer certain I could even run that half at the comfortable pace I’d committed. And as a pacer, I couldn’t chance letting down those whom I’d be pacing. Time to amend The Plan.<br />
<br />
Turns out I had a free entry to another local half marathon (which shall remain nameless to protect the guilty; it was free because the previous race by this organization had, um, underperformed, let’s say, so they offered me this one). Two weeks before Nantucket.<br />
<br />
Now you are starting to see the absurdity of the situation. From running a Boston Qualifier in May, I was reduced to running a half marathon just to see if I could run a half marathon slowly as a pacer, which in itself was just to see if I had a shot in heck of running New York. Sad, ain’t it?<br />
<br />
The day of said local half dawned close to ideal. It’d turn mildly warm a few miles in, but nothing to provide any excuse for a total collapse; no, this would all be on me. A small gaggle of about seventy lined up at an obscure spot on an obscure road in an obscure town, and with zero expectations for racing performance – this was, after all, just a test of going the distance casually – I sauntered off about as casually as I’ve ever started a race. Frankly, it was downright pleasant.<br />
<br />
And for a while, it stayed that way. I was easily exceeding the pace I’d need to pace without much effort. For a few miles I linked up with the young lady who’d win the women’s side; curiously she looked familiar, which turned out to be because I’d run an earlier event with her identical twin sister. All was sunshine, butterflies, and happiness (along with a couple of good hills, which I rather enjoyed, I really loved the course) till about halfway in. Then all went to hell in the space of a mile.<br />
<br />
From cruising to barely moving. From, yeah, the knee hurts a little, but no different than usual, to a stride so uneven, so favoring the tragic knee that the opposite calf started twitching dangerously. From humming to a broken wreck. Stretching stops. Both calves flipping out. As much pain walking (no, limping) as running (no, jogging). Downright pathetic. But just as stupidly as ever, willing myself to finish. I shuffled home, tail between legs, and drowned my sorrows by crashing the party at the hometown 5K, a far more jovial, friend-filled, and food-and-beer equipped event.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tSDTPxoytTw/XbY0CnxNKgI/AAAAAAAAE2Y/-lOfyIiQucQTmTqbpsHSpIa6E4vUphDVQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/GMC-356%2B02%2Bnot%2Ba%2Bbreak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tSDTPxoytTw/XbY0CnxNKgI/AAAAAAAAE2Y/-lOfyIiQucQTmTqbpsHSpIa6E4vUphDVQCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/GMC-356%2B02%2Bnot%2Ba%2Bbreak.jpg" width="284" height="320" data-original-width="297" data-original-height="335" /></a></div>Now I wasn’t just not moving too well, I was in downright agony. Running was out of the question. A flurry of phone calls to Dr. Triathlon’s office over the course of the week got me booked for an MRI that Friday night, and after laying in the bang-bang tube with the earphones pumping bad music (really, that’s what they called ‘classic rock’?) I left with a DVD that I totally could not interpret. I mean, x-rays are straightforward. MRIs are wild. Looking at those images, I swore there were cracks right through the base of my femur, which felt about right for the pain (wrong: just normal vascular structures that exist inside your bones…who knew?). But by the weekend, the pain was calming down and I was feeling like this too would pass.<br />
<br />
Do you remember that this is supposed to be about the Cheese Storm Incident? I haven’t forgotten. It’s time.<br />
<br />
It’s now Monday evening. I have an MRI in hand. I have an appointment with Dr. Tri and, I suppose, with fate, in the morning. And I have a substantial bowl of pasta in front of me for dinner, whipped up by Dearest Spouse. And DS picks up the jar of grated cheese, because this being a more-or-less desperation dinner, it doesn’t merit grating up the real parmesan in the fridge. And it’s one of those store-brand plastic jars with the lid that opens on one side to sprinkle and on the other to pour or spoon. And she holds onto the lid flap and shakes it vigorously to break up the clumps. But only one lid flap. The other is freer than a love child at Burning Man. And it’s the side that pours. And oh, did it rain. It poured.<br />
<br />
Cheese Storm. Category Five.<br />
<br />
An instant of silence, that tension of, she’s wondering, will he be pissed at this lapse (which, admittedly, I’ve been known to allow to happen, I’m not proud of that failing), and… we burst out laughing. A happy old married couple moment. Dearest Spouse starts to move to clean up and I say, oh, just sit down and eat, we’ll deal with it later. We eat our dinner surrounded by a fresh coat of cheese as delicate as the soon to arrive snow. See, even I can be poetic if I try hard.<br />
<br />
Sated with pasta, I retrieve the vacuum from the basement, and we work more efficiently than FEMA after a tornado to remediate the mayhem. Satisfied, I walk gently down the stairs to return said vacuum, still fully aware that my knee is not in top form. And halfway down, on an otherwise ordinary step, something goes pop, or crunch, or snap, I really don’t know, but I know it makes some sort of discernable unpleasant nonstandard noise, and the pain shoots, and I cannot move. At that moment, I know it’s over. My hopes of pulling off the New York City Marathon at last – are toast. I spend the evening crawling around the house. It’s that bad.<br />
<br />
Thus, the Cheese Storm Incident. So, how did you kill your knee? Cleaning up cheese. No, really.<br />
<br />
I stumble into Dr. Triathlon’s office the next morning on crutches. He doesn’t seem alarmed. I guess he’s used to this, but since I’d left him in far better shape the last time I’d seen him, I guess I expected at least a little surprise. The MRI, which, having been taken Friday night before Tropical Storm Romano made landfall, is probably already obsolete (though again, Dr. Tri didn’t seem concerned by this either), shows the damage. Only a radiologist could string together prose like, “Complete radial tear of the posterior horn of the medial meniscus. Associated edema at the meniscocapsular junction at the level of the posterior horn may represent meniscocapsular sprain.” There was more, but I don’t want to unnecessarily raise the average word length of this saga.<br />
<br />
I didn’t disagree with Dr. Tri’s assessment that it’s worth trying to let it heal rather than surgically snipping out parts that will never grow back. So it’s months of no running. Pray for my sanity. No Nantucket – not a big deal, though I felt bad for having committed and having to pull out. But moreso... No New York. And so that’s it. Three and out.<br />
<br />
Unlike Boston, New York does allow for a deferral, so I can translate my entry to next year (paying again, but whatever…). But I’ll have to decide that around January, when it may not be entirely clear how well the healing is going. I had already concluded that it was probably time to scale back to shorter distances – I just planned to ease into that after New York, and Boston, and, well…I’d get there at some point, and not fret about it. There are always adventures to be had that don’t require twenty-six miles, and there are plenty more summits as well. Just take it as it comes…<br />
<br />
But you’ve got to admit that if it had to happen, you couldn’t ask for a better title for the big moment.<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-19567097407114938042019-08-21T23:30:00.000-04:002019-08-22T12:30:54.180-04:00Either / Or<br />
An email arrived a week back that sent a jolt through the system. Time to pick your transportation and baggage options for the New York City Marathon. It’s less than three months away.<br />
<br />
Marathon? I’ve got a marathon slated out there? In less than three months? And not just any marathon, but New York, where I am Oh-for-Two, the first miss being Hurricane Sandy which wiped the event and much of Staten Island off the map, the second being a couple years back when my injured state just would not let it happen, so now, third time’s a charm (right?), and I Must Run This Marathon. But oh, how far from marathon shape I am in. Or not in.<br />
<br />
Sure, I ran Sugarloaf just three short months ago, and sure, I pulled off a respectable showing. But oh, how fast things have been falling apart. I’m getting out there, but not necessarily to run or do anything remotely like getting ready for New York. Consider, I hiked as far in the Adirondacks in one three-day stretch last month as I ran for the entire month. Granted, while those classic Adirondack Death Marches didn’t hurt so far as endurance and fitness go (but certainly did leave scars both physical and emotional), …they were not runs. That’s different fitness.<br />
<br />
Life has, I’m afraid, come down to an Either / Or proposition at this point. Too much running sometimes leaves me with tenderized joints that might – or might not – survive the next scheduled Death March (and those events need to be scheduled – travel, companions, etc.). But too much hiking leaves me without the running fitness that I need to be building, rather than losing, with New York looming. This year, injured or not, I am going (dammit), even if I need to jog or walk the thing. Thus, I need to be in some sort of shape other than marshmallow.<br />
<br />
As such, there have been lots of non-running days before hiking expeditions, and there have been a lot of expeditions lately due to my obsession of chasing both Adirondack 46er status (and with it, completion of the Northeast 111 list, which, as I’ve noted here before, curiously includes 115 summits), and the New England Hundred Highest roster. None of the remaining summits on either list are common with the other, so I’ve got plenty of rocks to scale and short seasons (considering weather and daylight) to cram them in. And no, neither completion will happen this year, but you’ve got to make headway, right?<br />
<br />
With little running comes little racing and with little racing comes little writing. The cable news industry may have to fill their airwaves, so for them, any news, even news that really isn’t, is news. The Weather Channel also ran into this problem, but their solution was to create so much weather-themed-but-not-actually-weather content that it seemed there was never any weather being reported when I tuned in, so I stopped tuning in. I’m not keen to emulate those models, so when I have little of great interest, I just go a bit dark.<br />
<br />
And it’s been a bit dark of late, even somewhat depressing. A difficult time for someone who’s theme here is to find the bright spots, stay positive, highlight the good, shine with motivation. My body has decided to age quite a bit in recent months, and things hurt, things don’t heal, challenges mount. I used to carry on about the pesky left knee, but now it has a partner on the right which hurts in an entirely different manner, and, irony of irony, one hurts more running, the other walking, so you can’t win. Training has suffered. Racing has suffered. Fitness has suffered. But all bitching and moaning makes Jack a dull boy. So let’s stop bitching and tell stories anyway.<br />
<br />
June brought about an entirely ordinary five-kilometer race, and July followed with an even more ordinary five-miler on the Fourth. Bitch, bitch, moan, moan, I hear you say, you still took a first and a second in your age group in those races, respectively. Yeah, but when you’re a full minute slower in than just a year back in a very short race, well, that’s disappointing. But there is good.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Diy2YICtbSs/XV6_ojOr5BI/AAAAAAAAEzM/AvtxILZSbnI0GMiynF16qo4nxjCWjSwzACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B01%2Brecruits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Diy2YICtbSs/XV6_ojOr5BI/AAAAAAAAEzM/AvtxILZSbnI0GMiynF16qo4nxjCWjSwzACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B01%2Brecruits.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="800" data-original-height="451" /></a></div>June’s outing was our local club’s race in honor of fallen Massachusetts State Trooped Thomas Clardy. It’s a race, but really, it’s a mission, so whatever racing performance comes out of something like this is secondary to our efforts to make it a premier event. And a premier event it was, all hands on deck from the club, the entire recruit class of the State Police running the course in formation, and a truly impressive showing from the law enforcement community, striking a note of pride in all of us. Oh, and there was also the fun of herding – and sometimes racing – the kids through the mini-marathon course. Hard work, I know, but somebody had to do it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4S1lMh1JZK8/XV6_z47LeCI/AAAAAAAAEzQ/DuHlse27HWcaf-M13i0m-hz-F9x7q7c5wCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B02%2Bclardy%2Bkids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4S1lMh1JZK8/XV6_z47LeCI/AAAAAAAAEzQ/DuHlse27HWcaf-M13i0m-hz-F9x7q7c5wCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B02%2Bclardy%2Bkids.jpg" width="320" height="210" data-original-width="718" data-original-height="472" /></a></div>And as the race went, it wasn’t terrible, though it was a bit of a roller-coaster. Doing double duty as both race staff and runner, I didn’t commit to even leaving the start line until about ten minutes before the gun, and even then, I questioned why. Less than a mile in, passing Dearest Spouse, I gave her a look of anguish and shouted out, “It’s bad.”, but the mile clicked in better than expected giving me a reason for why I felt so beat up, so spirits brightened. Yet minutes later, by the halfway mark I was back on the rocks, so baked, so fried, that when a clubmate of my generation crept alongside, I gave in and told him to go out and get it, since my get it had got up and gone. But with a half mile to go, he tanked as well, and I had that momentary internal debate of honor: after having verbally conceded, what kind of cad would smoke on by? I rationalized that it wasn’t so much about passing him as it was about not letting myself disintegrate, not giving in even more, not letting myself slow down further, no matter who was in front or behind me. So, what could I do? It wasn’t pretty, but it was a win. And all of this action-packed drama in a mere three miles.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CzuOlYLGQbM/XV6_36Cu2LI/AAAAAAAAEzU/zOUz7ckuB9UcMIR2FUE_o5uNn7QFY96oQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B03%2Bclardy%2Brace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CzuOlYLGQbM/XV6_36Cu2LI/AAAAAAAAEzU/zOUz7ckuB9UcMIR2FUE_o5uNn7QFY96oQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B03%2Bclardy%2Brace.jpg" width="320" height="244" data-original-width="589" data-original-height="450" /></a></div>The amusement of the day was that while I put nine seconds on him by the line to take the Mostly Fossilized Division, the next finisher, a mere four seconds later, was equally ripened and rounded out the top three of our division. Thirteen seconds and three consecutive finishers covered the podium for our the old farts. Don’t think I’ve seen that before.<br />
<br />
So, let’s see, we had civic pride, come-from-behind drama, and a statistical anomaly. Plenty good.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xGgDIzXupW8/XV7AA8UCcMI/AAAAAAAAEzc/lKPIy2fh8Pkbm6yBI8oMkU7cDUMjeHRbwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B04%2Bharvard%2Brace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xGgDIzXupW8/XV7AA8UCcMI/AAAAAAAAEzc/lKPIy2fh8Pkbm6yBI8oMkU7cDUMjeHRbwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B04%2Bharvard%2Brace.JPG" width="320" height="233" data-original-width="1322" data-original-height="962" /></a></div>No such drama a month later at the Harvard Five-Miler on the Fourth of July. Just a hot, hilly, hellacious haul, and this time when an apparently fossilized competitor passed me by, I just smiled and waved and let him go as there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, then turned my attention back to coaching the young kid next to me while we tackled the big climb. My initial assessment of my vanquisher’s maturity proved accurate; <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ejBKi-QfHQo/XV7ANMqHIbI/AAAAAAAAEzo/yXjQYkL2TuYCQv2yjoE3-imGJbQtHFeWQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B05%2Bharvard%2Bclub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ejBKi-QfHQo/XV7ANMqHIbI/AAAAAAAAEzo/yXjQYkL2TuYCQv2yjoE3-imGJbQtHFeWQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B05%2Bharvard%2Bclub.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1512" data-original-height="1133" /></a></div>yes, you can indeed judge a book by its cover, and so I settled for the slightly smaller second-place-sized jug of maple syrup. The race? Meh. The outing with my clubmates? A prime example of finding the good.<br />
<br />
And so, with no other races slated till fall, that would, by this not-very-ripe date of mid-August, have wrapped up the story of the summer already. Except that the summer has been repurposed for knocking off summits. Remember that bit about finding the good? Well, here's more: I’m declaring this a big win season, just in a different category. Since the start of last month, eight of the New England Hundred Highest have fallen, plus three of the ‘Dacks. I won’t finish either list this year, so I’d better not expire just yet, but that takes out a quarter of my remaining peaks in barely six weeks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dnYso9BUUak/XV7Ak9stq_I/AAAAAAAAEz0/W1QQrU7_6-QofLiKoLxnuqDYEsyBo8pYACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B06%2Btripryamids.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dnYso9BUUak/XV7Ak9stq_I/AAAAAAAAEz0/W1QQrU7_6-QofLiKoLxnuqDYEsyBo8pYACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B06%2Btripryamids.JPG" width="320" height="210" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1050" /></a></div>Hundred Highest summits range from mellow to obscure to gnarly, and each assault has taken on a different flavor. East Sleeper, a blowdown-encrusted viewless and forlorn spot, came down with the interesting bonus of signing on to a seven-summit multi-day backpacking trip, the first time I’ve strapped on a full pack since the early nineties. The good? I didn’t die. The Weeks (North, Middle, and South, two count, guess which ones…) topped Sleeper with an even more hellaciously blown down obstructed excuse for a trail, but served up some sublimely green and beautiful (and oddly flat) summits. Equinox and Pico delivered relatively tame – as in, pleasant, passable trails – ascents shared with Dearest Spouse, as did Jay. But the lug from that latter spot to its sister summit, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DfHZ9Ktc1Ws/XV7AyVIPBCI/AAAAAAAAEz4/ZORovxfcrEss-NTT09WOru9P-YsAnqh7gCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B07%2Bjay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DfHZ9Ktc1Ws/XV7AyVIPBCI/AAAAAAAAEz4/ZORovxfcrEss-NTT09WOru9P-YsAnqh7gCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B07%2Bjay.jpg" width="239" height="320" data-original-width="997" data-original-height="1336" /></a></div>Big Jay, on a brushy, blowdown-tangled, mud and muck filled semblance of a barely beaten path which required an hour-twenty to cover a single mile (which of course had to be covered again in reverse) had DS questioning my sanity. And the last of this set (not chronologically, but story-logically), Vermont’s Mendon, offered some mild navigational challenges, but all in all could only be classified as a pleasant recovery hike because it came the day after that three-day stretch of Death Marches just to the west, and I needed something that by comparison seemed reasonable. Which brings us to…<br />
<br />
I’m repeatedly taken aback by the Adirondacks. What they call trails out there boggle the mind compared to most New England trails (and consider that what we call trails in New England boggle the minds of folks from out west and other areas, so let’s give this insanity the ranking it is due). And then, as bad as those are, much of the ‘dacks are crisscrossed not with official trails but instead with herd paths, unmaintained trails that cover stunningly impassable terrain, serve up absurd steepness, and imbue general disbelief. It seems that around every corner is another, “You’ve gotta’ be kidding me!” moment.<br />
<br />
Intrepid Adventurer Daniel, who I met years ago in the midst of the Mohawk Hudson Marathon and who has, since then, caught ‘dacks fever, met me for this multi-day scheduled abuse-a-thon. Day One served up a mere ten and a half miles on a relatively simple summit with only one “Holy Excrement” moment, a thirty-foot pitch described in the guide with the understatement, “very steep” that tested my upper-body climbing capabilities as well as a bit of mental gumption. (Of course, you never get pictures of these spots, since the camera is safely packed away at suck moments so that if they have to come and recover your limp and broken body, they’ll be able to recover the Trip So Far on your device.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aLlTwd-eiI8/XV7A7iSjIPI/AAAAAAAAE0A/pjJcREvoTc8_j4V47T83BAqxozwaJIzDwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B08%2Ballen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aLlTwd-eiI8/XV7A7iSjIPI/AAAAAAAAE0A/pjJcREvoTc8_j4V47T83BAqxozwaJIzDwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B08%2Ballen.JPG" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1201" /></a></div>Day Two’s target was the summit that makes aspiring Adirondack 46ers groan: Allen. It’s a nineteen-and-a-half mile out and back, but its special joy is that you really don’t start climbing the mountain until about eight-and-a-half miles in, at which point you’ve got about two thousand feet of ascent in about a mile, up a rock slab waterfall coated in Allen’s famed red-slime algae. And of course, you also have to come back down the same way, because mountain justice is cruel. We survived the ordeal with a combined three butt-landings (Daniel won this one, two to one) and one hanging-from-a-tree-while-both-feet-flailed-for-a-grip (my special moment of joy).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dgsehDL-zT4/XV7BBdzdaqI/AAAAAAAAE0E/4KGWjjn8p6oXq3oEx01OIpG0AZBXyxifACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-355%2B09%2Bseymour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dgsehDL-zT4/XV7BBdzdaqI/AAAAAAAAE0E/4KGWjjn8p6oXq3oEx01OIpG0AZBXyxifACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-355%2B09%2Bseymour.jpg" width="236" height="320" data-original-width="1061" data-original-height="1437" /></a></div>For Day Three, we needed something a little less mentally taxing. I thought I had a good target. I failed miserably. Seymour turned into another way-too-steep slab climb (how steep? …let’s just say, if you’re a Scotsman, don’t wear a kilt) with way too many snarling struggles up precarious pitches, way too many brushy side paths, and way too much swinging from the trees while heading both uphill and down. It was during this ascent that the mountain nearly defeated me. For a time, I went to a dark place, I lost my will to fight, I decided that I might not finish this quest. But like a good marathon, the mind recovers.<br />
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So yeah, we’re going back for more. I won’t lie. Some of the challenges I’ve read and heard about on the summits that remain downright scare me. I’m still not certain I’ll finish either of these challenges. And I’m not sure my knees will hold up – either for ascending (and worse, descending) the heights, as well as surviving the distance of the Big Apple’s mean streets this fall. But the marathon mentality draws me to give it a try. And that’s always good.<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-7202623579159299102019-06-06T20:57:00.000-04:002019-06-07T09:05:59.525-04:00Loafers<br />
My clubmates and I debated the idea endlessly. Just who’s idea was this, anyway? How did we manage to drag fifteen runners (plus a few family members) to the middle of nowhere to run a marathon? (To be precise, a dozen for the marathon and a few more for the shorter sister event, but nevertheless…) Clearly this was a fine example of groupthink, or perhaps just a stone rolling downhill and, against all odds, picking up moss, which may be an apt metaphor since the Sugarloaf Marathon serves up plenty of downhills.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kSkG1i-HUCM/XPmxL_RiIiI/AAAAAAAAEw8/-iEsozbSgOYa-DVo_7nity2n2mHv8V4-QCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B01%2Bsign%2Bgroup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kSkG1i-HUCM/XPmxL_RiIiI/AAAAAAAAEw8/-iEsozbSgOYa-DVo_7nity2n2mHv8V4-QCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B01%2Bsign%2Bgroup.jpg" width="320" height="203" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1013" /></a></div>This mass mileage migration wasn’t my idea, but I’ll admit I encouraged it, because I was one of only two of us who’d done this one before. I did offer positive reviews to those who asked, but still, not my idea, nor was I the first in, even though I’d signed on in December, since even then I had an inkling that I might need a do-over if Boston didn’t go so well. Which, as you’ve read, it didn’t. Gee, I was so wise (he says in hindsight, ignoring the times he wasn’t.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Aoot0j8Pq2Q/XPmxQz6FZbI/AAAAAAAAExA/bkHw7r9sZMgCDnu3yMrBh5Zg_Q2oily1QCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B02%2BLoafers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Aoot0j8Pq2Q/XPmxQz6FZbI/AAAAAAAAExA/bkHw7r9sZMgCDnu3yMrBh5Zg_Q2oily1QCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B02%2BLoafers.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1201" /></a></div>That rolling rock picked up momentum, adding people, adding a rental house which almost guaranteed this would be not just an event but an Event, adding the synergistic contributions that happen when a dozen-plus mildly crazy and heavily motivated people all get closer to Time Zero and toss in more ideas (custom jerseys for our “Loafers” team!), more support (every mechanical muscular recovery device known to man!), and, as it would turn out, more (much more!) food. And beverages, of course. Goes with the neighborhood.<br />
<br />
The result was probably the finest race weekend I’ve ever enjoyed. Not the finest race, though that wasn’t so bad, either. (Spoiler: Yes, I’m back in for Boston 2020, my ticket is punched for number fourteen.) But as far as club camaraderie, mutual support, and just plain fun, yes, the finest. And I say that with fine thanks to my ‘mates.<br />
<br />
Sugarloaf is a net downhill course. That doesn’t make it easy. Boston is a net downhill course, too, and nobody will tell you that makes it easy. But Sugarloaf does have a little more marathon-friendly hill profile going for it, in that you do the big climbs in the second five miles, when you’re still relatively fresh. Or at least you should be; the previous time I ran this race three years back, I suffered a mental death on the biggest climb around mile nine and pretty much wrote the day off, only to find a miraculous rebirth just past the midway mark, where you are treated to one of the finest gravity assists in the business. That day’s rebirth led to what was my last (and may well forever remain my last) sub-three day.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UkjlAEzLP8M/XPmxgVJPCdI/AAAAAAAAExI/t6UB-l6_IDcjU7tMFPUOYxsQGap2DPQngCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B03%2BSalvage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UkjlAEzLP8M/XPmxgVJPCdI/AAAAAAAAExI/t6UB-l6_IDcjU7tMFPUOYxsQGap2DPQngCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B03%2BSalvage.jpg" width="212" height="320" data-original-width="401" data-original-height="604" /></a></div>That gravity assist, a winding, scenic, rollicking river-serenaded chute from miles twelve to seventeen, is enough to lift anyone’s spirits significantly while lowering their elevation dramatically, rocketing you into the relative drudgery of eighteen through twenty-five with just a bit more juice than you might have otherwise had. It’s because of this that Sugarloaf is said to offer a boost of anywhere from a few to ten minutes off your Boston time. It’s because of this, and the fact that being five weeks later, you can recover from Boston but still reap the benefits of your training (indeed, Boston itself is training for this one) that Sugarloaf is an excellent choice for that do-over.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JrxKTcSKQJc/XPmyH46fPEI/AAAAAAAAExU/hZpgHCd5r-kdnMlhi6-pL8HX6zWUPVOZQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B04%2BGondola%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JrxKTcSKQJc/XPmyH46fPEI/AAAAAAAAExU/hZpgHCd5r-kdnMlhi6-pL8HX6zWUPVOZQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B04%2BGondola%2B1.jpg" width="320" height="259" data-original-width="1265" data-original-height="1023" /></a></div>Galileo proved (supposedly, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galileo%27s_Leaning_Tower_of_Pisa_experiment">whether the experiment actually happened is disputed</a>) that gravitational acceleration is independent of mass. Our gang, acting like a bunch of climate-denying anti-vaxers, ignored science and tried to prove quite the opposite.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N1r3x9u9hfQ/XPmyYYnrw7I/AAAAAAAAExc/gsW6I3kNqIw5UbZepKwHpgJYmqIJdQBvwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B05%2BGondola%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N1r3x9u9hfQ/XPmyYYnrw7I/AAAAAAAAExc/gsW6I3kNqIw5UbZepKwHpgJYmqIJdQBvwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B05%2BGondola%2B2.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Anticipating that downhill course and apparently assuming more mass would increase velocity and reduce rolling resistance, we ate our way north, starting Friday in Portland (<a href="https://www.salvagebbq.com/">Salvage Barbeque!</a>), continuing unabated (with interruptions for mirth and shenanigans) through Saturday night’s immense pre-race dinner that, as Arlo Guthrie might say, could not be beat, ensuring we hit the line Sunday morning fueled with a ton of bricks and ready to roll on down the hill to Kingfield, which is an attempt at a poetic way of saying that we thoroughly enjoyed each other’s mutual contributions to the feast, or more simply,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wmNQpMneJnI/XPmyiAcj1WI/AAAAAAAAExg/NCUPYt118FQSERgAi-5tGKg35w5-O_VkACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B06%2BGondola%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wmNQpMneJnI/XPmyiAcj1WI/AAAAAAAAExg/NCUPYt118FQSERgAi-5tGKg35w5-O_VkACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B06%2BGondola%2B3.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>that we ate a lot.<br />
<br />
Conservatism, not something I’d ever aspire to politically, was my obvious strategy. Don’t blow up. Get that qualifier. Get back to Boston next April. But that was my plan this past April too, and it didn’t work out so well that time. Still, given what I had to work with – a rather abused body, undertrained for the task, but coupled with a brain trained and willing to override synapses screaming ‘Stop!’ – I had little choice but to replicate my Boston plan. Go out at a comfortable pace and start banking time ahead of my Boston qualifier pace and hope to hell I held it together.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7WdTlYXCaGo/XPmyrG3PqQI/AAAAAAAAExo/c8bGH9oyCHMSZyA-tm8n6l278XoN2nFpwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B08%2BStart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7WdTlYXCaGo/XPmyrG3PqQI/AAAAAAAAExo/c8bGH9oyCHMSZyA-tm8n6l278XoN2nFpwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B08%2BStart.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div>Unlike Boston, the weather cooperated, almost too much. Rather than warm and humid with expectations of warmer, this one dawned chilly and drizzle with expectations of chilly and rain, not much different from my last ramble down Maine Route Twenty-Seven. Indeed, it was chilly enough that after stripping down to my planned race duds, turning in my gear to the baggage bus, and jogging a quarter-mile warm-up, I went through a rather ludicrous panic phase, deciding it was too cold, deciding I needed my rain jacket, deciding I’d board the bus and rifle through a couple hundred bags to retrieve said cloak. You’d think I’d learn by now. Fortunately, I failed in finding that needle in the haystack and went off in my planned get-up, which was comfortable by a mile in, and which, even as the rains turned heavy late in the race, turned out perfectly. Indeed, while a bit squishy by the end with a few spates of annoying headwind, conditions really couldn’t have better.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i_J3Hw8b7Ac/XPmyycHpbyI/AAAAAAAAExs/SJd-IDoYhGAFKbNfauZqQi7r_d-J-12rgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B09%2BBigelows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i_J3Hw8b7Ac/XPmyycHpbyI/AAAAAAAAExs/SJd-IDoYhGAFKbNfauZqQi7r_d-J-12rgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B09%2BBigelows.jpg" width="320" height="166" data-original-width="1305" data-original-height="677" /></a></div>The start of this race was almost a party. Dead flat, targeting a low-effort pace, chit-chatting while the drop-dead gorgeous scenery of Flagstaff Lake and the Bigelow Range distracted our attention (you must at some point in your life hike the Bigelows), then cruising into the town of Stratton to be surprised by a friend perched on a motel balcony (how on Earth he spotted me from above while I was wearing a hat is beyond me, but let’s face it, he’s talented in multiple ways), the first five slipped by while I banked well over two hundred seconds ahead of goal pace. Echoing Boston, I’d started my mantra of mental math early, but again knowing full well how an Epic Collapse could drain that account in a matter of a few miles. And knowing full well how mile nine, the biggest climb on the course, had just about killed me a few years back.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PaYmeWphrS8/XPmy12cY0RI/AAAAAAAAEx0/ePWYb-tEjkwlEQ_yZ8F9hvAfifms7FdEwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B10%2Bmile%2B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PaYmeWphrS8/XPmy12cY0RI/AAAAAAAAEx0/ePWYb-tEjkwlEQ_yZ8F9hvAfifms7FdEwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B10%2Bmile%2B5.jpg" width="320" height="307" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1533" /></a></div>Nine hurt. I slipped over qualifier pace and spent a bit of my banked time assets. And ten and eleven, though downhill, didn’t pick up all that much. We’d joked ahead of the race that owing to the location of our rental house, if things didn’t look rosy we could simply take a right turn at mile eleven, bail out, and call it a day. Even though my bank account was now approaching four hundred by that point, I still had my doubts and gave the option half a brain cycle. I’d learn from my clubmates later that I wasn’t the only one who did so. But the marathon mentality kicked in. It’s not supposed to be easy. Carry on.<br />
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Sugarloaf’s Gravity Assist then worked its magic. I could question the accuracy of the mile marking placements, but what’s the point? Mile fourteen flew. Mile fifteen defied reason. My bank account exploded like the price of Nortel stock during the dot-com bubble. But that didn’t last. Could I?<br />
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Sugarloaf runs a fifteen-kilometer sister event. They line everyone up around mile seventeen and point them to the same finish line. Unfortunately for those racers, they miss all the fun, since the last nine miles, or at least eight of them till you pull into Kingfield, are the drudgery of the course. There are nice spots to be sure, places where the river continues to serenade with its gurgling goodness, but by and large this stretch is a slog, plain and simple.<br />
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Were I properly trained, I’d be leveraging the power conserved by the earlier joys of the course into an epic drive down that slog and all the way home. After all, save a few small insulting late mini-hills, most of this stretch, while dull, is still a mild descent. But as it was, there was no epic drive, just an epic grind. This was my thirtieth (official) marathon, yet I still can’t pinpoint how anyone, let alone me, can focus a brain to force a body that wants with every fiber to take a seat to instead plow on – for another solid hour. Eight miles… seven miles…six miles… pace rising, but slowly, under control… five miles… four miles… scanning ahead and being continually confused and disappointed by someone well ahead of me who’s white jersey looked distinctly like a mile marker… three miles… two miles… holding it together, bank account still growing, never willing to acknowledge I could crawl it in for the Boston qualifier, because, well, maybe I couldn’t.<br />
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Not until twenty-five did I slow enough to spend a few seconds from the bank rather than contribute, the first time since mile nine. Picking it up through the final push of twenty-six, the math hinted I might even break a ten-minute barrier, but the last point-two ran mysteriously long, quashing that idea. Back in my earlier chase-the-personal-best era I might have cared about this course anomaly. This day I knew I’d just wiped nearly twenty minutes off my Boston time and punched my ticket for next year, and it was pouring, and that ten-minute time barrier just didn’t matter.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LTXMM8zqDnY/XPmzJaxoJoI/AAAAAAAAEyE/GgFUM0aN7y8IHWBcscp4CvavKY5DpImHgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B12%2Baward%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LTXMM8zqDnY/XPmzJaxoJoI/AAAAAAAAEyE/GgFUM0aN7y8IHWBcscp4CvavKY5DpImHgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B12%2Baward%2B1.jpg" width="304" height="320" data-original-width="1361" data-original-height="1434" /></a></div>Now, while I wasn’t in any way looking at this race competitively, there was a back-story with a heavy outcome. Three years ago, when I was still bordering on being relatively quick, I was passed in the first mile by a short (shall we say diminutive?) balding (shall we say hair-challenged?) gentleman who looked to be of my vintage and who flew by so quickly that I wrote off winning the division right there. Nearly three hours later, I made the one and only turn on the course – it’s twenty-six-point-one miles down one road, then take a right – and found him Death Shuffling slowly toward the line. I repaid the favor, blowing by him to win the age group, which, it turned out, he most certainly was in.<br />
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This time, I wasn’t thinking of winning anything, and then… I swear I saw him before the start of the race. Memories came back – a rematch? Only if he’d slowed down as much as I had in three years. But he never appeared again, and he’s not listed in the results. Instead, in an interesting repeat of events, I was overtaken by someone who again looked of my vintage; not short nor balding this time, nor can I really recall where he passed. Not expecting to be competitive in my current condition, I took note but paid little heed, and no, this time I didn’t catch him. But he landed only a minute ahead and he did take the division, leaving me with a surprising and unexpected second place, and an even more surprising chunk of cast-iron armor plating for an award. It’s cool, but I’m not at all certain what to do with what is clearly the heaviest thing I’ve ever won in a race.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_2vbk33ivM/XPmzN1aiHzI/AAAAAAAAEyI/UKGjBRFEZP0Qt56_JX_Zv_6ggmBnfLkvgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B11%2Bfinish%2Bcomposite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_2vbk33ivM/XPmzN1aiHzI/AAAAAAAAEyI/UKGjBRFEZP0Qt56_JX_Zv_6ggmBnfLkvgCLcBGAs/s400/GMC-354%2B11%2Bfinish%2Bcomposite.jpg" width="400" height="221" data-original-width="1279" data-original-height="708" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5w6Zhwa83II/XPmzVe4VtLI/AAAAAAAAEyM/qj6TohlS6ewr-6o-lG1qLOiswTix5iAngCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B13%2Baward%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5w6Zhwa83II/XPmzVe4VtLI/AAAAAAAAEyM/qj6TohlS6ewr-6o-lG1qLOiswTix5iAngCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B13%2Baward%2B2.jpg" width="279" height="320" data-original-width="1393" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Unlike last time where I licked my wounds, gathered up my one travelling companion, and high-tailed it home, this time being with the club meant that the fun wasn’t over. Once I’d regained my wits, stripped off the sogginess (harder than you’d think with malfunctioning parts), and swathed myself in enough dry clothing to return to normal body temperature, I found our gang, already re-coagulating, and we reeled in the rest of our clubmates as they made that one turn and lumbered down the chute When our last rolled in, we had everyone in earshot hooting for him. And then it was time to hobble on our busted blisters and wonky knees back to the shuttle, back to the house, up its mysteriously steep and narrow stairways (a fine practical joke for that post-marathon physique!), to celebrate a dozen plus victory stories and gather for a second immense dinner that once again Arlo Guthrie would have said, could not be beat. Admittedly, this time, with notably more beverages.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dCwcPpGT0Rw/XPmzlS_VUgI/AAAAAAAAEyU/krxklMVXD7cd5aocD5ySBDEzCW-RehA9gCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B14%2Bday%2Bafter%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dCwcPpGT0Rw/XPmzlS_VUgI/AAAAAAAAEyU/krxklMVXD7cd5aocD5ySBDEzCW-RehA9gCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B14%2Bday%2Bafter%2B1.jpg" width="320" height="212" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1059" /></a></div>And though none of us could really recall who came up with the race excursion idea, I admit to having come up with the idea of taking a gentle group hike the next morning up one of the small summits of the Bigelows. I further also <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9K2uP1cepn8/XPmzv_kcCFI/AAAAAAAAEyc/9_Sr29g99jMRo8XLoKiw9ej8xJ3OucDwQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B15%2Bday%2Bafter%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9K2uP1cepn8/XPmzv_kcCFI/AAAAAAAAEyc/9_Sr29g99jMRo8XLoKiw9ej8xJ3OucDwQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B15%2Bday%2Bafter%2B2.jpg" width="320" height="246" data-original-width="1278" data-original-height="981" /></a></div>admit I was a complete idiot for suggesting this; clearly a case of, “What was I thinking?” It was enough for all of us to coax our broken bodies on a gentle meander through the neighborhood, putting an exclamation point on the weekend of punishment and mirth. We couldn’t even get ourselves out of our cars that afternoon as we ate our way south through Portland again (<a href="http://www.thirstypigportland.com/">Thirsty Pig!</a>...what was I thinking ordering the Spicy McFirepants?). We’d considered climbing a mountain?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OPMPueKUfl8/XPm0CkyXv6I/AAAAAAAAEyo/laovnak6550beb8WLfuXsh06h7oKtYjRwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-354%2B17%2BPortland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OPMPueKUfl8/XPm0CkyXv6I/AAAAAAAAEyo/laovnak6550beb8WLfuXsh06h7oKtYjRwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-354%2B17%2BPortland.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1411" data-original-height="1058" /></a></div>We called ourselves the Loafers, but crazy motivated people would have been more accurate. Crazy motivated people that I’m damn glad I know. Thanks, clubbies.<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-52376660012197444592019-05-10T20:17:00.000-04:002019-05-10T20:17:23.895-04:00Hitting the Bottom(s)<br />
I really wanted to hit the Bottoms this week. And no, that’s not a grammatical, usage, or punctuation error, it’s just a pun that stands in for a quest to overcome a small bit of nastiness in the world. So to continue with the pun, they say you have to hit Bottoms to see what’s important and to start the fight back. I somewhat non-concur. I had to fight just to hit Bottoms.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J81BWWnNItI/XNYNJTBTQ8I/AAAAAAAAEu4/BXvK6KPV4TYgVda9UyQII4Xj6EE6TSK8wCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2BNO%2Bsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J81BWWnNItI/XNYNJTBTQ8I/AAAAAAAAEu4/BXvK6KPV4TYgVda9UyQII4Xj6EE6TSK8wCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2BNO%2Bsign.jpg" width="320" height="302" data-original-width="1333" data-original-height="1257" /></a></div>Right, he’s truly lost it, I hear you saying. So, let’s back up a few days.<br />
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Recovery from Boston wasn’t pretty, though it really had little to do with Boston. Any soreness from that adventure peaked, as usual, a couple days hence, and quickly subsided, but a general malaise set in that went beyond the usual joint complaints and instead rose to a general alarm complaint. About a week back I turned in the closest thing to a tempo run since Beantown, circling Portland Maine’s Back Cove a couple of times, one of my favorite spots to hit after a northern customer meeting. My pace wasn’t horrid, but to think that it was all I could muster, and to think of the ugliness that accompanied the effort, well, it just wasn’t right. It seemed pretty clear that the meds that Lady Doc had directed – the ones that killed me back in February and I’d abandoned till after Boston, but then being a duly compliant patient had in fact restarted right afterwards – were at it again. Having failed to qualify at Boston and with my second chance race, Sugarloaf, a scant two weeks out, I pulled the plug on the pills once again.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l7zGmJs7-l8/XNYNXn07JpI/AAAAAAAAEu8/1fAWQz026M8UYez9dM7zhEhUjl1PdFDxgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2BFoleys.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-l7zGmJs7-l8/XNYNXn07JpI/AAAAAAAAEu8/1fAWQz026M8UYez9dM7zhEhUjl1PdFDxgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2BFoleys.JPG" width="320" height="227" data-original-width="1342" data-original-height="951" /></a></div>A mere two days later I toed the line (well, sort of, since there was no line at the start to toe and they didn’t bother let us all get into the road before calling ‘go’, but I digress…) at Foley’s Backstreet 5K, a decent-sized local event that our local club had descended upon en-masse last year, and had so much fun that we descended again en-larger-masse this year. I could harp about how I pulled in over a minute slower than last year’s outing despite ideal conditions, but that would skip the important bits: first, that a couple hundred meters in it was clear that I actually felt good for the first time since Boston, second, that while not blazing, I maintained the intensity, rolling back late-race challenges by a pair of youngsters, and third, that I actually had the oomph to kick it in, avoid a get-passed-at-the-finish-line insult, and score a finish line photo in which I am not, for a change, exhibiting my usual death-warmed-over look. Oh, and I took the old farts’ division, much to the chagrin of my club-mate who, like last year, would have owned that title had he not invited me along. Next year he’ll probably keep quiet about this one.<br />
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Next up after Foley’s on Sunday was an early Monday foray to a Company Rah-Rah (which, to be fair, turned out to be a pretty good Rah-Rah) in Nashville, Tennessee. Aha, that light bulb just went on; you frequent readers probably have an inkling of where this is going. Yes, a traveling runner story, with a twist.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wfw_SRi0LTI/XNYNfHkIulI/AAAAAAAAEvE/lwHcq1uBaQswA9YmLX5MHfgMFCJ6PqjHQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2BOpryland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Wfw_SRi0LTI/XNYNfHkIulI/AAAAAAAAEvE/lwHcq1uBaQswA9YmLX5MHfgMFCJ6PqjHQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2BOpryland.jpg" width="203" height="320" data-original-width="400" data-original-height="630" /></a></div>On the ride home from Foley’s, my carpooling club-mates, who’d just visited Nashville a few weeks prior, suggested getting in a run at the Shelby Bottoms Greenway, a roughly four-mile-long stretch of green, trails, and more green, hugging the Cumberland River almost directly across from my home away from home for the next few days, the truly gargantuan Gaylord Opryland hotel. The Gaylord, one of the biggest non-casino hotels in the country, is a combination convention factory and adult Disneyland. It features at least three glass-enclosed climate-controlled atria, the largest of which could probably hold several Midwestern towns in entirety. Every detail is attended to, every plant perfectly coifed, every faux waterfall perfectly designed, even the walkways are varnished with some magical substance that makes them always sport an ‘it just showered and things are pleasantly damp and shiny’ look while remaining remarkably non-skid. And it would turn out that the staff was top-notch and the food was almost uniformly excellent (smoked brisket hash! – a food providing the perfect way to die and inspiring my social media idea… #hashtag). Everything in the facility was top shelf. But everything was in the facility. These places are designed to be the hospitality equivalent of Alcatraz. You’re not supposed to leave. Indeed, it’s very hard to leave, at least without motored conveyance.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3O5DvdypRiA/XNYNlSutKWI/AAAAAAAAEvI/x2O5X_fawzAqnKD0I992aBVDzgMB3rFSgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bjogmap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3O5DvdypRiA/XNYNlSutKWI/AAAAAAAAEvI/x2O5X_fawzAqnKD0I992aBVDzgMB3rFSgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bjogmap.jpg" width="199" height="320" data-original-width="740" data-original-height="1192" /></a></div>But I run. I insist that I leave. I want to see the real world on the outside, the tour from ground level. And I’m not satisfied with the one-point-four-mile all-sidewalk round-the-hotel jogging loop they offered up on my arrival, neatly packaged in a pocket-sized brochure with the warning that this was urban running and that all due caution should be taken. Blech.<br />
<br />
But on Sunday afternoon, I didn’t yet know about that neatly packaged three-inch brochure. What I did know was that no amount of Internet searches would turn up any decent places to run from the Gaylord Opryland (though to my amusement I did find <a href="https://greatruns.com/lists/five-least-favorite-cities-for-running-in-north-america/">this page which highlights the worst cities to run in</a>, four of the five of which I’ve previously railed about in this column). I also knew that the resort occupied a slim strip of pavement hemmed in by the river and an eight-lane freeway. I further knew that there were some non-descript roads by which I could escape to north, though with no apparent destination or scenery. But mostly I knew that I wanted to take advantage of my friend’s recommendation and make my way to Shelby Bottoms to enjoy all that green, which meant escaping to the south and crossing the river. The problem was getting there.<br />
<br />
The City of Nashville did its part to solve my problem. A bit over a decade ago they built a lovely pedestrian suspension bridge from the Bottoms to the Opryland side of the river. Google Maps then served up hope in the form of a small road that paralleled the freeway and connected the south end of the Opryland resort-cum-hotel-cum-mall-cum-behemoth to a tiny rotary where the trail from Shelby came off the pedestrian bridge and plunged into a tunnel to parking lot across said freeway. Other than the need to hop down from the roundabout onto the trail, which appeared pretty easy, it looked like a win. Two miles from my hotel room would put me across the river with miles and miles of both paved and unpaved trails – and lots and lots of green. An early morning start would give me time for a fine tour of the Bottoms and still get me back for the Rah-Rah.<br />
<br />
Except for one little problem. Well, two, to be precise.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XVEftx4w3DU/XNYNvsr-5oI/AAAAAAAAEvU/vhLFk6YExBImH-o57y0f0dSe-9GRC1ouQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2BRyman%2BMap.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XVEftx4w3DU/XNYNvsr-5oI/AAAAAAAAEvU/vhLFk6YExBImH-o57y0f0dSe-9GRC1ouQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2BRyman%2BMap.png" width="320" height="186" data-original-width="1068" data-original-height="622" /></a></div>That little road was actually the entrance to a building housing <a href="https://www.rymanhp.com/">Ryman Hospitality Properties</a>. (You’ll understand why I’m calling them out by name shortly.) And a quick peek at Google Street View turned up a big issue: that little road was guarded by spiked iron gates at both ends, hermetically sealing off Ryman from the rabble of the real world. While it looked likely I could get around the one on the south end, resplendent with open lawns, the one on the north end was embedded in deep, thick woods, thwarting any attempt to circumvent its distinct lack of hospitality; rather ironic for a company whose name is hospitality.<br />
<br />
A study of the map showed that no reasonable alternative routes existed. To cross over the freeway from the hotel would involve, besides a lot of busy and highly unpleasant intersections, a crazy-long detour that would make the round-trip to the bridge a long run in its own right. No, there was no alternative but to breach the ramparts.<br />
<br />
Now don’t get me wrong here. I’m not being so pompous as to claim that as a runner I have any special rights to cross someone’s private property. Of course I don’t. But here’s an interesting little detail: Ryman, it turns out, <i>owns</i> Opryland. The hotel (Marriott only manages it). The music hall and famed show. A bunch more places. So Ryman, in the hospitality business, is sealing itself off from its own customers, a most inhospitable stance. We love you, or at least your money. Now don’t bother us.<br />
<br />
In part, I get it. If you look at the map, you can understand why they wouldn’t want vehicular traffic coming down the road. It’s small. It’s not designed for volume. And when things happen at Opryland, they happen big. It really would be unpleasant to try to empty out a show, the mall, or a convention through their driveway, especially if the freeway backed up and people bailed for this alternative. So that part makes sense.<br />
<br />
But nobody would pass this way on foot, save a few fitness crazies like me. Nobody would leave a performance at the Grand Ol’ Opry and try to walk back to downtown Nashville. It’s a long, long way (and it’d probably be very dark). Nobody would walk from the mall with their shopping treasures in hand. There’s nothing on the other end, save that bridge to the greenway, and once you’re there, there’s nothing there either, again, for a long, long way. And the southern end appeared (and I’d confirm later) to offer plenty of ways around the gate, so this blockade wasn’t adding any level of facility security. So why not allow pedestrians to pass, at least during daylight hours? Isn’t the point of the greenway to provide accessibility to outdoors? Isn’t the point of a hospitality business to provide a pleasant experience to their customers?<br />
<br />
Before I slept Sunday night, I was already roiling at the irony. Here was a city that had made an effort not only to preserve open space, but to make it accessible by building a bridge (and a big and costly one at that, mind you), only to have that wonderful resource be put off-limits to their biggest point-source of visitors and tourist and convention revenue – by the very firm that was drawing those people in. It’s a wound inflicted by their own benefactor. It’s the antithesis of what enlightened civic leaders strive for. Readers of this column will recall just three months ago in <a href="http://thesecondlap.blogspot.com/2019/02/a-tale-of-two-cities.html">A Tale of Two Cities</a> my praise for what Austin, Texas has created, and how their work has transformed their city by slathering it with a sizable dose of healthy lifestyle, and it has paid back in spades. Nashville is trying, but they’ve been blocked at the ten-yard-line by a member of their own team.<br />
<br />
But I’ve jumped ahead and made a lot of conclusions before spelling out the story, so, let’s back up.<br />
<br />
Owing to what I’d learned in my pre-trip research, I arrived in Nashville with an agenda, no, make that a mission, seasoned with a relish of indignance. Fight the injustice! Free the Bottoms! On check-in, the Gaylord’s front desk was a bit flummoxed by my ask of a way to get to the greenway and sent me to the concierge. Once there, I thought I’d hit the jackpot when Concierge The First not only understood my plight and seemed to have a solution, but doused her answer in passion for my cause. Enlightenment! Yes, she said, you can get around that gate through the woods (foolish me, having seen the barrier only from a distance on Street View, I thought the method would be obvious and didn’t ask further details), and further, she said she’d been working with the city to open up the very access I sought. Hallelujah! There is hope for the world!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gTUUDL1jOV0/XNYN6UOzy2I/AAAAAAAAEvc/4iOyBT-1BX4A_cF4VE_IVFFwGoJTlqX-wCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bnorth%2Bgate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gTUUDL1jOV0/XNYN6UOzy2I/AAAAAAAAEvc/4iOyBT-1BX4A_cF4VE_IVFFwGoJTlqX-wCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bnorth%2Bgate.jpg" width="320" height="176" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="881" /></a></div>And so I duly dragged my stiff and aged butt out of bed the next morning and made it out the door a few minutes after six, which those who know me know is not a time I prefer to be active. I worked out the kinks while traversing the acres of parking lot that offered the shortest route south. Reaching the resort’s southern terminus, just before the resort road melded into the mega-freeway, off in a last forlorn lot to the right… yes, there it was. The Gate of Unwelcoming, the Portal of Prohibited Passage. And to my surprise, a Gaylord pickup truck was in front of it, and it was open. The Evil Empire making rounds perhaps? As I approached, the truck rolled through, and the gate started to swing slowly shut.<br />
<br />
I contemplated making a dash. I could have made it. But if I did (and if nobody shot me) I would still have to get back. Scaling the spikey thing was not an option. If I couldn’t return, I certainly wouldn’t make it back in time for the Rah-Rah. And we’d been read the riot act that we would be at the Rah-Rah on time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h9XRMD3G12A/XNYOBN9T2BI/AAAAAAAAEvk/1RSWGh43VpAzy7AXGszud_zVsUwHXRsnwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2BNo-RVs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h9XRMD3G12A/XNYOBN9T2BI/AAAAAAAAEvk/1RSWGh43VpAzy7AXGszud_zVsUwHXRsnwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2BNo-RVs.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1029" data-original-height="1371" /></a></div>I let it swing shut, and when the truck was long gone, surveyed the scene. A Most Unwelcoming Sign warned that trespassers would be eaten by angry hippos (yeah, I made that part up, but it was unwelcoming). Fences along the road melded gapless with the gate, and southern-style-thick foliage extending on both sides. But the fence along the road only ran for perhaps twenty feet, and it almost looked trodden behind it. This, I surmised, must have been the ‘through the woods’ that Concierge The First had spoken of. I swung myself around the end of the fence and, clinging to that barrier to avoid the poison ivy and the slight drop into even thicker poison ivy, made my way to the gate – only to find Yet Another Fence, this one extending outward from the gate directly into the thick, no end visible, no trodden path, passage thwarted. Well, at least I wouldn’t get eaten by angry hippos. Extracting myself from the fences, I circled the small lot from whence the fence commenced, and finding no trodden paths into the thick, considered myself repelled but not defeated. I retreated, took a tour of the soft yellow underbelly of the resort (the service and warehouse district, so to speak), and popped in a few more miles by popping out the north end into a residential road amusingly signed to repel RVs.<br />
<br />
Back to the drawing boards. Concierge The First happened to be off that day, so my next effort landed me with Concierge The Second. Once again, the effort and caring offered up was second-to-none. Second got creative, explored several transit options, and went so far as to offer that she’d personally drive me down there (at 5:45 AM!) which I politely declined since it kind of subverted the point of the quest, and more importantly, since I could have permanently contaminated her seat cushions on the ride back. But key to this story is that she got on the phone and called our now mutual nemesis, Ryman (Non-)Hospitality, expecting that a reasonable request from a reasonable person would get a reasonable response. Expecting to hear that yes, we keep that locked to keep crowds of vehicles at bay, but sure, you can run through, since there will never be a full marathon crowd passing by, or maybe we can offer you a one-time code for the electronic gate lock, or…let’s just say, expecting hospitality.<br />
<br />
Nope. No way. Absolutely not. We don’t want your stinkin’ stinky runners. Go away.<br />
<br />
I think Concierge The Second was just about as devastated by this as was I. Oh, the humanity.<br />
<br />
Well, kids, there’s only one option left: Yup, the freeway.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2PV6FxLz1QY/XNYOLa4tT9I/AAAAAAAAEvs/bjr4EHH_dWgfgGPhm5DI31dnnewnhcUOwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bfreeway-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2PV6FxLz1QY/XNYOLa4tT9I/AAAAAAAAEvs/bjr4EHH_dWgfgGPhm5DI31dnnewnhcUOwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bfreeway-1.jpg" width="276" height="320" data-original-width="1380" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Now before you rise in horror, before you call Dearest Spouse and tell her to reign me in (or you <i>are</i> Dearest Spouse and would prefer I come home alive, which I did, but, well, you know), consider that in the course of runs everywhere I occasionally find myself on stretches of freeway-like roads with exit ramps that often must be crossed (not the case here) and traffic moving quickly, like rural highways. And worse, I often find myself on roads that aren’t freeways but have such a nasty lack of shoulders or other safe spaces that even slower-moving traffic represents a huge hazard. But still, this was really a <i>freeway</i>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qfrez2LbQGU/XNYOZM86yOI/AAAAAAAAEv0/5cUVXUfqvl0DHFUQbCT-JnHlXUG59rFQwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bfreeway-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qfrez2LbQGU/XNYOZM86yOI/AAAAAAAAEv0/5cUVXUfqvl0DHFUQbCT-JnHlXUG59rFQwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bfreeway-2.jpg" width="320" height="299" data-original-width="1542" data-original-height="1442" /></a></div>As it turns out, the distance from where the south end of the resort road melded into said eight-lane freeway and where the next exit ramp departed for that tiny rotary was only about a quarter mile, all with a good shoulder. With the exception of about a quarter of that distance where a concrete wall forced running on that shoulder, it looked like (thanks again, Street View) that one could hop the guard rail and run protected along the rough but passable edge on the other side. I was a bit more nervous about the outbound trip since traffic would be coming from behind me, but it would be early and volume, I reasoned, should be light.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I hit the parking lot at a quarter to six. Passing the gate which had stymied me the day prior there was again a Gaylord pickup truck making rounds. Or perhaps they’d had a change of heart and sent someone out to see if I’d show up and politely let me pass? Or, alternately, that staffer was there to unleash the angry hippos on me if I tried? I mentally gave the truck an impolite salute as I passed and hit the on-ramp (which I note did not have one of those ‘pedestrians prohibited’ signs) with acceleration akin to my aged Prius.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gQlihOMIwyI/XNYOgh1wHrI/AAAAAAAAEv8/0IHLoDu-irUYISJgmYDMqFBGtbqfQTmMACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bbridge-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gQlihOMIwyI/XNYOgh1wHrI/AAAAAAAAEv8/0IHLoDu-irUYISJgmYDMqFBGtbqfQTmMACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bbridge-1.jpg" width="320" height="272" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1361" /></a></div>Traffic was indeed light, but it only takes one semi doing seventy to rattle you a bit. The concrete barrier section came early and passed in a minute. Hopping the guard rail wasn’t hard, though the terrain on the other side probably offered up more chance of injury than had I stayed on the road –those <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2iFAng0aLfA/XNYO3JzAR8I/AAAAAAAAEwE/JagL6dsG5CQqOhtZyb8fw5tLbtdYstNrACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bbridge-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2iFAng0aLfA/XNYO3JzAR8I/AAAAAAAAEwE/JagL6dsG5CQqOhtZyb8fw5tLbtdYstNrACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bbridge-2.jpg" width="288" height="320" data-original-width="1440" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>six-inch cobbles they use for drainage really aren’t amenable to confident footfalls. As the thick woods gave way to the open lawns of the Ryman Hospitality building, I noticed another Gaylord pickup truck at their south gate. Were they really coordinating to let the fool pass? Or were they doubling down on their defense in anticipation of my threatening arrival? Ominous.<br />
<br />
Reaching the rotary victorious, and more importantly still alive, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zYP3uCG37zQ/XNYPeVeTKwI/AAAAAAAAEwM/sdiwo4CBZfQv6N9FZ8OS1rDVYGodoW9qwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bbridge-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zYP3uCG37zQ/XNYPeVeTKwI/AAAAAAAAEwM/sdiwo4CBZfQv6N9FZ8OS1rDVYGodoW9qwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bbridge-3.jpg" width="262" height="320" data-original-width="1308" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>it was an easy task to hop down the banking to the trail. In another minute I was on Nashville’s quite glorious suspension bridge, then swirling down its looping approach ramp, and I’d finally hit the Bottoms.<br />
<br />
Shelby Bottoms wasn’t a stunning piece of scenery; indeed, it was rather unremarkable (though had I gotten further south I would have gained more river views to turn up the remarkability meter). Instead, it was glorious for what it wasn’t. It wasn’t urban. It wasn’t developed, save for the main path being paved as a bikeway with a few small bridges. It wasn’t crowded – indeed, I was surprised at how few people I saw, which told me that Nashville has a way to go to try to reach Austin’s widespread embrace of their green spaces. And oddly, it wasn’t even that quiet: traffic noise from the freeway across the river never ceased, but the cacophony of birds and insects closer by made a credible effort at allowing me to forget the former. In truth, it was quieter while running behind the mall to get there than it was at the Bottoms, but I’ll take the Bottoms any day.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OD43cnLTvEo/XNYPzbn5yKI/AAAAAAAAEwY/aAuGBl8Ww0cK6YuI9iyJQ2XPpiRw6siLACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bgreen-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OD43cnLTvEo/XNYPzbn5yKI/AAAAAAAAEwY/aAuGBl8Ww0cK6YuI9iyJQ2XPpiRw6siLACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bgreen-1.jpg" width="257" height="320" data-original-width="1089" data-original-height="1358" /></a></div>And it was green. Stupendously green. Entirely green, save for the flitting of cardinals, the occasional bits of mud, and the gray of the bikeway. The unpaved paths ranged from wide and road-like to single track, where the green impinged so quickly that a tree down across the trail had rapidly grown over green again. Dewy grass was politely cleaning the mud from my shoes when I came around a corner and almost ran into a trio of deer. Various critters rustled in the brush and occasionally bunny-hopped out for a look. It was just what I’d hoped for.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a8g46je3ZVU/XNYQGGJTz7I/AAAAAAAAEwg/SBi85kBvJC0pjpmAbvRYQdC-8_MckueSACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bgreen-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a8g46je3ZVU/XNYQGGJTz7I/AAAAAAAAEwg/SBi85kBvJC0pjpmAbvRYQdC-8_MckueSACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bgreen-2.jpg" width="274" height="320" data-original-width="1089" data-original-height="1274" /></a></div>I overstayed my schedule, because, well, after what it took to get there, why not? Energized, the trip back north flew by. Passing the Palace of Prohibition, I offered up one final mental ‘driving finger salute’ in defiance to yet another looming Gaylord pickup truck as I hit the freeway again. Facing traffic this time, the brief stretch where I had to be on the inside of the retaining wall was over before I’d gotten nervous about the now early-rush-hour traffic. Getting back a bit later than planned, knowing my co-workers were used to, and at times even inspired, by my antics, I opted to hit the open-air (well, open atrium?) breakfast pre-shower – which turned out to be rather fun when the new exec-level guy at the table turned out to be a triathlete. Mutual respect gained.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E1yloOufqwg/XNYQPHNIQKI/AAAAAAAAEwk/lJklIYHhZJc53aMnN1OKZnH59YKb9v9LACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-353%2Bshelby%2Bsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E1yloOufqwg/XNYQPHNIQKI/AAAAAAAAEwk/lJklIYHhZJc53aMnN1OKZnH59YKb9v9LACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-353%2Bshelby%2Bsign.jpg" width="269" height="320" data-original-width="1210" data-original-height="1441" /></a></div>I’m not immune to the truth: I took a risk here for what most would say was a rather meaningless goal. But I calculated and accepted that risk as low enough (and frankly probably lower than the ‘legal’ long detour, which entailed crossing major intersections), and besides, everything carries risks. Travelling to Nashville itself probably offered up far more risk in aggregate. I came through fine and relished my reward for taking that risk.<br />
<br />
But Nashville, and more specifically, Ryman Hospitality, needs to fix this. Not everyone will be so daring, and the chance of a tragedy does exist. Open up access. Free the Bottoms.<br />
<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-14677130728192776732019-04-29T18:45:00.000-04:002019-04-29T18:45:05.989-04:00Playing Pinball<br />
Back in my college days, I came back to my dorm one day to find that one of my suite-mates had bought me a copy of <i>The Soul of a New Machine</i>, a book by Tracy Kidder that journals the creation of a new computer at a company called Data General. Bob thought it was a good book that I’d enjoy, and though none in the suite were in the habit of buying each other random gifts, he just did. It was a simple and thoughtful nicety, and I doubt he thought for a moment that I’d end up going to work for that company out of school, which brought me to New England and set my life on a path that resulted in the here and now. The world works in strange and wonderful ways. Thanks, Bob.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-myf2i7ucVuo/XMd2L5qNaPI/AAAAAAAAEtk/lBRKUh3TUFUF_rwTtu4mcOPadl_sonsCgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B01%2BDG%2BNova.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-myf2i7ucVuo/XMd2L5qNaPI/AAAAAAAAEtk/lBRKUh3TUFUF_rwTtu4mcOPadl_sonsCgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B01%2BDG%2BNova.jpg" width="320" height="208" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1040" /></a></div>One of the themes in Kidder’s work was the concept of playing pinball. The idea drove the team of young designers (“Hire them young since they don’t know what’s not possible”), tempting them not with traditional rewards like fame and wealth, but simply with the chance to play again. Like pinball.<br />
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Most people don’t run. Most people that run don’t run marathons. Most people that run marathons don’t qualify for Boston. Many, if not most, people who do qualify still don’t run Boston, because they’re scattered throughout the world and most people’s resources are limited.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RSq9OM5NqNo/XMd2TgEmKEI/AAAAAAAAEto/ToEZMuAWZqwgsnAyXYIFWhNXlYwBZnDZACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B02%2Bwheel%2Bof%2Brice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RSq9OM5NqNo/XMd2TgEmKEI/AAAAAAAAEto/ToEZMuAWZqwgsnAyXYIFWhNXlYwBZnDZACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B02%2Bwheel%2Bof%2Brice.jpg" width="273" height="320" data-original-width="1238" data-original-height="1451" /></a></div>I’ve been blessed with a body that runs, one that runs fast enough to qualify for Boston, and in part thanks to Bob’s unprompted gift and the chance happenstances that came thereafter, the fortunate fact of living ten miles from the starting line of the most famous marathon in the world. And so I keep going back, because I can. Twelve times prior, thirteen after this year’s edition. My endeavors have won me little in the way of fame outside of my close circle of friends (a couple articles in the <i>MetroWest Daily News </i>over the years hardly qualifies as fame), and certainly little in the way of wealth (though I have scored a lot of goodies at the expo, the ‘wheel of rice’ being one of my annual favorite booths), but they have let me play pinball – every year I’ve been allowed to play again. All I have to do is finish, and hit my qualifying time, which in past years has been, owing to that whole blessing thing, relatively easy for me. (I’d written a rather laborious explanation of the qualifying process for the unfamiliar, but as most of you would be bored silly, I’ll skip it here and drop that into a quasi-appendix at the tail end of today’s tale.)<br />
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Relatively easy yes, but not this time. At this year’s Boston, I only closed on half the deal. Mission accom, but no plished – yet. Yes, I made it to the finish line – goal one, so to speak, but no, goal two didn’t happen, I did not chalk up a qualifying time. Oddly though, there was an element of joy even in that, because when the realization sunk in that it wasn’t going to happen, the last few miles took on an entirely different feel that was, in an agonizing sort of way, kinda’ fun.<br />
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That realization started just past mile sixteen, just after seeing Dearest Spouse at Newton Lower Falls, when she noticed I was smiling but was wise enough from many iterations of this exercise to know that wasn’t necessarily a reliable indicator. By that point, I had over eleven minutes in the bank, plus or minus, given the vagaries of mental math mutated by marathon miles, but I was already of the realization that it wouldn’t be enough. Climbing the ‘zero-ith hill’ over the freeway bridge, I said as much when Marcos, my acquaintance from the morning (we’ll get to that) pulled alongside. I hadn’t given up by any stretch of the imagination, but when you feel it, you feel it. I’d be taking walk breaks by eighteen, and that eleven minutes, built up mile by mile over the first half which had gone swimmingly, evaporated ridiculously rapidly.<br />
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A lot has been said about the warmth this year, especially in the second half. In truth, it was the humidity. Even back in 2012, when temperatures soared to the high eighties, the humidity stayed April-style reasonable. This time, even the low 60s overcast start came with nearly full humidity. I was sweating considerably by mile one. I was in heat mode from the start – every water station, a couple of sips, and over the head with the rest (though the ironic combination of low morning temperatures and no sun for the first half made those cooling pours shockingly cold, every single time). When the sun came out full bore around mile sixteen – right around the time I knew my cake was baked – the book had been written. Despite popping electrolytes, both calves went into tic-spasms, threatening to go full-on disaster mode lock-up cramp, forcing me to back off even when the rest of the body relented from its complaining and hinted I might be able to pick it up. So yeah, the warmth was a big factor (and I note, those out later caught the next weather front and instead had to deal with cold, go figure…) but the bottom line is that this came unraveled because of poor training and poor fitness. Mother Nature was an accessory to the crime, but this one was all mine.<br />
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Not that there was a lot I could have done about that. Injuries and other medical issues gave this winter a Superfund designation of toxic disaster. My total mileage for the first quarter barely exceeded some of the months I’ve turned in over the years. While ironically, the parts that worried me going in actually held up pretty well in the race, plenty of other parts rose (or fell, as the case may be) to take their place.<br />
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Having seen just about everything that Marathon Monday can dish out, this year we were treated to a new twist in the form of lines of thunderstorms, not the mild kind, but the sky ablaze with fireworks kind, that seared my ride to Hopkinton into the memory banks. Having been invited by clubmates to join them at the center for the charity they supported (the <a href="http://www.hopkintonrespite.com/index.htm">Michael Lisnow Respite Center</a>, a fine organization worthy of your support), I traded in a couple extra hours of sleep for an earlier departure to get to the comfort of a roof and real bathrooms a quarter-mile from the center of town – and a front-row seat to the early-morning dousing and light show. As we wended toward Hopkinton through torrential downpours, visions of last year’s swim hung like dread, though the air was much warmer. Later I’d learn that runners were shunted from the eternal mud-pit of the Athlete’s Village into the high school – a first – due to the storm, and rather ironic since in the days leading up to the race, the Boston Athletic Association tried to sucker me into paying extra for such a privilege. But by race time, the rain had passed, the skies almost hinted at clearing, and spirits rose along with the humidity.<br />
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Coming to the start from a house in a different direction than the Village, a house that had been filled with mostly wave three and four charity runners, was an entirely odd experience. When one of the few wave-two runners I’d met there, Marcos, opted to stay back to run with his friend in wave three (he’d later change his mind and we’d meet up briefly, remember him at mile sixteen?) I just left the house and walked east alone, no announcements, no fanfare, no crowds. With wave one loaded and leaving as I approached and only a few stragglers hurrying down from the Village, there was no human wave, just eerie calm. If I hadn’t met up with a local woman while we weaseled through security and walked together up the hill to our corral, it would have been an entirely solo affair. We were, in fact, the first people to re-enter corral three after wave one left, so we intentionally stepped in together to give us both the bragging rights of being first – certainly the only first I’ll ever earn at Boston.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5txAi3HbAp8/XMd2i7nPILI/AAAAAAAAEtw/BOyQ6_cPRWg2cW26wcm_4jjlAQ2Gs8fogCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B03%2Bsunburn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5txAi3HbAp8/XMd2i7nPILI/AAAAAAAAEtw/BOyQ6_cPRWg2cW26wcm_4jjlAQ2Gs8fogCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B03%2Bsunburn.jpg" width="320" height="319" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1596" /></a></div>Besides hanging with mostly charity runners at the house, the kind of folks where you have to convince the nineteen-year-old running his first marathon from wave four that qualifying for next year really shouldn’t be Goal One, coming from the Lisnow house also brought an entirely different vibe. I’ve always understood why people enjoy running Boston with charity teams, but I’d never experienced it firsthand. It’s not the same international feel of the Village, which I love, but a warm and friendly with-a-purpose and welcoming feel. An impromptu ceremony broke out for a woman running only days after finishing her chemotherapy (the Lisnow house is not a cancer charity, this just happened to be…) and I found myself wearing a supportive armband in her honor. The resulting sunburn stripes – since nobody foresaw the second half conditions and nobody brought or was passing around sunscreen, even at the start – was almost comical. But the unique under-armpit chafe it caused, unknown to me till I hugged Caitlyn, a friend and training partner who by fate arrived in the finish chute nearly simultaneously, which suddenly mixed her sweat into the wound (say ‘yeeeeoooow!’) turned out to be the most annoying injury of the event. Minor, or course, compared to the likely permanent damage my joints are feeling, but a reminder of that cancer patient’s journey every time I stretched my arms for a week.<br />
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Interlude: The people you meet. Somehow I discovered that the woman marshalling corral three was a tennis friend of the best man from my wedding. The world works in strange and wonderful ways. Back to the tale.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LM1NfCLGvaI/XMd2pq9uj1I/AAAAAAAAEt4/TwEzHgIRBS0saBmq4Cmh866hf6f99hHrACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B04%2Bmile%2B16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LM1NfCLGvaI/XMd2pq9uj1I/AAAAAAAAEt4/TwEzHgIRBS0saBmq4Cmh866hf6f99hHrACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B04%2Bmile%2B16.jpg" width="245" height="320" data-original-width="1223" data-original-height="1595" /></a></div>And as these things happen every year, we were off, and the cylinders were firing nicely. Though the alarm bell of heavy sweating went off – manageable – I was clicking off miles with very low effort about forty-five seconds under my needed average pace, which sounds like a lot, but with the back-loaded Boston hills and an expectation of an Epic Struggle due to the poor training season, it was a prudent investment. My cranial accumulator counted seconds in the bank, two hundred, four hundred, six hundred, nearly seven hundred, and it wasn’t hurting. Till rather suddenly, around fifteen, it was. Dearest Spouse was right. I was smiling as I passed her at sixteen, but I knew the Ogre of Poor Training already had his hands around my ankles.<br />
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All momentum was gone by the top of the first hill. Eight miles to go is far too soon for that tipping point. By the time a friend offered me pickle juice – yes, I know some people are into this, but not me (thanks anyway, Adam) – around nineteen, I was struggling, though still holding hope that the bank account might still let me eke out next year’s qualifier. But seemingly each time those thoughts came around, the calves would start to cramp again (despite the electrolytes I’d periodically popped) and the air would come out of the balloon again. Once over Heartbreak, I pretty much knew the BQ was gone, and I decided that if any Boston College student was offering a brew, I’d take it. Sadly, that did not occur.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S0M1F1-8jBk/XMd21sxRZbI/AAAAAAAAEuA/-ZkIaUsCyNIJZk5Lsy6bFQ0UsEMD_PFhQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B05%2Bmile%2B24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S0M1F1-8jBk/XMd21sxRZbI/AAAAAAAAEuA/-ZkIaUsCyNIJZk5Lsy6bFQ0UsEMD_PFhQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B05%2Bmile%2B24.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="720" data-original-height="960" /></a></div>Did I mention it got hot? The sun was, quite surprisingly, blazing. The wind – even the promised tailwind – was gone; no cooling from any direction. But still, fleeting thoughts of just-maybe-I-can-still-pull-this-off kept popping up. And calf cramps kept knocking them down.<br />
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By Beacon Street it was Game Over. For only the second time in my thirteen Bostons, the other being the year I’d just had my foot surgically repaired, I got to the space of It Just Doesn’t Matter. I walked when I felt like it. So what? I smiled and waved and joked with encouraging spectators. Why not? I looked left and right and saw scenery I’d never noticed. Why’d it take me so long to do that? And when I got to the (brilliantly orchestrated) pedestrian crossings that my local Highland City Striders club was operating at miles twenty-three and twenty-four, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w67xfZoNA4w/XMd3GNWRy_I/AAAAAAAAEuM/Qh9DBKGfqeE0lJWJk47f1soPGxwjAiGYQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B06%2BHCS%2Bvolunteers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w67xfZoNA4w/XMd3GNWRy_I/AAAAAAAAEuM/Qh9DBKGfqeE0lJWJk47f1soPGxwjAiGYQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B06%2BHCS%2Bvolunteers.jpg" width="320" height="185" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="554" /></a></div>I celebrated: high-fives all around at the first one, though I made a show of it and kept running, and full stop, hugs all around at the second. Once again, one of the best race pictures ever came about when I wasn’t actually running.<br />
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After one last walk on Hereford Street, I made sure I was running around that last fabled corner (way too many overpriced race photographers there to do otherwise) and settled in to jog it out. But in a last burst of pride, I noticed that a ten-minute increment was creeping closer on my watch, and, despite being in the ‘purely for the joy of it’ zone, that racing brain kicked back in and told me I’d be less than happy with myself if I let the clock tick over. One final burst down Boylston brought it home with seven seconds to spare – against a meaningless number of course, but hey…<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kuy4ycvePeo/XMd3KUbG2GI/AAAAAAAAEuQ/5gFF0yWQAkQWYkoKfw-NbsaIFHLspLVBQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B07%2BSquannies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kuy4ycvePeo/XMd3KUbG2GI/AAAAAAAAEuQ/5gFF0yWQAkQWYkoKfw-NbsaIFHLspLVBQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B07%2BSquannies.jpg" width="320" height="221" data-original-width="1385" data-original-height="958" /></a></div>Did I mention it got hot? I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve finished a marathon and not needed a heat sheet, though I took one anyway. Within hours it would be raining and cold and nasty windy again, but for the moment it was the tail end of the steam heat that had just generated the worst positive splits (positive is a bad thing, my non-marathoning friends…) in my recorded history, but gave me a walk to my ‘other local club’ – the Squannies party – without the usual shivering. Whatever.<br />
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As for Boston 2020, at the moment I am out. I’ve got another marathon planned in a few weeks and another chance to snag a qualifying time, but if the couple of weeks since the race are any indication, my chances, quite frankly, don’t look so good. My body is just not happy these days. There’s always the charity route, and though I loathe the idea of hitting up my friends, if I thought that this was a temporary thing and that a big recovery loomed, I might consider if for a year. Frankly, I don’t, so I probably won’t. And as I’ve stated earlier, if the streak ends here, it has been a hell of a ride, and I’m good with that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wYI-3PvDvHQ/XMd3P2dyUeI/AAAAAAAAEuU/aeDOvj4WFVwkaHVDmS6mvYHIPdmA_cI_QCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B08%2Bpoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wYI-3PvDvHQ/XMd3P2dyUeI/AAAAAAAAEuU/aeDOvj4WFVwkaHVDmS6mvYHIPdmA_cI_QCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-352%2B08%2Bpoke.jpg" width="258" height="320" data-original-width="1288" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Ironically, for my recovery week, Dearest Spouse and I headed to Seattle to visit Darling Offspring the Elder (hint: <i>never </i>fly out of Logan the Wednesday morning after the marathon), and during that trip, in between lots of amazing food and some very slow recovery runs around Capitol Hill and Volunteer Park, we paid a visit to Seattle’s Living Computer Museum. Besides a fabulous and warm-memory-evoking display of a Digital PDP-8, the machine on which I cut my teeth, which in a way led me into my college, which led to the literary gift from Bob, which led me to New England, yada yada, there was also one of the original Data General machines, the Nova (opening photo, above). That one pre-dated my time at the company, but that was the machine who’s successor, the Eclipse, was built by the team that coined the term ‘playing pinball’. Full circle.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hzlxP2HQoaU/XMd2Et67jVI/AAAAAAAAEtg/PWaOIPaqOc8b52fYOCtTOWYrxhOu5Q_EwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-352%2B10%2Bpdp-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hzlxP2HQoaU/XMd2Et67jVI/AAAAAAAAEtg/PWaOIPaqOc8b52fYOCtTOWYrxhOu5Q_EwCLcBGAs/s400/GMC-352%2B10%2Bpdp-8.jpg" width="300" height="400" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
<b>Quasi-Appendix</b><br />
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Here’s a little explanation on qualifying for Boston, and how it’s different when you’ve got a ten-year streak going.<br />
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It’s well known that you must run a certain time in a qualifying marathon to gain entry to Boston, and that your qualifying time, or “BQ”, varies by gender and age. But owing to the popularity of the race, there are many more BQs than can be accommodated. To avoid the typical rush like what happens every time a block of tickets opens up for Hamilton on Broadway, the Boston Athletic Administration devised a creative and fair solution. Simplifying the story a bit, once everyone who wants entry has registered, they rank entrants by how far each is ahead of their own BQ, then fill the available slots from the top down, biggest gap of actual versus BQ wins. An old guy like me can get in if I’m five minutes ahead of my BQ, whereas a young guy who ran considerably faster than me still might not if he was only one minute ahead of his BQ. In the years since this system was devised, the gap, or the cut-off, needed to gain entry grew so much – this year it was close to five minutes – that the BAA just shifted the qualifying times down by five minutes across the board for next year. That just brought reality into the process for the typical applicant, but for us ten-year people who weren’t subject to the cut-off, we just found our qualifying standards tightened by five minutes, because there’s another piece to the puzzle. Once you’ve completed ten consecutive Bostons, you’re given the opportunity to register early and skip the cut-off. We ten-year folks can get in just by making it on the nose. This was a big advantage when the cut-off grew large. Now that the qualifying times have dropped across the board, our reality has caught up with everyone else – for now. Chances are good that even with the new standards, the cut-off will grow again.<br />
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Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-87090372228189566612019-04-07T13:44:00.000-04:002019-04-07T13:44:19.069-04:00Train Wreck A’Comin’<br />
It was a typical Thursday night evening club run, the kind we call ‘After Dark’ before Daylight Savings Time rolls around (gloriously), reduces our need for blinky lights, and turns them into ‘Into the Dusk’ runs. I consider these to be fun outings, three-quarters social and one-quarter workout. Though it’s true that if the right people show up, the run can morph from the a casual jog into sort of a quasi-fartlek, with the ‘fast gang’ pouring it on for stretches before circling back (amid shouts of “Swarm!”) to recoagulate the group. Never are they the kind of workout that makes you hurt the next day (summer hills and track arrived this week just to offer up that possibility).<br />
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But this time, by a couple miles in I was first skipping the out-and-back stretches up the bonus-hill cul-de-sacs, then limping alone back to our host’s home to nurse my woes in some of his home-brews among good friends, feeling sad, annoyed, conflicted, whatever. Boston was then just over two weeks away and I was out of commission. My right calf, which had twinged a bit on two earlier runs, had gone full-out pull, strain, tear, whatever; it just damn well hurt enough to tell me without a doubt that I was out for a least a few days. Having just hit a birthday the day before, that coming on the heels of my annual ‘return to running anniversary’ (fourteen years), and thus already feeling somewhat aged, then having had to deal with a plethora of other issues over the last few months, it was a good thing that home-brew was there (thanks, Mike) to prevent a Full-On Funk.<br />
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Let’s put it this way: lately it’s kind of like I’m standing on a low hill, staring out to sea, and I can see the tsunami coming. There’s not a lot I can do about it, not even run away, since running, it would seem, is one of the things I’m not doing so well at the moment. And now Boston is barely more than a week away. The train wreck, she is a’comin…<br />
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Over ten years ago I set out to write this blog with the theme of documenting the ups and downs of running later in life; ‘later' at the time I started writing loosely meant over forty, or in short, not a kid. The clock ticked, the bell tolled, and now I find myself documenting an entirely different kind of ‘later’, this one being what is unmistakably the start – or perhaps well into – the inevitable decline of aging. I’ve lamented many times in this column that it might be coming. I’m done with that ‘might’ stuff. It’s here. So let’s just deal with it. (And I’ve used way too many single quotes, so I’ll stop now.)<br />
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To begin with, I did something I rarely do. I went off for our weekend upstate New York visit to Dearest Offspring the Younger without a whit of running gear in my bags. No gear, can’t succumb in a weak moment and go out for a run, only to re-injure. Witness protection program. Forced healing, if you may. Nearly a week after the Calf Nelson, I finally gave it a test run, and yes, the calf came back, but by now it’s nearly certain I can’t save myself from the product of an entire season of bad training. Certainly not in a week before Boston. And certainly not with a knee that’s progressed pretty much beyond the point of no return.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4tL5deuElQI/XKo1F2jMqbI/AAAAAAAAEs0/jve6Mk17SU87AGV_XlhrgzDYqn-haCXzQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-351%2B01%2Bbest%2Brace%2Bphoto%2Bever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4tL5deuElQI/XKo1F2jMqbI/AAAAAAAAEs0/jve6Mk17SU87AGV_XlhrgzDYqn-haCXzQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-351%2B01%2Bbest%2Brace%2Bphoto%2Bever.jpg" width="320" height="224" data-original-width="640" data-original-height="448" /></a></div>Enough of that, at least for a few paragraphs. Look at the bright sides, right? That’s what I always try to do here. The bright side that my last race produced what I consider one of the best race photographs ever, so outstanding that I actually paid the photographer a few bucks to get a licensed copy to post it here without guilt. A photo that was so great because… I wasn’t racing. We’ll get back to that story later, but for now, just soak up the joy of me with the chowder ladies. You serve chowder (especially good chowder), I will come to your race. You insist that I take some home to Dearest Spouse, I will pose for a photograph. And no matter what happened on the course, I will leave happy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Rs7jXfIs1Y/XKo09v1M7gI/AAAAAAAAEss/i9WVTBmY1uYrx0xnXCdFyFKRey8OwoPiwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-351%2B02%2BHyannis%2BResults.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Rs7jXfIs1Y/XKo09v1M7gI/AAAAAAAAEss/i9WVTBmY1uYrx0xnXCdFyFKRey8OwoPiwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-351%2B02%2BHyannis%2BResults.jpg" width="320" height="232" data-original-width="1042" data-original-height="757" /></a></div>Before we got to that chowderrific day in New Bedford (or New Beffuhd, as I often call it), I had to pass through the perennial rite of winter, the Hyannis Marathon Relay. Back in my college days, my service fraternity used to get a chapter award every year from the national organization, since all you really had to do to get it was to fill out the application which showed that your chapter was not, in fact, dead, and that you had, in fact, performed some service. And like magic, your H. Roe Bartle Award would arrive, the award you got for asking. Hyannis has almost become that: if you show up, show that you’ve made an effort to run a decent pace (e.g., you are not dead and you have performed some running), you will win your division in the relay. Which we did, for the ninth time. I need a bigger shelf for the clamshells.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hiaf_GbUkgk/XKo02JMv7zI/AAAAAAAAEsk/-Yb5n8fbF2spSjKkc6PUmXv9yWZu16AWgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-351%2B03%2BClamshells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hiaf_GbUkgk/XKo02JMv7zI/AAAAAAAAEsk/-Yb5n8fbF2spSjKkc6PUmXv9yWZu16AWgCLcBGAs/s400/GMC-351%2B03%2BClamshells.jpg" width="400" height="119" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="477" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6PNMM4VB4pQ/XKo0eIeaOZI/AAAAAAAAEsQ/1GTYBw8SOYg9vFbGO9-dscWLWY_YgZtMgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-351%2B04%2BHyannis%2Brain%2Bhead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6PNMM4VB4pQ/XKo0eIeaOZI/AAAAAAAAEsQ/1GTYBw8SOYg9vFbGO9-dscWLWY_YgZtMgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-351%2B04%2BHyannis%2Brain%2Bhead.jpg" width="320" height="190" data-original-width="121" data-original-height="72" /></a></div>Actually, two funny things happened this year, besides yet another year of dismal cold, rainy, and windy weather. First was that we actually did have some competition, and while our team’s time was off from previous years and was still enough to win our ninth masters’ division clam shell, there was actually a team within ten minutes of us. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ofEzASxmQbk/XKo0qIkKNhI/AAAAAAAAEsY/2pUtQxh6M3gMf_bGuiY6YDjX3oGCGaCdACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-351%2B05%2BHyannis%2Brain%2Bfeet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ofEzASxmQbk/XKo0qIkKNhI/AAAAAAAAEsY/2pUtQxh6M3gMf_bGuiY6YDjX3oGCGaCdACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-351%2B05%2BHyannis%2Brain%2Bfeet.jpg" width="320" height="141" data-original-width="255" data-original-height="112" /></a></div>Second was that we weren’t really masters. We sort of screwed up. To qualify as a masters team, everyone has to be over forty. We were all, as it turned out, over fifty, which meant that while we were perfectly legal to race as masters, we should have raced as seniors so as to avoid the withering competition of the young’uns. Oops. No matter, we ran off with it anyway. And a good time was had by all, as usual, except for the fact that they did not, as they usually do, have chowder after the race. Boo. Hiss.<br />
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The chowder had to wait for the New Beffuhd Half Marathon a few weeks later. Unlike Hyannis, New Beffuhd came around with the finest weather I’ve ever seen at that beloved race – so fine, in fact, that the legendary wind late in the race was for once almost non-existent. Despite this, it was a somewhat miserable day. How? Let me count the ways.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yd-CuJCI_5M/XKo0YJv4fWI/AAAAAAAAEsM/5LpTPTGojoUztEGWYX0v46JFkm2HM6iaQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-351%2B06%2BNB%2BMile%2B12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yd-CuJCI_5M/XKo0YJv4fWI/AAAAAAAAEsM/5LpTPTGojoUztEGWYX0v46JFkm2HM6iaQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-351%2B06%2BNB%2BMile%2B12.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a></div>I should note that I actually ran a pretty good eight mile race. The only trouble is that this was a half marathon. The wheels started coming off at eight and things got progressively uglier as the miles clicked by. I was hoping that nobody captured me on film (er, pixels) late in the race, but sadly someone did ensconce for eternity my complete collapse of form, dignity, and hope.<br />
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Those high miles were the culmination of a myriad of woes, some previously documented here, some held in the deepest folds of darkness. You’re tired of hearing about the knee. You’re not surprised when I tell you the other one hurts at times, too. You haven’t heard me complain that my back has been acting up for months, on and off, but it has. And you won’t be surprised when I tell you that a week back (this has nothing to do with New Beffuhd), a strange sharp shooting pain attacked my right upper pelvic bone while on a short run over to the gym. So sharp it stopped me cold. So strange that the best Dr. Google could suggest was that I needed to have my uterus removed, which I think would be a significant challenge for the medical community. And stranger, the next day it was gone, completely, nary a wisp of recollection, never to return.<br />
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But the thing that’s making me feel old is that a few months ago Lady Doctor read me the scroll of reality. Those nagging cholesterol and blood pressure threats that we’ve been ignoring on the theory that enough exercise heals all wounds, well, as one’s age advances they grow on the risk charts, and the time had come, she said, that we had to do something about them. Exercise alone wouldn’t absolve her medical concern; it was time for low-dose meds. And though she hand-picked solutions described in the medical literature as ‘exercise tolerant’, within weeks of introduction I was a slobbering hopeless mess. Well, perhaps not slobbering, but all remnants of performance pretty much went to hell rapidly. Backing off on them helped a little, but it just seems that some damage of age has been induced.<br />
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And that was going through my head, if not my veins, while I plugged up the final hill at mile twelve, looking so obviously ragged that runners passing me were shouting the kind of encouragement that you toss at the hapless. Bless them. They meant well.<br />
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Perspective time: I’m battling age and wear and tear. It’s nothing compared to my friend Tom who’s battling cancer. And while this ended up as a Personal Worst for me in the half marathon, somehow I still almost scored for my team, rolling in less than a minute out of the money. And let’s face it, no matter how slow I thought it was, few of my non-running friends would find it at all understandable to hear me complain about how long it took to run a half-marathon, since that’s something they just don’t even consider doing on any given random weekend. Yeah, things hurt. But they do for most people my age. Deal with it.<br />
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So Boston looms, I’m more or less permanently injured, and I’ve run only a few more miles in the entire first quarter of this year than I have in some months. Whatever.<br />
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The reality is that all I have to do is finish Boston to keep my thirteen-year streak alive. Re-qualifying is the goal, and in any other year that wouldn’t be too hard. But if I don’t re-qualify, I’ve got a backup race already planned a month out. I’m hoping to make that just a fun outing with my clubmates, but it can turn deadly serious if it must. And if that fails?<br />
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Again, perspective time. When I started this whole Second Lap adventure, running a marathon wasn’t the goal, the plan, or even on the recipe list. When finishing a marathon turned into marathoning (my definition of having done more than one), qualifying for Boston wasn’t a realistic prospect. Surprise. That happened. Then it happened again. And lather, rinse, repeat, it kept happening. But it’s not going to keep happening forever. And it’s extremely unlikely that it will happen long enough to nudge myself onto that famed page in the Boston Marathon program listing the longest streakers. Heck, to make twenty-five, I’d need to keep this up every year till I’m sixty-eight; not saying I don’t want to be running then, but still chunking out Boston every year? Unlikely.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B0-RjnYaogs/XKoz8jhdaEI/AAAAAAAAEsE/jr_MhuVFk1YPn2WVCxS2hO5AHU4ogqxPgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-351%2B07%2BFun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B0-RjnYaogs/XKoz8jhdaEI/AAAAAAAAEsE/jr_MhuVFk1YPn2WVCxS2hO5AHU4ogqxPgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-351%2B07%2BFun.jpg" width="320" height="297" data-original-width="1080" data-original-height="1001" /></a></div>So it’s going to end, and when it does I will walk away, head high, smile on my face, and say, stealing the Douglass Adams line, “Thanks for all the fish.” There’s no point in lamenting. I never saw this coming (well, OK, I did dream, whatever), it came, and it’s been a helluva’ ride. And besides, there’s plenty of fun on our casual group runs and there are plenty of other adventures to tackle.<br />
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So let’s go see if this turns into a train wreck. Oughta’ be fun, in its sick sort of way.<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-41180880004115071412019-02-08T11:50:00.000-05:002019-02-09T00:10:15.146-05:00A Tale of Two Cities<br />
<i>It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…</i><br />
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I’d be lying if I told you I’d read the book, but everyone knows the opening lines. And it only takes a few seconds to Google the classic work and learn that the two cities in question were London and Paris, and that Dickens wrote of those places at a time of great disruption, that being the French Revolution, plus or minus a few years, and how conditions impacted the lives of those who made their way through those places and times.<br />
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I, on the other hand, am simply stealing his well-known title to make a point of how civic conditions, and I would posit the leadership decisions that brought them about, make a difference in the lives and experiences of both residents and visitors to, in this case, two cities, these being domestic and thus a little closer to home, but rivals in a sense not unlike London and Paris. And yes, you could say we are also living in a time of great disruption, since my transit to and from the second visit in this pair was anything but certain in the face of our governmental disfunction thanks to the antics of a certain highly despised authoritarian figurehead and his similarly highly despised tortoise-like legislative crony. But this is no place for politics. Even if it had to be said. And I’ll be happy to go on. But I won’t.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zWb9jkuZ7PY/XF5byB_YSmI/AAAAAAAAEqM/Sat4ht6ORnM_RhK-KJhtLqtvH9ZzaCLnQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B01%2Bpostcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zWb9jkuZ7PY/XF5byB_YSmI/AAAAAAAAEqM/Sat4ht6ORnM_RhK-KJhtLqtvH9ZzaCLnQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B01%2Bpostcard.jpg" width="320" height="209" data-original-width="1512" data-original-height="987" /></a></div>Austin and Dallas. A hipster town and the Big D. Texas rivals, of a sort, though I suspect that Austin sort of shrugs its shoulders at Dallas, while Dallas makes a big point of being that Big D. But I don’t judge a city on its size and might. Rather, I judge on livability, which for me, as you might guess often comes down to runability. If a town makes the effort to create places where you can get out and get some fresh air, it seems to me that that town is thinking in the right direction. And that town is a lot more pleasant to visit.<br />
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I used to travel to Texas regularly, but till a few weeks back it’d been quite a while since last I set foot in its broad expanses. I’ve now made two trips in the last two months, one to each of the aforementioned municipalities. I made the effort – as I almost always to – to get my runs in while in each of these venues. And how do they compare? Well, my verdict was easy to reach: Dallas wants to be known as the Big D, and I’ll agree; it earned its Big D, while Austin lived up to the irony that its name begins with an A, as it easily earned that grade.<br />
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If I was blessed with bazillions of readers I’m sure there would be denizens of Dallas who would protest. Fortunately, with my blog’s miniscule eyeball count, the likelihood of anyone from that locale reading this is low. But even if they see this, I’ll stick by my story, despite my assessment not being terribly thorough or scientific, or by any means above reproach on other dimensions.<br />
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First, let’s cover off all the holes in the logic of my judgement. On my trek to Dallas, I never made it more than five miles outside of the perimeter of Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport. Bedded down in Irving, literally in view of the vast open space that is DFW, and working in Coppell, I never made it into Dallas proper. Had I made it downtown, I’m told that Dallas does have a trail, albeit paved most of the way, known as the Katy Trail, that heads more or less from downtown out toward Southern Methodist University and the White Rock area. I’ve been to White Rock and it’s reasonably pleasant, with some walking paths around the lake and some interesting birds to notch on your life list, if you’ve got one. It even hosts Dallas’ marathon.<br />
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But nine times out of ten, when you go to Dallas, you don’t go downtown or anywhere near those places. In all of those trips to Dallas over all of those years (and there used to be lots, I’d say I’ve been there at least twenty times), I ended up staying downtown exactly once. Sadly, the typical Dallas excursion places you in the endless pave-the-next-county sprawl of places like Richardson and Plano, where everything is made of the exact same shade of beige concrete. Cut-and-paste society, a colleague of mine once called it as we travelled around looking for dinner one night. Everything pretty much repeats every three to five miles.<br />
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On my last trip, I tried striking out north from my hotel, away from the airport, into Coppell. In the span of a six mile loop I crossed two freeways twice, scrambled through massive intersections designed with no recognition that pedestrians exist, and alternated between the leg-crushing (beige) concrete and trying to run on the artificially-installed turf strips along the road that have a uniquely hard and lumpy surface that is entirely non-trail-like and nearly impossible to stride over. But that was where there were places to run. Dallas has no qualms about narrowing a four-lane arterial (and they’re all four, or six, or eight lane arterials) to two narrow lanes lined with barrels over a bridge and – of course – no pedestrian space. At times like that, I had to take my life into my hands, because I really didn’t know the area well enough to pull off an ad-lib detour. In calmer moments, it was still a drunken wander, since in many cases where sidewalks do exist, they were infected with the New Jersey Wandering Disease.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CRZ9mwwkv0E/XF5b5WI4PBI/AAAAAAAAEqQ/nNiPNnmTCJwdpLzYeq7uLkEvfL931AGVgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B02%2Bwandering.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CRZ9mwwkv0E/XF5b5WI4PBI/AAAAAAAAEqQ/nNiPNnmTCJwdpLzYeq7uLkEvfL931AGVgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B02%2Bwandering.png" width="320" height="264" data-original-width="661" data-original-height="545" /></a></div>Huh? The New Jersey Wandering Disease? Yeah, so named because that’s where I encountered it first. It’s when suburban sprawl road designers think it’s cute to make the sidewalks squiggle all over creation because, after all, those sinuous bends look good on real estate brochures, and they figure nobody is going to walk on them, and if they did, they’ve got no place to go anyway. Hey folks, I’m going for a run, not to a theme park.<br />
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After that first disastrous outing, I headed the opposite direction for the next two mornings, where the sidewalk (which you have to use because that route was another four-lane shoulder-less arterial, even though it was brand new and there was barely a car on it) rose up a bank, became ten feet wide, and, you guessed it, went all New Jersey on me. I guess you need something to break the monotony when otherwise all you’d see is the massive mile-long wall built to shelter the residents of the latest McMansion development from that riff-raff of (horror!) the road. Oh yeah, did I mention it was beige?<br />
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Get me the hell out of Dodge, please.<br />
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But this past trip was to Austin. I’d been to Austin only once before, so many years ago that I don’t even think I was running then. Back then I went to Austin both on a history tour, as I was reading through Robert Caro’s brilliant biography series on Lyndon Johnson (which was intended to be a trilogy, but he’s now working on the fifth book – I like people who operate that way – and I highly recommend all of his work), and because I was so sick of going to Dallas that I needed something different. My recollection of that trip was good, but vague.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FEnCGcTnCbk/XF5cAK629wI/AAAAAAAAEqU/tmw_7xacXD0VyZn6qkmpdpTkgAqTO1YBQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B03%2Btrails%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FEnCGcTnCbk/XF5cAK629wI/AAAAAAAAEqU/tmw_7xacXD0VyZn6qkmpdpTkgAqTO1YBQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B03%2Btrails%2B1.jpg" width="320" height="272" data-original-width="1210" data-original-height="1030" /></a></div>Cut to this past excursion, when I was camped in a “luxury” (read: overpriced) hotel downtown to be near the convention center since this was, in fact, for a convention. Downtown anything Midwest can be, like Dallas, a flat concrete jungle. But Austin is blessed with two things: first, a river that runs through it (or, since it’s dammed, they call it a lake), and second, and I’m guessing on this here because I know it takes positive action to make this happen, the civic leadership to espouse such a jewel and develop it for the betterment of the community.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ltrxW5GYKio/XF5cUmxEiTI/AAAAAAAAEqk/wdhcpxAhMLgGFF6dsciluRfuwSjJFWcWACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B04%2Bped%2Bbridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ltrxW5GYKio/XF5cUmxEiTI/AAAAAAAAEqk/wdhcpxAhMLgGFF6dsciluRfuwSjJFWcWACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B04%2Bped%2Bbridge.jpg" width="320" height="288" data-original-width="1457" data-original-height="1310" /></a></div>Because of this, Austin doesn’t have the character of a concrete jungle. Now, I’m sure that when one goes away from the center city, there are concrete jungle zones. I certainly saw the size of their freeways heading from and to the airport. But I also saw on the maps that there are quite a few green spaces even away from the city center, and many of them appear to connect.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ff61nA4t-NQ/XF5cpOhAH7I/AAAAAAAAEqs/XAY7z4XxqMMBHNHX5hOCiZoFUGAeBtGnACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B05%2Bbarton%2Bcreek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ff61nA4t-NQ/XF5cpOhAH7I/AAAAAAAAEqs/XAY7z4XxqMMBHNHX5hOCiZoFUGAeBtGnACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B05%2Bbarton%2Bcreek.jpg" width="320" height="226" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1130" /></a></div>The part I do know about, after nearly a week ‘in country’, is the trail network around the Colorado River (a.k.a. Lady Bird Lake), and up Barton Creek past Barton Springs. Trails encircle the lake, extending five or six miles end-to-end, punctuated by dedicated pedestrian crossings, some glommed onto automotive bridges and one dedicated entirely to human-powered travelers (ignoring for the moment the ubiquitous electric scooters that litter the sidewalks and add a little sport to pedestrian navigation). These trails occasionally coincide with parallel streets’ sidewalks, but mostly traverse the riversides on dirt and gravel, often through shaded arbors, and in a couple of places on boardwalks (well, false flagstone walks) on bridges over edges of the river, er, I mean lake. By mixing up the bridge crossings, I was able to create a healthy combination of loops.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o6B-XFQpwLg/XF5czzIj0XI/AAAAAAAAEqw/VRtDLRO1im0Dl00pzEW8zJ7wLHnuZUIoACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B06%2Bdead%2Bend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o6B-XFQpwLg/XF5czzIj0XI/AAAAAAAAEqw/VRtDLRO1im0Dl00pzEW8zJ7wLHnuZUIoACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B06%2Bdead%2Bend.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1134" data-original-height="1512" /></a></div>Then there’s the Barton Creek trail, which I explored on a run with a co-worker from Canada also in town for the conference. Extending southwest, this trail first leads up to the city’s swimmin’ hole, at which point you do have to hit some pavement to get around. But on our first foray we missed the spot where the trail heads away from the creek and found ourselves at an odd dead-end, staring at a dam, a concrete wall, and a fence. Before I had a chance to turn back to find our error, my daredevil companion had shinnied out on the pipe while clinging to the fence and swung himself around the wall onto the other side, which turned out to be the swimming area. I had no choice to follow, though my acrobatics were considerably slower and more cautiously executed. (Easing back into a run along the shore, we were duly chastised by the lifeguard about the ‘no running’ rule. Lifeguard? Swimmin’ hole? January? Right, southern Texas.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H24S7vidgwM/XF5ddWB7CQI/AAAAAAAAErA/_8FGpEG4QzkIkm0ZQS3vrdE2FlCcxybMwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B07%2Bbarton%2Bcreek%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H24S7vidgwM/XF5ddWB7CQI/AAAAAAAAErA/_8FGpEG4QzkIkm0ZQS3vrdE2FlCcxybMwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B07%2Bbarton%2Bcreek%2B1.jpg" width="274" height="320" data-original-width="1134" data-original-height="1326" /></a></div>Beyond there, the trail turns rough, rocky, and technical as it skirts small waterfalls, white water, and calm basins. It’s not exactly green, this being a fairly arid climate and it being January, but it feels green enough, and it’s just, well, lovely to be in this space within running distance of the skyscrapers of a major city. An eight mile out-and-back from the hotel got us well into this bit of quasi-wild canyon – which extends much further – which is at times rimmed with civilization atop its walls but is all rocks and trees and water down below.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dwgmqwyUSDs/XF5dpwDoJqI/AAAAAAAAErI/ix7WsSqL5s43p8i8LcgStavwJqry7PQbQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B10%2Bbarton%2Bcreek%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dwgmqwyUSDs/XF5dpwDoJqI/AAAAAAAAErI/ix7WsSqL5s43p8i8LcgStavwJqry7PQbQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B10%2Bbarton%2Bcreek%2B4.jpg" width="320" height="189" data-original-width="1412" data-original-height="835" /></a></div><br />
And the people. These trails are full of people. This system is the life of the town. I spoke with numerous people who told me they’re out there every day. Runners, walkers, dog people, you name it. It’s healthy, it’s community, and it’s a damn fine cure for when you stay out way too late in Austin’s famed music scene. Yeah, I took one for the team, so to speak, and put in one of those ‘I don’t do this very often but yeah, that was awesome’ nights at Pete’s Piano Bar, soaking up the amazing raw talent of the musicians and slicing several serviceable years off my vocal chords despite trying to soothe them with copious amber fluids. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bPgFjndWXDg/XF5eVa6LmfI/AAAAAAAAErc/4sk7r13AMQEw7wYWKXH8Qmb6J0vM43mCwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B11%2Bdonuts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bPgFjndWXDg/XF5eVa6LmfI/AAAAAAAAErc/4sk7r13AMQEw7wYWKXH8Qmb6J0vM43mCwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B11%2Bdonuts.jpg" width="259" height="320" data-original-width="973" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div>Oh, and there was that now infamous ‘wall of donuts’ at the convention closing party. Yeah, the trails are good for that, too. One last sunrise run before heading to the airport made even that fifteen-and-a-half-hour odyssey getting home entirely bearable.<br />
<br />
Austin feels more Oregon than Texas. The river (er, lake) and its trails define it. The community forms around it. It sets a tone that extends well away from the river. And if I had a chance to select the location for a future meeting, it would draw me back.<br />
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It was the best of times.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xLzKZviyjF8/XF5ee2K5oeI/AAAAAAAAErg/YWuNBoAjPiQkKNtu_yCOQJal2mF3RN3cQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B12%2Bsunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xLzKZviyjF8/XF5ee2K5oeI/AAAAAAAAErg/YWuNBoAjPiQkKNtu_yCOQJal2mF3RN3cQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B12%2Bsunrise.jpg" width="320" height="312" data-original-width="1512" data-original-height="1474" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XtCeVgu14OY/XF5efDhFqdI/AAAAAAAAErk/jBdJb9l7vuospcj_mwxOcYekEDkVOaheQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-350%2B13%2Blast%2Brun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XtCeVgu14OY/XF5efDhFqdI/AAAAAAAAErk/jBdJb9l7vuospcj_mwxOcYekEDkVOaheQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-350%2B13%2Blast%2Brun.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-45603112313447697322019-01-19T23:33:00.001-05:002019-01-19T23:33:35.492-05:00Double and Nothing<br />
I’m at the age when things are supposed to start to slow down. Retirement (oh my, that word!) is within a ten-year window, hopefully sooner, and life’s priorities should be shifting toward enjoying things in the twenty-or-so years before bodily functions slow down (far more than they already appreciably have) to a point where some things become considerably impractical. So how come two months have passed since I’ve had the time to take a breath and pound out some storytelling? The busy level of late has been rather frenetic, but today I have a block of brilliantly uninterrupted time – since I’m not connected to the Internet – yes, airplane time. Clatter away, keys, clatter away.<br />
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To be fair, part of the issue is that there are fewer stories to tell. I’m racing less and spending more time managing a knee that almost certainly will never truly get better, and you, dear reader, get rather bored with prose about yesterday’s training run. But I haven’t been devoid of stories altogether, and yet still, my production schedule lags.<br />
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I missed altogether relating stories from this year’s instance of the Mill Cities Relay, but to be fair (again, do you see a pattern here?), there were fewer stories than usual from that soggy outing. Our team found itself separated at birth due to various participants’ weekend time conflicts, meaning we never were all in the same place at once, somewhat diminishing the team fun aspect of the day. The weather was ugly as it is wont to be in early December, and though the steady rain magically slowed a minute before the start of my opening leg, it paid me back after our third-leg man wanted to run a warm-down and I, nearly dry after playing team driver for the last two legs, foolishly agreed. The skies opened and we re-drenched ourselves, thus arriving waterlogged and shivering at the bash at the finish line, but still had a fine time. No brick (top placing teams at Mill Cities are awarded bricks – really), but that was to be expected.<br />
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Oh, and that opening leg I ran? Well, it rolled in faster than I expected, but considerably slower than last year. Which takes us back to that, ‘things are supposed to slow down’ bit. And they have. I vacillate between thinking I’ve gotten way slower (which I have) and that I’ll get whomped any time I show my face at any moderately competitive race, and alternately deeming I’m really not that out of it, scanning the race articles in the back of <i>New England Runner</i> and seeing that the senior division times are still often in line with my reality. I know I should just go ahead and race anyway, and to be fair, I’ve got four and a half future races already in the chute, so that will come. In the meanwhile, it’s fun to just kick back, enjoy the sport for what it is, and take part in some activities that don’t require speed, pain, and suffering.<br />
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Like running two marathons two days apart.<br />
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I haven’t told many of my non-running friends about this one. The few to whom I’ve mentioned it are certain I’m overdue for the looney bin. My running friends, on the other hand, know of goofy things like the seven-day, seven-continent, seven-marathon challenge, and see just doing two as relatively tame. Well, some of them, at least. Other of my buds often run ultras, where twenty-six miles is just the warm-up. For them I just said that I ran a fifty-two miler over a span of forty-nine hours. Even at the ‘go slow and survive forever’ pace of an ultra, that’s absurdly leisurely.<br />
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The end of the year offers an interesting opportunity for this kind of lark. The last Sunday of the year plays host to the Groton Marathon, a loose conglomeration of crazies from the Squannacook River Runners, where participants are welcome to run anywhere from a couple of miles to the whole banana. And New Year’s morning brings another tradition, the New Year’s Boston Marathon, where a different loose conglomeration of total loonies, goaded on from afar by the Maine’s somewhat legendary Gary Allen, gathers at six in the morning in Hopkinton on New Year’s Day – an hour when some have yet to go to bed from the previous night’s revelry – and proceeds to hoof it into Boston. Depending on the vagaries of the calendar, these two runs fall anywhere from a week to a day apart.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHr7eqgH2S0/XEP29BuyeWI/AAAAAAAAEp4/dpAxLyyjIP84Fep2mfAnjN3D0ImL9SmEwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B01%2BGroton%2Bstart%2Bgang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jHr7eqgH2S0/XEP29BuyeWI/AAAAAAAAEp4/dpAxLyyjIP84Fep2mfAnjN3D0ImL9SmEwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B01%2BGroton%2Bstart%2Bgang.jpg" width="320" height="202" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1009" /></a></div>A few years back, I did the double, though that year granted the reprieve of a six-day separation between the two. Last year, on the other hand, the calendar decreed a back-to-back, Sunday-Monday combo. The allure of that stunt had me mentally booked in for weeks beforehand, but last winter’s deep freeze forced a level of sanity. Groton that year went off at one whole degree (that’s Fahrenheit, for my one likely Canadian reader), though under a warming sun. But the next morning called for minus four at oh-six-hundred, and with no sun to temper the chill for at least an hour, I flat out chickened out. So this year I’d have to settle for the two day span, Sunday and Tuesday, but I figured it still qualified for mildly wacko.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HslpZP_OHY0/XEP23gOasqI/AAAAAAAAEps/jycT_iAQ5wIz6jsx8Wf6_7FJDt4XoSGEwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B02%2BGroton%2Bstart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HslpZP_OHY0/XEP23gOasqI/AAAAAAAAEps/jycT_iAQ5wIz6jsx8Wf6_7FJDt4XoSGEwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B02%2BGroton%2Bstart.jpg" width="320" height="167" data-original-width="1493" data-original-height="781" /></a></div>To those who insisted that one must be certifiable to even think about doing this, I could constantly explain that these weren’t really like running marathons but were instead more like running very casually for five miles or so, stopping for goodies and chit-chat, running another five till another stop, and so-on. Not what I think of as a marathon where I’m typically pushing from start to finish, only stopping if forced to do so, and utterly spent by the end. That explanation certainly didn’t work well for my non-running friends, and didn’t even work well for many of my running friends for whom a marathon is just that – a few miles, a break, a few miles… Yeah, I know. Just go with me on this; these weren’t killers.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NzxAzZzdqBE/XEP2zhaTdaI/AAAAAAAAEpo/uzrB0QT_s5M6BOVlzRC71DH4l5lGfJ5LwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B03%2BGroton%2Bmile%2B17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NzxAzZzdqBE/XEP2zhaTdaI/AAAAAAAAEpo/uzrB0QT_s5M6BOVlzRC71DH4l5lGfJ5LwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B03%2BGroton%2Bmile%2B17.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div>Groton kicked off a big twenty-six degrees warmer than last year’s edition, with about twenty starters posing amidst the pile of cut trees and construction debris that kept us just short of our traditional start point (fear not, we doubled back a tad at the end to ensure the full distance!). That count would dwindle to nine who covered the full route – but that was a record by a factor of two for the now six-year-old event and included our first vision-impaired runner and our first female, who, in the spirit of Jock Semple, we offered to bowl off the course about six miles in (oddly, she declined).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DUmvzvKAHxI/XEP2sTHuLfI/AAAAAAAAEpg/EgOh95MeBPkKa2eI5wtO3BT4Eydia8nzgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B04%2BGroton%2Bfinish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DUmvzvKAHxI/XEP2sTHuLfI/AAAAAAAAEpg/EgOh95MeBPkKa2eI5wtO3BT4Eydia8nzgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B04%2BGroton%2Bfinish.jpg" width="320" height="190" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="949" /></a></div>The Squannies as usual provided terrific support with goodies at the stops (like this one at mile seventeen amidst the delightful sunshine), any and all needed logistics, and even companion runners for those flagging a bit. And of course, at the end they supplied their classic Sharpie-labelled Christmas ball ‘medals’ which in their bulbous form don’t easily fit on any medal rack (yes, after nearly fourteen years of racing, I finally got a medal rack – thanks, HCS Dave! – and instantly filled it beyond capacity with another equivalent collection to spare). We constantly goaded each other to slow down, stick together, save our energy though the first twenty miles before letting ourselves open it up a bit at that point. From twenty-three, my cranky knee was, like last year, insisting that I pick it up to reduce the stress that the slow pace seems to induce, but unlike last year, fortunately one other participant was of same mind, so when we dropped the hammer a bit and finished it, we were able to insist that we’d tied for second, since there really should be no winner of this event.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bTTOT36u1Tw/XEP2oBEYYgI/AAAAAAAAEpY/xLvOTLKYye4SU0hD2lpZ56I-RNrzpQ6mQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B05%2Bmedal%2Brack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bTTOT36u1Tw/XEP2oBEYYgI/AAAAAAAAEpY/xLvOTLKYye4SU0hD2lpZ56I-RNrzpQ6mQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B05%2Bmedal%2Brack.jpg" width="320" height="203" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1014" /></a></div>Monday, I rested. I’m crazy, but not entirely stupid. Besides, six in the morning is early.<br />
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New Year’s Eve wasn’t pretty if you were a Times Square or downtown Boston reveler. But the rains quit somewhere around five, and other than a few leftover spits, six arrived with wet roads but reasonably warm temps and a benevolent western zephyr that, while rarely actually felt, certainly must have offered a boost on our trek to the Back Bay. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2I_PvXc5yZI/XEP2i4OivVI/AAAAAAAAEpU/g19RRZpD-ZIGKa81ug9UUKAZCc0XGXF_QCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B06%2BBoston%2Bstart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2I_PvXc5yZI/XEP2i4OivVI/AAAAAAAAEpU/g19RRZpD-ZIGKa81ug9UUKAZCc0XGXF_QCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B06%2BBoston%2Bstart.jpg" width="320" height="199" data-original-width="1080" data-original-height="672" /></a></div>Unlike Groton, this one isn’t really organized as a stick-together-group run – it’s show and go and figure out who’s there to run your pace on the fly. I vocalized my intended comfortable but faster than ambling pace, and two youngsters seemed to imply they’d be in that neighborhood, but when we set off at that raw hour (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/PaperFiestaNatick/videos/2210707382284523/">watch us goofballs go here</a>), they were gone in a flash. I’d later learn they nearly broke three hours that morning. Instead I found myself in the company of two quite reasonably paced companions, one who intended only to run the first ten miles back to her home town of Natick, and another young lad who’d notched a few ultras but never a road marathon.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eNAMvPxtwoI/XEP2d_0qXjI/AAAAAAAAEpM/B0iIWhMk9uch6uXOUHMjMjjZOZow-oKLQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B07%2BBoston%2Bnatick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eNAMvPxtwoI/XEP2d_0qXjI/AAAAAAAAEpM/B0iIWhMk9uch6uXOUHMjMjjZOZow-oKLQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B07%2BBoston%2Bnatick.jpg" width="320" height="258" data-original-width="892" data-original-height="720" /></a></div>Call me a sap but I truly love the instant camaraderie that springs from being randomly coupled with a bunch of like-minded and like-paced runners. Though one of my companions lived a mere two towns away, I didn’t know her from a hole in the wall (though later, at the Natick Goodie Stop, an old runner friend would drive by, recognize me, tell me he knew her, and I’d realize we were only One Kevin Bacon Degree of Separation apart), and the other young lad was equally, if not moreso a stranger. No matter. By Ashland we were chatting it up and enjoying the ride.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t0xyMAhL_Js/XEP2Y_k1GTI/AAAAAAAAEpE/H8caeBvOpEw67bUddWzVCuunMPe94oyiwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B08%2BBoston%2Bfinish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t0xyMAhL_Js/XEP2Y_k1GTI/AAAAAAAAEpE/H8caeBvOpEw67bUddWzVCuunMPe94oyiwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B08%2BBoston%2Bfinish.jpg" width="289" height="320" data-original-width="719" data-original-height="796" /></a></div>Though this is a casual event, like Groton, there is enough organization behind it that our ‘race director’ for the day, Walter (of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pg/PaperFiestaNatick/services/">Mile10Connections</a>), set up a full-fledged aid station in Natick, and later at the finish line. Amy left us in Natick, and Rob got a head start while I continued to jaw it up, so when I hit the road again, I had to add a little oomph to reel him back in so as to continue giving him the verbal tour of the course. After another aid station set up by his folks in Wellesley, I dragged him into the hills as he started to flag, his hips unhappy with the extended asphalt mileage.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Y1ykPZVnz4/XEP2PVSu8AI/AAAAAAAAEo8/IA_MNjhBcWsl9geDLXhxmNqD4n7LJf3YQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B09%2BBoston%2Bfinish%2Bline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9Y1ykPZVnz4/XEP2PVSu8AI/AAAAAAAAEo8/IA_MNjhBcWsl9geDLXhxmNqD4n7LJf3YQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B09%2BBoston%2Bfinish%2Bline.jpg" width="237" height="320" data-original-width="681" data-original-height="918" /></a></div>By Boston College it was apparent he needed to tone it down, and it was apparent, thanks again to That Damn Knee, that I needed to turn it up. Knowing that his dad was leapfrogging to ensure his upkeep, I split off at the graveyard and, like at Groton two days earlier, turned on the jets. Beacon Street wasn’t exactly fast, but it felt fast, it felt strong, it felt downright fun to power past people on the street knowing they had no inkling where I’d started, and it felt seriously satisfying to confirm that at a marathon plus twenty miles into the next one, there was plenty of gas in the tanks to run this thing in for real. After all, a big reason for doing this was to convince myself yet again that marathons were still in my grasp if not merely in my blood, and that my joints, while possibly not thrilled at the prospect, were more than up to the task. And while neither of these would have re-qualified me for the next Boston Block Party, the running time (exclusive of those goodie stops) for each wasn’t far off the mark.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6J4IbRzInZQ/XEP2LCmQ1SI/AAAAAAAAEo4/MWbuKKj0yD0y7vi4K0E8dltpREGMxEZxgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B10%2BBoston%2Bboston%2BEMS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6J4IbRzInZQ/XEP2LCmQ1SI/AAAAAAAAEo4/MWbuKKj0yD0y7vi4K0E8dltpREGMxEZxgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B10%2BBoston%2Bboston%2BEMS.jpg" width="320" height="210" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="629" /></a></div>Best of all, the end turned into a bit of a party – just like Boston should be. Walter not only laid out a delightful spread (with help from a friend of his who owns and runs <a href="https://www.panchostaqueria.com/">Pancho’s Taqueria in Dedham</a>, who supplied fabulous homemade salsa, shameless plug!), but he being of the Boston EMS Heroes (yes, he was there on that fateful day in 2013) called out one of his on-duty squads who parked their unit at the finish line, lights flashing. Nothing beats cranking down Boylston Street – in (light but very much real) traffic – because, well, dammit, you’re finishing the Boston Marathon, and they can just go around you, and there’s an ambulance up there making it an event just to prove it. And just under forty-nine hours since we ambled away from the Groton Senior Center, I had two marathons – not the kind that count in my race list, but two marathons nonetheless – in my pocket.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnFNzFRTcdY/XEP2FcXvyuI/AAAAAAAAEo0/9r6CoMvCyGo8avNBc427tg2RYpPc-BhbgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B11%2BBoston%2Bfinish%2Bline%2Bgang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnFNzFRTcdY/XEP2FcXvyuI/AAAAAAAAEo0/9r6CoMvCyGo8avNBc427tg2RYpPc-BhbgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B11%2BBoston%2Bfinish%2Bline%2Bgang.jpg" width="320" height="163" data-original-width="931" data-original-height="473" /></a></div>At the finish I learned that the two youngsters had raced in and already left, but I hung for over an hour in the unbelievably warm fifty-degree-plus glory of New Year’s Day (consider that the weather was far better that on Monsoon Marathon Monday!), welcoming Rob and myriads of other runners who’d run various portions of the course (none that did the whole thing, at least that we met), including some I knew from previous adventures, before Walter graciously delivered me back to Hopkinton.<br />
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What a way to start the year!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zX697uxwsz0/XEP2AnhoyXI/AAAAAAAAEow/G7z9Rd2F5lIb_lWVvxUsZk-9ZMw-VBsKgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-349%2B12%2BBoston%2Bgoodies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zX697uxwsz0/XEP2AnhoyXI/AAAAAAAAEow/G7z9Rd2F5lIb_lWVvxUsZk-9ZMw-VBsKgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-349%2B12%2BBoston%2Bgoodies.jpg" width="320" height="228" data-original-width="808" data-original-height="576" /></a></div>So there’s the double part of the title of this episode, but what of the nothing? Usually it’s double <i>or</i> nothing, but in this case, it was double <i>and</i> nothing. After the double marathon and a few more days of easy runs, I had to admit that my body did complain a bit – mostly foot strain, toe bruises (almost all from the second marathon, guessing that my form was breaking down a bit in the late miles), foot cramps, and so on – and I was more or less forced to take a few days of nothing and lie low. The nothing part.<br />
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A small price to pay for some big smiles to remember some big miles.<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-20355220561749031612018-11-22T21:12:00.000-05:002018-11-22T21:12:14.879-05:00Positivity<br />
Dearest Spouse rightly corrected my mindset recently. Rarely do I put her on the spot like this, in public, for all to see, but I do so now because she was right. Not that that’s unusual, of course.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2ktTotjbcZM/W_dZ4oYXSFI/AAAAAAAAEnY/YodBkb3qG801NpHBBm-j49HPs1yi5uvmACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B01%2Bbone%2Bscan%2Bempty%2Bhead.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2ktTotjbcZM/W_dZ4oYXSFI/AAAAAAAAEnY/YodBkb3qG801NpHBBm-j49HPs1yi5uvmACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B01%2Bbone%2Bscan%2Bempty%2Bhead.png" width="315" height="320" data-original-width="671" data-original-height="681" /></a></div>Yes, it’s been a rough stretch of late. After a local race in June, aches and pains made me shy away from the word race for a few months, and even coerced me to pull the medical assistance lever. We’ll come back to that later and explain the ghostly image, but for now, suffice to say it didn’t do a heck of a lot to improve things, so what else was there to do but jump back in the pond, at least with my little toe – just a tiny local five-K – back in September, and the result, to my viewing at least, was entirely…Meh. Then, a few weeks back, I dipped my whole leg in, biting off a half marathon, and…Meh. The following week, another small event, and…you guessed it, Meh. (I’ll pass entirely on this morning’s turkey trot, since the twelve-degree air and stiff winds combined to turn my feet into stride-less clomping bricks, so I consider that disaster to be an outlier – at least, I hope.)<br />
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Hearing my responses to those races, Dearest Spouse finally laid in and laid it out: You finished third on Saturday (well, a couple of Saturdays ago, as usual it’s taken me a while to get this out the door). You finished second in your age group in the half marathon the week before. And though unspoken, she clearly communicated: You’re more than halfway through the fifties on your way to that next big one. Just stop complaining. You’re still doing fine.<br />
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It’s hard to swallow that when I’ve watched my five-K time balloon nearly a minute since spring. It’s hard to accept that when my half marathon just grew by six minutes, and that was on a hilly, but also largely downhill course, and one that was short at that. It’s just plain tough to believe that when just about every run goes through what I now refer to as Phases One, Two, and Three, those being, the knee hurts sharply up front, I get a few miles of bliss, then the deep ache sets in. And it seems entirely untrue when my training pace is nowhere near where it used to be. But DS is right. Even the post-half-marathon little ‘ol five-K still clicked in at a respectable age-graded rating, despite the fact that the time, to me, was, well, that word again: Meh.<br />
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Positivity. It’s my job. I have to look at this the right way.<br />
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My New York City running buddy, the Brooklyn Barrister, tossed one of my recent moans about aches and pains (with a whiff of fatalism) right back at me with a response that, frankly, inspired me: “Gary, say it ain’t so! You’re the guy I point to when people ask me if I still expect to be doing this in 5, 10, 15 yrs. I say hell yes, this guy Gary ran a better time than me at Boston and he’s got 10 years on me. I feel like you’ve been through so much and it’s only the number (your age) that’s making you think differently about this one.”<br />
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And he, just like Dearest Spouse, was entirely right. It is indeed only the number that has me thinking differently about this round. It’s hard not to wonder if this knee thing is the start of those curtains descending. But he’s right, this is just another round.<br />
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I didn’t take his comments as a pat on the back. I took them as a reminder that running has multiple purposes. One is to keep me healthy, and though the skeleton isn’t entirely whole at the moment, the heart, lungs, and other random parts – notably my sanity – still benefit from this crazy hobby. Another is to have fun; above and beyond the sanity part, I still love being out there, leaving it behind, time to think, time to not think, time to spin wild yarns in my head, and of course, time with my running buds, some of the best running time of all. But speaking of those running buds, we gather together precisely because we motivate each other, and that same force emanates from all of us to encourages others to join in. We’re on display across our communities. We are engines of positivity.<br />
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So yeah, I can moan about the minuses, or I can find and glow in the positives.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vftyXiWCG2w/W_daBTBuENI/AAAAAAAAEnc/vHQ1abekdGsuvHAQTAA8RfGs4k25xBWvACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B02%2Bthe%2B67.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vftyXiWCG2w/W_daBTBuENI/AAAAAAAAEnc/vHQ1abekdGsuvHAQTAA8RfGs4k25xBWvACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B02%2Bthe%2B67.jpg" width="271" height="320" data-original-width="1355" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>It’s true that I only ran two of the New England (USA Track & Field) Grand Prix races this year, and that the second one was pretty much a tragedy. But in the first one, I managed to eke out the fifth man slot for our team, and our team won the senior division for the year’s series, so yeah, I had a very (very) tiny little part in that. (Granted, had I not been there, our sixth man would have been adequate for us to have still won, so it was indeed a very tiny part…hush, we’re being positive here). Positive: I still managed to contribute to the wining Grand Prix team.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CfwLHBHXfyI/W_daGV6mjNI/AAAAAAAAEng/SHj2rAlDJH4K1pHrqXHE4So_lJLh9v1HgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B03%2Bspeck%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CfwLHBHXfyI/W_daGV6mjNI/AAAAAAAAEng/SHj2rAlDJH4K1pHrqXHE4So_lJLh9v1HgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B03%2Bspeck%2B2.jpg" width="179" height="320" data-original-width="895" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>It’s true that my training through the summer and fall has been pretty much horrendous, with my mileage cut in half and my racing fitness eroding steadily. But all that time not running offered up the possibility of alternate adventures like hiking Baxter (previous post) and subsequent to that, topping out Old Speck with Dearest Spouse to complete that New England Sixty-Seven list. And though my marathon might have slowed, that running fitness gets me up mountains at a pretty decent clip. Positive: A life goal achieved, a new patch for my pack, and even a chance to overcome my fear of ladders and heights by ascending the fire tower up top (took two tries, mind you).<br />
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It’s true that I sagged low enough to pull the medical lever. The pain and weakness in the left knee and leg drove me into the hands of a new Dr. Bone Doctor (we’ll call him Dr. Bone Doctor III). It’s true that his assessment was stark: “You’ve got issues here.” The cartilage under my kneecap, he reported, is roughed up pretty well, and no, scoping and scraping wouldn’t really help. But he was mildly comforting in his insistence that this wasn’t caused by my running but rather by some possibly even unnoticed alternate injury. He was clear, knees issues arise from lateral stress, not compressive. Positive: OK, so at least I didn’t really do this to myself intentionally. Oh, and he says I have great hips. (Hip hip, hooray.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MB5tw9BKveI/W_daL7areEI/AAAAAAAAEno/HG7TLGqnxewDG8tIMw-prM4mdc-Y6bH9wCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B04%2Bbone%2Bscan%2Bknees.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MB5tw9BKveI/W_daL7areEI/AAAAAAAAEno/HG7TLGqnxewDG8tIMw-prM4mdc-Y6bH9wCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B04%2Bbone%2Bscan%2Bknees.png" width="320" height="284" data-original-width="865" data-original-height="767" /></a></div>And it’s also true that his efforts, and subsequently the efforts of my latest Physical Terrorist, have yet to truly cure anything (though wishful thinking never fails to twist one’s perception of pain). But a couple of rounds of medical imaging (which long-time readers know I truly dig), including a bone scan where billions of Technetium 99 atoms jumped to their death for my benefit, have at least eased my mind by proving that while yes, there are bright spots in my knees (but like golf, it’s backwards here, bright spots are trouble spots are bad), no, I am not running on a broken leg (which sounds absurd, but the feeling on that side had me seriously considering a stress fracture in the femur – not so, pleased to know). And thanks to an overachiever in the <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zufZYlE0PLk/W_daSDooQJI/AAAAAAAAEns/Cds42_F4OSoXmtzJehxeyUN0JQvqiKytACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B05%2Bbone%2Bscan%2Bbody.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zufZYlE0PLk/W_daSDooQJI/AAAAAAAAEns/Cds42_F4OSoXmtzJehxeyUN0JQvqiKytACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B05%2Bbone%2Bscan%2Bbody.png" width="140" height="320" data-original-width="376" data-original-height="860" /></a></div>nuclear medicine department, who figured that if that stuff was floating through my whole body that he might as well run the camera (really, a glorified Geiger counter) over my whole body. Result: Not only the first and only true picture I’ve ever seen of all of me, but also proof that my head is quite empty – that first ghostly image of this tale. Positive: Things may hurt, but I’m not broken beyond function and am cleared to run on. And another Positive: Any physical therapy is good cross training, so soak it up.<br />
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Further, I’ve got one more lifetime story to tell about having had Dr. Bone Doctor III inject 10W-40, or more precisely, an extract of a rooster (really) known as Synvisc into my knee to try to smooth its crunchy ride. It didn’t work, but it was worth the try, and adding that to the horse that Dr. Foot Doctor sewed into my foot ten years ago, I can now claim greater coverage of my Barnyard Bingo card. Positive: Any amusing story is positive, right? Even if it involves needles.<br />
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And finally, it’s true that those races I mentioned came down on the Meh side from my perspective, but for anyone outside of the Grand Prix set, they were respectable outings. In the first one, given no speed workouts all summer and a three-month-plus gap since last racing, I still managed a consistent effort, a respectable age-graded time, third overall, and a Slightly Fossilized Division win (if against a small local field). In the third one, though slower than the first, the outcome was the same, and that time on tired legs having run the second, a half marathon coupled with an introductory mile, only six days prior. Positive: An old guy can still finish well in a race.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_HG1pV-67gk/W_daW1cCW3I/AAAAAAAAEn0/qDlBEHlJ8s4_1uznj5Wx1WxlejyMiqLSQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B06%2Bbaron%2Bfamily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_HG1pV-67gk/W_daW1cCW3I/AAAAAAAAEn0/qDlBEHlJ8s4_1uznj5Wx1WxlejyMiqLSQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B06%2Bbaron%2Bfamily.jpg" width="320" height="287" data-original-width="1218" data-original-height="1094" /></a></div>That second race, sandwiched between the two five-Ks, was the Red Baron Half Marathon in Corning, New York, which popped up as a family event since Darling Offspring the Younger wanted to run a half, and her college-town Syracuse Half was, in my view, overpriced. For half the coin – what a deal! – the Red Baron offered up a visit with Sis (who lives in Corning) as a bonus, and as it would turn out, ideal weather – a rarity for Upstate New York in the late fall – with spectacular foliage to boot. And for an extra five bucks, they threw in a pre-half mile race – the “Smile Mile” – and a bit more swag.<br />
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This was not a target race since I had no fall target race. If anything, for a Fall Feat I’d considered opting for the Incredibly Stupid and jumping into the Baystate Marathon on no training – in pure survival mode – just to snag a Boston 2020 bid rather than roll the dice in April. But a test-the-waters fifteen miler that was less than confidence-inspiring and some rather incredulous scolding from my PT ended that idea. Then along came the Red Baron and a chance to see if I could still race at least the half marathon distance without the knee falling apart and the leg descending into agonizing aches. Still no real training, but not Incredibly Stupid.<br />
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Then why toss in the mile beforehand? I guess that amidst all of my bemoaning of what condition my condition is in, the theme of this post still lives inside: Positivity. It’s just a mile, I said. I’m not going to kill it. It’s a warm-up. To me, perfectly logical. To others, a bit crazy. But still, a message of positivity: Don’t think of these things as undoable.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xs4v5emmgFo/W_dabhCUEXI/AAAAAAAAEn4/ZHokF5K8BLIUgfOYKYCuzj1l-CsOYvfdACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B07%2Bsmile%2Bmedal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xs4v5emmgFo/W_dabhCUEXI/AAAAAAAAEn4/ZHokF5K8BLIUgfOYKYCuzj1l-CsOYvfdACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B07%2Bsmile%2Bmedal.jpg" width="264" height="320" data-original-width="1321" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>I had nothing to achieve in that mile (really one-point-oh-four, but who’s counting) other than to not embarrass myself and to get loose enough so that mile one of the half would seem casual. Our lead pack of four sauntered off the line to circumambulate the campus of Corning Community College, perched in the uplands, seven hundred feet above the river valley where the half would end. Half way around, I let the two young ‘uns go and focused on holding off the only one who looked (and was) about as ancient as I, which resulted in yet another third-place finish and division win, bringing with it the oddest and perhaps cutest little glass medal I’ve seen (look closely, there’s a smile in there), on little effort. Later, when I faded a mile short of the finish of the half, proponents of simple math would claim it was because I’d raced a mile beforehand. I non-concur, running math just doesn’t work that way.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-csygCSw1Mr8/W_daghKp5uI/AAAAAAAAEn8/VmoyBdGKlMQmfMzz0cmhOAQM9O8YoqpQwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B08%2Bbaron%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-csygCSw1Mr8/W_daghKp5uI/AAAAAAAAEn8/VmoyBdGKlMQmfMzz0cmhOAQM9O8YoqpQwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B08%2Bbaron%2B1.jpg" width="320" height="304" data-original-width="1248" data-original-height="1185" /></a></div>To my mind, the strategy worked. An hour later (or fifty-four minutes, really), the half kicked off, and mile one – a repeat circuit of the campus – did indeed feel casual. But the mildly ancient-looking one I’d held off in the mile pulled away from me as we pulled away from the school, and it looked like the age group would elude me right from the start. In the end, it did – I’d have to settle for second in the division – but not thanks to him. I took him back by mile three, but by then another fossilized specimen had already gone by to do the drubbing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_kM3Q__rkgw/W_damjjX7EI/AAAAAAAAEoI/mltwelwgg4si3d0iqQGQ6vdsY71fXT9UACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B09%2Bbaron%2Bem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_kM3Q__rkgw/W_damjjX7EI/AAAAAAAAEoI/mltwelwgg4si3d0iqQGQ6vdsY71fXT9UACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B09%2Bbaron%2Bem.jpg" width="303" height="320" data-original-width="1513" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>This was not an easy half. Once off campus, the next seven miles rocked and rolled, culminating in a killer climb at mile eight. After that, those seven hundred feet to the river valley (actually more by then, thanks to the climb) spilled out in just two or three miles, sometimes at a rate that required serious work just to fight gravity. It would’ve been interesting to know just how quickly some of those miles clicked by, but unfortunately the weak point of this event was measurement: the splits were wildly inaccurate (and old-school here doesn’t carry GPS), and the course seemed to land about a tenth of a mile short, adding a mild slap to having already clocked in six minutes slower than New Bedford back in March. Still, a top ten percent finish, second in the age group, and decent age-grading – on no focused training – well, not too ugly. And that knee held up surprisingly well. So, let’s say it again: Positive: It’s not all gone. The old guy can jump in a half not embarrass himself.<br />
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Oh, and a bonus: Darling Offspring ran the whole thing non-stop – a first for her. Huzzah.<br />
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So yeah, a lot of positives. Dearest Spouse – who, by the way, works out at least five times a week herself – reminded me with her comments that I need to take seriously the mission of staying positive. For me that means not only accepting that I’m still kicking, but letting those around me – running friends, work colleagues, family, whoever – see that they don’t have to give up either. Positivity isn’t always easy to pick out from the debris of life, but it’s our job to find it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--EkDJTlVf_U/W_daxD_Uk2I/AAAAAAAAEoQ/8KoL0YNeI3s14Ydgn7hFgVJbhYpyvAX6gCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B10%2Brace%2Bnot%2Brun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--EkDJTlVf_U/W_daxD_Uk2I/AAAAAAAAEoQ/8KoL0YNeI3s14Ydgn7hFgVJbhYpyvAX6gCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B10%2Brace%2Bnot%2Brun.jpg" width="123" height="320" data-original-width="616" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><b>Well, That’s Interesting Tidbits Department: </b> It’s been a few months since the last post, so here’s an oddity worth a snicker. A funny thing happened while I wasn’t racing: I appeared in the paper in a race. The local fish wrapper ran an article on a local race with a fine photo of me dashing off the line. Only problem: I wasn’t there. Old picture. So much for fact-checking.<br />
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And speaking of a snicker, there’s that Snickers ad on TV that makes me laugh even though I’ve seen it a zillion times. Concerned doctors sit around the patient, who, it seems, has had the doctor’s cell phone left inside his abdomen in surgery. The phone then proceeds to reply to the doctors’ conversation. Well, I walked into Dr. Bone Doctor’s exam room, thinking my phone was off, and mine did the same thing. “Gee, I said, every time I come here I’m led into the same room. It’s like you only have one.” “No,” the nurse replied, motioning down the hall, “We have those three.” And my phone blurted out, “Those Three,” and started describing some movie I’d never heard of. OK, you had to be there. But it was funny. Really.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7gnSzgkgDlQ/W_da_DBF6vI/AAAAAAAAEoY/cfWaaeEm404w8LykOBn3XURbRuigdofFACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-348%2B11%2Bthose%2Bthree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7gnSzgkgDlQ/W_da_DBF6vI/AAAAAAAAEoY/cfWaaeEm404w8LykOBn3XURbRuigdofFACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-348%2B11%2Bthose%2Bthree.jpg" width="249" height="320" data-original-width="1080" data-original-height="1386" /></a></div>Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-56658333362737469912018-09-08T21:25:00.000-04:002018-09-08T21:25:58.732-04:00The Sound of Silence<br />
Back around June, a few nagging issues I’d been nursing seemed to just explode into a synergistic rage, and I really had no choice but to back off, slow down (a lot), and nevertheless continue to eat ice cream. Faced with that, the number of ways I’ve thought of to lead off a running blog post when there’s been precious little running worth talking about have been staggering. Yet before I’ve sat down to write against any of them, being that that hasn’t risen to a high priority given the dearth of running excitement, most of those ideas have faded or been eclipsed by new ones.<br />
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One of them was to play off the word ‘funk’. As in, I’m in a running funk. Then, for artistic fun, play off on the possibilities: Funk, as in music. Funk, as in a spice used by a local high-brow gourmet pizza grill. Funk, as in the smell of a hiker after days in the trail (which really raises questions about the use of that spice on food). Funk…and Wagnalls, which, if you’re old, means something. And of course Mrs. Funk, who I didn’t have for second grade, but Sis did.<br />
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Well, that was a paragraph worth ignoring, now, wasn’t it? <br />
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But that’s how the running news has been all summer. Stunning silence, void of anything interesting, which led me to call this the Sound of Silence. But while running has been a sound of silence, that doesn’t mean I can’t sate my half-dozen followers with something else interesting. After all, all run and no alternate fun makes Jack a dull boy (whoever Jack is). And besides, sometimes silence is a good thing, or at least the silence of complete isolation, where nobody can hear you scream, or more accurately, nobody can hear you curse. Cursing happens when you get to that “Oh ****!” moment where you question the decision tree that brought you to this moment – and your sanity – the kind of moment I found myself in a couple of weeks back.<br />
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How I got there does make a decent story. But to properly tell this story, I need to set the stage. This is going to take a few minutes, so hold on. I promise it won’t hurt a bit. At least not you.<br />
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Besides running, as frequent readers of this series likely know, hiking is another of my passions. I completed my New Hampshire Four-Thousand Footers in 1995. Accomplishment of said feat is accompanied by (upon application to and acceptance by the <a href="http://www.amc4000footer.org/">Four Thousand Footer Committee</a>) the presentation of a ‘scroll’ – alias, an artistic certificate – at an annual awards ceremony. Back in ’95, I received mine by mail; I didn’t make it to the festivities.<br />
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But two summers ago, Dearest Daughter determined that before she disembarked for her extremely green college, she wanted to <a href="https://thesecondlap.blogspot.com/2016/09/summittime.html">complete her own circuit of the White Mountains</a>, so, accompanying her, I completed my ‘second tour’. Though no new scroll was involved this time for me, we did attend the gala to receive hers, and heard about the plethora of other summit lists out there that I’d not given much attention to prior, such as the New England 67 and the Northeast 111; the former consisting of all the four-thousand-foot summits in New England, and the latter adding New York’s Adirondacks and two rather forgettable summits in the Catskills (and curiously consisting of one hundred and fifteen, not one hundred eleven summits). As each recipient of these lofty list awards was called up, they’d be asked which summit was the last they scaled to complete the crusade. Other than those who finished their ‘111’ in the ‘Dacks, the answer was almost universal: North Brother.<br />
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I decided right then that I’d finish my ‘67’, and it wouldn’t be on North Brother. Be different.<br />
<br />
The reason that North Brother is almost always last is that it’s so far out there, you get points just for making it to the trailhead. It’s buried deep in Baxter State Park, which is buried deep in northern Maine. I’d been there once – in 1984 – by accident, travelling homeward with my college wing-man Scott after an excursion to the Canadian Maritimes. Returning through Houlton, Maine, we stared at Mount Katahdin, the centerpiece of the park, for what seemed an endless stretch while driving the nothingness of I-95, nothingness so extreme that only a few years earlier had the road been expanded from two-lane limited access to a full-fledged Interstate. Our resistance worn down, we were forced by the allure of the mountain to bunk down and climb the beast the next morning. Since then, thirty-four years have elapsed, and though I’ve passed through Bangor dozens of times, I’ve never ventured further north.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZF4BbbEJEG0/W5Ru3yCnO_I/AAAAAAAAEmc/7dnTiTv2QJkCBVjd26g601MjlpWDxmGrgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-01%2BNorthbound.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZF4BbbEJEG0/W5Ru3yCnO_I/AAAAAAAAEmc/7dnTiTv2QJkCBVjd26g601MjlpWDxmGrgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-01%2BNorthbound.jpg" width="284" height="320" data-original-width="1418" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>North is what you need to reach Baxter in general, and certainly North Brother. First go to Bangor, then keep going. Pass Orono, home to the University of Maine, the last bastion of anything sizable, and keep going. Drive fifty more miles (at speed limit seventy-five, there’s nothing in the way), get off, go another dozen miles to Millinocket, a once-thriving paper mill town now searching for its next gravy train. From there, you got it, keep going, seventeen more miles to Baxter’s southwest gate. And from there, another thirteen, on a twenty-mile-an-hour dirt road – nearly an hour further – just to reach the trailhead. Adding the detail that Baxter is preserved in a highly primitive state – there is no power, no phone service, no cell phone signal, you realize that at this point, you’re a long way from just about anything. It’s a whole lotta’ north, both literally and figuratively. At least the gods were smiling on me, literally leading me north with a rainbow.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jBAEhz8gbn0/W5RvCP0qyrI/AAAAAAAAEmg/TqlTuBDFi4gQe2aFHw21WQfIUCsQQxAiQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-02%2BBaxter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jBAEhz8gbn0/W5RvCP0qyrI/AAAAAAAAEmg/TqlTuBDFi4gQe2aFHw21WQfIUCsQQxAiQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-02%2BBaxter.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1201" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>But back up a moment here, as there’s more stage-setting. Remember, we’re getting to a moment.<br />
<br />
Before this expedition, I was three summits short of the ‘67’: Old Speck, the peak I’d designated to be the last ascent on this quest, North Brother itself, and a lonely and nearly flat spot called Hamlin Peak, on a shoulder north of the famous and busy Baxter Peak, the main summit of Katahdin, probably the most spectacular mountain in the Northeast. Thirty-four years back (almost to the day), Scott and I summitted Baxter, oblivious to peak lists (and many other things in life). Hamlin hadn’t registered on the radar screen. Now, to complete this odyssey, a return was needed to notch that high spot; a flat spot, as noted, but only flat after you’ve done all the hard work of going up all the steep bits (and worse, later, coming back down). And you don’t do it without the glory of the main summit (I mean, seriously…) so of course a return to Baxter Peak was in order, and besides, it was an unparalleled day. Hamlin followed, lonely, windblown, and spectacular in its own right, and that was merely Day One, which meant I reached the forlorn and remote Day Two trailhead for the Brothers on an already somewhat worn body.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n57ZGDXqmg8/W5RvIxpoxFI/AAAAAAAAEmo/mMpgDZ7g7PcZNRFPOp7pENQy09ELxSA2ACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-03%2BHamlin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n57ZGDXqmg8/W5RvIxpoxFI/AAAAAAAAEmo/mMpgDZ7g7PcZNRFPOp7pENQy09ELxSA2ACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-03%2BHamlin.jpg" width="262" height="320" data-original-width="1311" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>And I said the Brothers, not just North Brother, because as it turns out, in yet another of Mother Nature’s practical jokes, the three other summits adjoining North Brother – South Brother, Coe, and Fort – don’t rise to the four-thousand-foot threshold, but they do rise high enough to land on yet another peak list, the New England Hundred Highest. The NEHH list has some seriously obscure summits on it, and the likelihood of ever finishing it is slim, but it’s well recognized that if you’ve made it to the trailhead of North Brother (Points!) and you think there’s ever a chance in your life that you might find the NEHH in reach, well, you’d better knock off those other three summits while you’re there. It’s a long way back. And not only that, but the last one – Fort – is accessible only via an off-trail herd-path, read, bushwhack, from the summit of North Brother. In other words, if you don’t do it and you want it later, you’ll have to do North Brother all over again. And you’ll hate yourself.<br />
<br />
To knock off all four summits in a day, there’s a trail loop that nabs Coe and South Brother, a spur off that loop to North Brother, then the aforementioned bushwhack to Fort. But to add more flavor to this adventure than just the bushwhack, the marked trail itself ascends a rock slide on Coe that every online summit post and even the ranger at the gate of the park warn you not to even think about descending. Though the quite useless Appalachian Mountain Club guide describes the trail as simply climbing “moderate at first, then steep”, and though others not so spooked by steep drops might not break a sweat on it, to yours truly, who loves high places but hates edges (for those of you who know Baxter, no, I will never do the Knife Edge), such endeavors chill the soul more than just a bit, and the prospect of facing this solo, miles from anywhere, miles from anyone, chilled the soul a considerably large a bit.<br />
<br />
Because yes, this excursion, unfortunately, was solo. That wasn’t the plan, but Intrepid Hiking Companion ran smack into a nasty health event wall the day before our departure and landed in an extended hospital stay (*snif*). Now, solo on the trails to Katahdin’s main summit isn’t solo; there are plenty of souls all around. Solo from there to Hamlin Peak was entirely solo, but not particularly challenging. Solo descending from Hamlin was a bit frighteningly solo, with more than a few, ‘don’t trip here’ moments. But solo in the Brothers? That’s seriously solo. And when you finally get to that trailhead and find it nearly deserted – just one vehicle in the lot, who’s park destination ticket indicates they’re not going where you’re going, so you’ll be facing that slide Very Much Alone (not to mention the bushwhack later) – and you’ve been staring at some seriously sharp mountains on the drive in that gave you pause… Yeah, solo. Like, oh crap, solo. And the tone of the moment wasn’t helped by the fact that the day’s forecast of glorious sun instead became a somewhat ominous hazy fog, which I’d learn later was actually smoke from distant fires.<br />
<br />
I paced around the trailhead a few times, pondering the wisdom that had plopped me in the middle of nowhere facing a significant challenge with, as previously noted, no one to hear me scream.<br />
<br />
Just do it. (Sorry, Nike.) Start walking. And at that first junction, where a left meant just knocking off North Brother and going home, quick, turn right, start the loop before you think too much. The disappearance of the few wet footprints I’d seen on that first segment and the plethora of cobwebs attacking from all sides only served to assure me that the party in that other pickup truck had indeed gone straight to North Brother, so it was me versus slide; me and me alone.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tehy9F61zKc/W5RvQsBuyEI/AAAAAAAAEms/QpPenwLIgHQ7naKHlnZaI5ZBctSxNQNngCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-04%2BCoe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tehy9F61zKc/W5RvQsBuyEI/AAAAAAAAEms/QpPenwLIgHQ7naKHlnZaI5ZBctSxNQNngCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-04%2BCoe.JPG" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>As the trail rose up the valley between Coe and a rather uniquely named mountain called OJI (yes, all capitals, named for the one-time shape of rockslides on its south face), a cliff came into view on Coe. Naw, that’s a cliff, that’s not the slide. Naw, that can’t possibly be the slide. No, um, bleeping way. (You can’t get a decent picture of it from the trail, so I cheated and stole this one, probably taken from OJI, from that infinite source of the Internet.)<br />
<br />
You know where this is going.<br />
<br />
Boil the frog time. By the time you realize you’re in it, and yes, what you said couldn’t be it is indeed it, well, you’re in it. By the time it gets so steep that you’re holding on at every step, testing each handhold, each foothold, three points of contact, steady, take the next step, can’t afford a single mistake, it’s too late. You’re not going back down this thing. There’s only one way out, and it’s up.<br />
<br />
Plenty of others have climbed this, and many who aren’t as edge-nervous as I may not have given it a passing harrumph. And to be fair, much of it was sticky, competent rock. And then it wasn’t anymore. And I’m climbing the left, where the summit posts had indicated the trail rose, since blazes were few and far between. And the cursing has begun. And then there’s no more way to go up, really, no possible way to grab a hold of anything else, no toe-holds, stuck, and I realize that fifteen feet below me, I spy a blaze that says I had to cross this open scape of cliff to the other side. Which means I have to back down, first, just to get to where I can cross. And let go of the vegetation on the sidelines that’s been my lifeline.<br />
<br />
Solo. Trip just once and it’s going to suck, even if you’re with buds. Trip just once with nobody to run for help, and…<br />
<br />
The crossing was somewhat vertiginous, but not too bad, but I cheated. You were supposed to cross halfway, scurry up to the next rock shelf, unprotected, and cross the other half. I opted to just make the crossing on the shelf where I started, which got me to some marginal grips on the right side, but stuck leaning into the hill against a chest-high rock with no footholds, no rock handholds, and only those marginal scrub grips, not strong enough to trust to heave my trivial mass over the granite. Obviously, that’s why you were supposed to scurry up the middle. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t…<br />
<br />
It’s only taken me three pages to set up this moment, and that’s before I added the photos. But you have to realize how remotely alone I found myself, about eighty percent up a crazy one-way-up rock slide, miles away from anything, unable to figure out how to get over this damn rock, and yes, very, very, solo.<br />
<br />
Yes, this was it, that “Oh ****!” moment. Why on Earth did I do this?<br />
<br />
But we ask the same question at Mile Twenty-Three of just about every marathon, and yet we come back for more. It’s the runner mentality. It’s the human mentality.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-St_VGF4Dm9I/W5RvWT33F3I/AAAAAAAAEm0/CeXojBIdN-01VyRXflr0FN0udw-HnFXagCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-05%2BCoe%2BSummit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-St_VGF4Dm9I/W5RvWT33F3I/AAAAAAAAEm0/CeXojBIdN-01VyRXflr0FN0udw-HnFXagCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-05%2BCoe%2BSummit.jpg" width="284" height="320" data-original-width="1420" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Five minutes may have passed, or thirty seconds; I’m not sure. I scoped out every bit of loose vegetation till I found something with what seemed like just maybe enough purchase, gave a heave, and crawled up that boulder. Seemingly within a minute I’d reached the top of the slide, escaped onto a narrow, steep, but dirt-and-tree-lined trail, and downright sprinted upward, heart thumping wildly not from the effort but from the mere escape, wanting to put as much space between me and that slide as quickly as I could. At that moment, I didn’t give a crap about any of the summits on the day’s dance card. Bushwhack to Fort? Are you kidding? I had given up the New England Hundred Highest right then, right there. I was emotionally spent. I didn’t care.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sXZSEe7AlR8/W5RvcDqkSrI/AAAAAAAAEm8/V3F1PJAHSfQH33lpqe60Yau5YquqXpfrACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-06%2BNBrother.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sXZSEe7AlR8/W5RvcDqkSrI/AAAAAAAAEm8/V3F1PJAHSfQH33lpqe60Yau5YquqXpfrACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-06%2BNBrother.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1201" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>But we cross the line, spent physically, wrecked mentally, and yet we come back for more. Maybe we take a little time to heal, but we come back. It’s the runner mentality. It’s the human mentality.<br />
<br />
Summit Coe. Hike the ridge then bang up the side trail to South Brother. Back to the ridge, onto the spur, up the nasty eroded path to North Brother (where I finally found the couple from that one lonely trailhead vehicle, brightening my mood). Summit North Brother – that’s Sixty-Six – and there, there, there it was, a mile across the scrubby krummholz, Fort. Forlorn Fort. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M7ueqXKE_yo/W5Rvj3GXDBI/AAAAAAAAEnA/DLs9iLxgVzw-aRHPBIu3B16GjK14RRkuQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-07%2BFort.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M7ueqXKE_yo/W5Rvj3GXDBI/AAAAAAAAEnA/DLs9iLxgVzw-aRHPBIu3B16GjK14RRkuQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-07%2BFort.jpg" width="249" height="320" data-original-width="1247" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Another Nike Moment. Don’t overthink this. Cairns marked the start of the herd path. Plunge into the scrub. Not too hard to follow at times, a little wild at others. Over a scattered boulder field, and there it was, the summit of Fort, graced by the chassis of the radio from an aircraft which crashed there in 1944. Ten minutes, get off before you forget which boulders brought you up and which ones you’ll need to find again to get back on that herd path, since there are no cairns on this end. Cuts and scratches and bruises, pain fades from your mind. Back on North Brother, damaged, but it’s done, save the long walk out, now encountering all those folks who got a late start and now, only now, let you know that you probably weren’t as alone as you thought. But you didn’t know that at the time. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vDPJ2bGfFC8/W5RvqyMPuZI/AAAAAAAAEnI/tR9vN7bc4kguPcvYxbyi-B4PD6BErdVwACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-347-08%2BScars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vDPJ2bGfFC8/W5RvqyMPuZI/AAAAAAAAEnI/tR9vN7bc4kguPcvYxbyi-B4PD6BErdVwACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-347-08%2BScars.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="1201" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>Having lived to see another day, the next morning found me slogging ten-minute pace on a tour of the streets of Millinocket, a tour that doesn’t take too long and doesn’t encounter any resistance in the way of traffic on a Saturday morning. My legs responded as one might expect, given the punishment they’d endured over the last two days, but tainted further by the persistent wounds of time that brought on this summer’s funk. More time off hasn’t cured the malady, at least not yet. I’m not entirely certain what will at this point; the drop off was sudden and severe.<br />
<br />
In no way am I throwing in the towel. There have been plenty of setbacks over the last thirteen-plus years of this running adventure. There’s no point in not trying to get past this one. As if to convince myself of this resolve, of course I went ahead and registered for next year’s Boston.<br />
<br />
But when the thing that will stop me from running, or at least stop me from being somewhat competitive, finally hits – and it will, let’s not kid ourselves, I am getting old – I know that the running mentality is there. The mentality that drives you to do things you’re not sure you can, and even when you hit those moments that nearly break you, brings you back to take on some more. The longer any of us can hold onto that, the more we’ll get to live out our years on our terms.<br />
<br />
And it also gives us chances to curse out loud in the middle of nowhere. Which, let’s face it, is kind of fun.<br />
<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-53437866352098548622018-06-15T23:03:00.000-04:002018-06-16T09:07:00.825-04:00Mutual Aid<br />
<i>[ Ed. Note: It’s a two-fer. Yeah, really two stories here, and yeah, I really should have split them into two posts for the attention-span-challenged among us (read, all of us). The timing didn’t work out that way. So hunker down and slog your way through; hopefully it’s amusing enough to keep you away from Words With Friends for a few minutes! ]</i><br />
<br />
This weekend a collection of my clubmates will be taking on New England’s famous “Just One Hill” race up the Mt. Washington Auto Road. Sadly, this famed and fabled event often conflicts with summer travel, so I’ve never put my hat into the lottery for an entry, though some day I’ll have to give it a shot. After all, what could be more enjoyable than a race that Dearest Daughter watched from the one-mile mark last year and reported to me that she’d never seen more people looking so destroyed in any race, let alone at the mile mark.<br />
<br />
I had a little taste of what my clubbies will be up against during that ten-states-in-ten-days odyssey I mentioned in our last esteemed episode. Part of that ramble involved a couple of days on business in South Carolina (so now you know where that neighborhood was that I railed about), after which I high-tailed it to Great Smoky Mountains National Park because, well, because it was there, or at least near to where I was, and because I’d never been there, and because it’s got mountains, and mountains are what I do, at least when I’m not running.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SAHRzQH3HE0/WyR9NQQ4BcI/AAAAAAAAElo/ZTQ51Q4q_xsZYoPQok0113D2ZTPseEOIwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-346-01%2Bforest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SAHRzQH3HE0/WyR9NQQ4BcI/AAAAAAAAElo/ZTQ51Q4q_xsZYoPQok0113D2ZTPseEOIwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-346-01%2Bforest.jpg" width="320" height="239" data-original-width="1451" data-original-height="1084" /></a></div>Since the purpose of the trip was discovery, I’m glad I was in a rental car, since it’s pretty likely that I shaved a half inch off the brake pads while navigating the serpentine route I chose to get from here to there. You can get from here to there quite quickly via the interstate, but really, what’s the fun in that? I opted for an entirely ignored stretch of pavement that gets you from South to North Carolina via an obscure corner of Georgia that most Georgians don’t know exists: <a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/GA-28,+Clayton,+GA+30525/@34.9353009,-83.4694662,10z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m5!3m4!1s0x88f7e09ec299ff35:0x8af9a07b12b513d3!8m2!3d34.9356241!4d-83.1885887">Route 28, check it out</a>. There’s no state highway that connects it to the rest of Georgia, just a county road.<br />
<br />
Being geographically (and let’s face it, generally) nerdy, and having already run that morning in South Carolina, those ten miles passing through Georgia naturally called for another run. Not that I hadn’t run before in either of these states – I had – but the prospect of running in four states in two days seemed cool, so I detoured to a dirt forest road along a stream, not by any means deserted as there were campers and fishermen out, but certainly not a heavily travelled byway, and popped in a few miles of hill climb before resuming the absurdly curvy roads to Cherokee, North Carolina, my remote outpost for the next couple nights. In theory, I’d awaken the next morning, run in North Carolina – also a state I’d previously run in – and double again with a run later in the day on the Tennessee side – finally a new entry on the states-I-have-run-in list (I’ve been in forty-nine, Alaska beckons, but before this trip, I’d only run in half of those). Thus the plan, four states in two days.<br />
<br />
But the next morning with the weather looking iffy at best (and having seen what a fierce Smoky Mountain thunderstorm looked like in the last hour of my drive the evening before) I opted to forego the North Carolina run and hit the trail early to beat the storms. Hours later, seeing what I would run up against, clearly it was a wise decision. After about nine miles of delightful (and rain-free) hiking on the Appalachian Trail, which straddles the state border, I headed to Laurel Falls, recommended by a ranger as a good trail run that met my criteria that it had to be on the Tennessee side. She mentioned it was a hill, but seemed to sense that I wouldn’t freak out if it was REALLY a hill, and thus she left out the details, but I’d caught a glimpse of the elevation profile in her trail guide and had a hint of what I was getting into.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Vj6hmyBHf0/WyR9TUU_QXI/AAAAAAAAEls/nKMlDEgS2g4Of_Vdl_hl39iz573eSYuEQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-346-02%2BLF-bottom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Vj6hmyBHf0/WyR9TUU_QXI/AAAAAAAAEls/nKMlDEgS2g4Of_Vdl_hl39iz573eSYuEQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-346-02%2BLF-bottom.jpg" width="237" height="320" data-original-width="1152" data-original-height="1555" /></a></div>Lauren Falls is one of the most popular hikes in the park. To handle the traffic, the crowded first mile-point-three up to the falls is paved and a decent climb of about three hundred feet per mile, enough to provide a challenge to your average national park visitor but not all that tough. Other than slowing at the falls to avoid knocking people off the trail, I opted not to stop on the way up. Past the falls, I picked my way past a soggy spot and set back to running the next one-point-eight to the first trail junction, which I’d deemed to be my turnaround. The obligatory selfie for Dearest Spouse back home revealed a rather worn countenance.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-to3bX-MpVts/WyR9YBXiNDI/AAAAAAAAElw/yFFhLg-wpsseL5fY10nbNKpJiufy-LyFwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-346-02%2BLF-top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-to3bX-MpVts/WyR9YBXiNDI/AAAAAAAAElw/yFFhLg-wpsseL5fY10nbNKpJiufy-LyFwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-346-02%2BLF-top.jpg" width="237" height="320" data-original-width="806" data-original-height="1089" /></a></div>Well then, hello there. It’s a good thing that the forest was intensely lush and beautiful to offer some distraction. It’s also a good thing that I didn’t see a soul once past the falls, because heavy breathing turned to grunting turned to cursing for a junction that simply wouldn’t arrive. Later analysis on my funky smartphone hiking app would peg this stretch at a rise of six hundred and ten feet per mile, or about twelve percent grade. Though I’ve been training in the high sevens, the best I could muster was somewhere around eleven minutes per mile. And the ride down wasn’t much faster; at that grade, caution – remember, not a soul around to hear you yelp if you go down – dictated a seriously low-gear descent, at least till back on that lower paved section when I could open it up a bit. Truly an inspiring outing, and running state number twenty-six in the books.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y57ErnKLdtQ/WyR9bCj6uOI/AAAAAAAAEl0/zWBgCicTV30xGxzaRnwBB5HbSl4GOJUGACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-346-04%2BLF%2Bprofile.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y57ErnKLdtQ/WyR9bCj6uOI/AAAAAAAAEl0/zWBgCicTV30xGxzaRnwBB5HbSl4GOJUGACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-346-04%2BLF%2Bprofile.png" width="180" height="320" data-original-width="900" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div>But here’s the thing: I struggled up the steep part of that grade for just under two miles. My clubmates this weekend will be heading up the Auto Road which likewise averages about a twelve percent grade, but for them, it’ll last over seven miles.<br />
<br />
Whoosh. I wish their cardiac muscles well.<br />
<br />
It occurred to me that I was a bit of a fool to have initially planned to start the day with the North Carolina run. The hike and hill-climb run double was quite enough for one day, especially following my South-Carolina-Georgia double the day before. I settled for notching the North Carolina run the next morning, so four states’ runs took three days rather than two, and doubled that one up – third day in a row – with a power hike (most certainly not rain-free) up another significant summit before skedaddling to the airport and home. Successful journey.<br />
<br />
But really, that’s not what I came to talk about. That’s just to paint the picture of the abused body I hauled into last weekend’s race (and of course to relate a terrific adventure; abuse often brings that reward). Sure, there were a couple weeks between then and the race, but business travel didn’t exactly make them relaxing, so when Saturday dawned, I had little in the way of expectations.<br />
<br />
It’s standard procedure that I anti-trash-talk before a race. My clubmates expect that I’ll groan a bit about what hurts, how I’m not feeling great, and that I’m not expecting fireworks, then the gun goes off and we’re, well, literally, off to the races. Since everything is relative, when it’s a Grand Prix race, all that anti-trash bodes truth once I’ve had my butt thoroughly kicked. But when it’s a local race, not against the New England elite, I rightly take some tongue-lashing about my grousing once I’ve sorted myself to somewhere near the front of the small pond pack.<br />
<br />
Saturday, however, things really did hurt, coming off that series of adventures just related, and I really was not feeling great, and I really was not expecting fireworks. Yeah, I know, I know, you’ve heard it before. This time, though, the lower joints were complaining loudly, which might or might not have been enhanced by a different pair of shoes I’ve been using, and I was so out of it that the highlight of my warm-up was a senior moment where I didn’t even recognize my warm-up buddy emerging from his shrubbery stop. Certainly there was nothing in that warm-up that hinted at the ability to move faster than an ungraceful lope. But whatever. I plopped myself into the second row behind the line and once aloft, tried to fire up the engines while what seemed like a far larger lead pack than usual for a local race (mind you, a large local race, but still a local race) rocketed away.<br />
<br />
By the first turn, only a quarter-mile or so in, I found myself chatting with Shirtless Youngster, loping much more gracefully alongside. This is not supposed to happen. Not the shirtless part or the youngster part or the graceful part, but the chatting part. There’s an old saying that if you can sing, you’re running too slowly, and if you can’t talk, you’re running too fast, but that’s for training purposes only. In a race as short and fast as a five kilometer, there’s no way you should be, or be able to be, chatting. Grunting, maybe. Chatting, no. But there we were, and it didn’t bother me, since I really didn’t think I was moving particularly fast that day, so hey, chat away, enjoy it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5-9yQSFcQ8I/WyR9if26j7I/AAAAAAAAEl4/XN5BV3_m9HAi_3yYliXRDuRYURjzigigACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-346-05-coach-jedi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5-9yQSFcQ8I/WyR9if26j7I/AAAAAAAAEl4/XN5BV3_m9HAi_3yYliXRDuRYURjzigigACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-346-05-coach-jedi.jpg" width="272" height="320" data-original-width="357" data-original-height="420" /></a></div>But a funny thing happened. Wizened Old Goat and Shirtless Youngster bonded a bit. It cemented at the mile mark where the race clock reported a number quicker than I figured I was up for and likewise quicker than Youngster apparently felt prudent. He muttered something I can’t quite recall, but it equated to an expression of one of those “Oh crap” moments. Truth is, the race clock was wrong by about ten seconds – they’d started it late – but my watch revealed that we were still moving quicker than I’d counted on. I found myself almost reflexively falling into Coach Mode. Don’t panic, young Jedi, it’s only a 5K, stay with it. No, I didn’t actually call him a Jedi, but it would have been so appropriate since at that moment we hit a downgrade where I did say, “Gravity is your friend,” but it would’ve been better to have uttered, “Use the Force…of gravity” (groan now).<br />
<br />
Bob Seger’s Night Moves lyrics come to mind, “I used her and she used me and neither one cared” (OK, adjust the gender, you get it). Yeah, I was coaching him now, as we picked off a few runners and finally crept past the two front-runners of the State Police recruit team, this being a race in honor of a fallen state trooper whose comrades had come out in impressive force. But I was also drawing off him. The trick in a 5K is maintained intensity. In longer races, you can often find a moment to back off just a hair, catch your breath a bit, and plan for renewed pushes later. No time for that in these sprints; it’s go, go, and keep on going. My best 5Ks have been those where I resisted my body’s natural desire for that back off and instead reminded myself that it will all be over in a matter of minutes. So the fact that I was coaching this kid meant that I had to stay with him as well, at least until the inevitable final sprint came around.<br />
<br />
Later I’d learn that he was drawing off me not only from the coaching, which thankfully didn’t annoy him, but also from the fact that being a race run by my own club on my own turf, and by my being the first of my club to appear in the pack, well, it was like Cheers in that everybody knew my name (good thing too, since one of the course marshals was Dearest Spouse, and it’d be a sad day if I looked so bedraggled as to not get her recognition!). Local fame is nothing more than that – local – and for what it’s worth, it’s certainly enjoyable, but to a young guy, this probably seemed a bit like being linked to the town’s Kenyan.<br />
<br />
And we were still chatting. During this sprint. Which again, was not supposed to happen. Which does make me wonder, pondering this post-mortem, if there was more in the tank, but that will remain unknown. Meanwhile, just past the two-mile mark I told him that my being at least thirty years his senior meant that he absolutely had to beat me with his youthful finishing sprint, lest I be highly disappointed in his mettle. In the comical moment of the day, he doubted I had thirty years on him, so I quizzed him and found that indeed I was wrong – it was almost forty. A third of a mile from the end, I shooed him ahead on his barely ripened legs and enjoyed watching him put five seconds on me by the finish mats.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wvvDNb4o6us/WyR9pRI-6gI/AAAAAAAAEmE/GiEt0-0JqRU_VbdIzTRUNWbK46e0-5aUwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-346-06-finish.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wvvDNb4o6us/WyR9pRI-6gI/AAAAAAAAEmE/GiEt0-0JqRU_VbdIzTRUNWbK46e0-5aUwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-346-06-finish.JPG" width="320" height="217" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1087" /></a></div>He couldn’t tell me his actual personal best, having had racked up his previous times on notoriously inaccurate cross-country courses, but I think he walked away happy. And I walked away a bit amused, having just shaved a few seconds off my season best and picking up another Slightly Fossilized Division win on a day when I didn’t think the engines had the remotest chance of kicking in. And I’m quite convinced that coaching, glomming, teaming, whatever you want to call it, made it happen. So thanks, Youngster; you made it fun and we pulled off a decent outing via our little Mutual Aid Society.<br />
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The next day, I should note, my legs were unusually shot, a rarity after a short race. I guess this was the final layer on top of a wedding cake of abuse, so it’s time to back off the racing for a bit and let some cells regenerate.<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-67643004279085685142018-06-03T19:50:00.000-04:002018-06-03T20:08:28.913-04:00Handicap<br />
A spate of travel of late, some corporate, some fun, put my feet in ten states in a ten-day span. That won’t win me any awards, though it did push this tale of my latest adventure out a few weeks. And more importantly, it provided an interesting angle on what might otherwise be Just Another Race Story. That angle came to me whilst I was running down a somewhat repulsive in-your-face-display-of-wealth street bordering a ritzy golf club in one of those ten states. That angle was the concept of handicap. It was an intriguing concept, because I absolutely did not win a race a couple of weeks ago. But if running was handicapped, well…<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TvAHigGYHAA/WxSC7MDrNbI/AAAAAAAAElc/8EV6St1jCyc8lWpz2TBTmeKQ13odkqkkQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-345%2BItem.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TvAHigGYHAA/WxSC7MDrNbI/AAAAAAAAElc/8EV6St1jCyc8lWpz2TBTmeKQ13odkqkkQCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-345%2BItem.jpeg" width="320" height="245" data-original-width="240" data-original-height="184" /></a></div>The ritzy and repulsive bit needs to be reported because it was central to making me think a lot about golf, and thus equity and comparisons in competition – which is where this is all going – rather than just run on by as I otherwise would have done. But please, don’t beat me up for beating up golf a bit, as I’ve got nothing against the sport. Sis golfs, her husband golfs a lot, many of my friends and co-workers golf, and decades ago I too golfed a little. Not well, mind you, but I did, and I liked it. Yes, I wish more golfers would walk the course rather than putter around in those electric carts, though I recognize that many clubs, in search of faster play and more revenue, require them. No, it’s not golf that I’m lambasting, it’s that unfortunately, golf is one of those things that elitists use to display their elitism.<br />
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Back home I run past a golf course almost daily, a pleasant place surrounded by a pleasant neighborhood of pleasant homes and (mostly, I presume) pleasant people. That’s not the Disneyland I found in this certain southern state. No, this was McMansion after McMansion, completely alike in their attempts to be unique and more impressive than their neighbors. Obscenely in-your-face. A lifestyle so uber-comfortable that many residents lay rubber mats at the entrances to their driveways so as not to feel (horror!) a bump while pulling in the Benz. A collection of estates (I hesitate to use the word neighborhood) so manicured and yet so lifeless that I longed to see a plain old front porch, but alas, that’s just not the culture. I know I digress; that’s not golf, that’s people who think they’re high and mighty, and those people aren’t limited to golf.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o18IkPowf0U/WxR8wHl5c2I/AAAAAAAAElE/JFC8mR7pv3oRqaCDRxd6nD042oX5M7bKwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-345%2BNo%2BShoulders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o18IkPowf0U/WxR8wHl5c2I/AAAAAAAAElE/JFC8mR7pv3oRqaCDRxd6nD042oX5M7bKwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-345%2BNo%2BShoulders.jpg" width="320" height="170" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="849" /></a></div>But here’s the thing: the whole reason I was running through this neighborhood was because it was the only street of some length near my hotel that was safe to run. This particular area, seemingly awash in money, doesn’t seem to believe in spending money to build roads with basic safety features. Twisty rolling roads top blind rises and hidden turns with literally two inches between the edge line and uncertain unpaved space. The only picture I came away with was a straight and flat version of this rather deficient design, but you get the idea.<br />
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And so I found myself on this long and winding road of rococo estates, thinking about inequality, thinking about golf, and thinking about how at least the sport of golf tries to come up with a way to deal with that problem within the game so that it can be a somewhat level playing field for all comers. Golf has something that’s quite interesting to runners: the handicap. It’s the recognition that in this sport, talents, whether honed or innate, vary considerably, and if it’s going to be any fun playing, there should be a way to compare those people of varying talents. It’s an imperfect system, because the calculation of that handicap is dependent on each player’s previous performances, against which their next performance will be judged, and of course each person’s previous experiences differ from the next person. But it does allow the duffer to have a shot to top their local league standings or win a tournament now and then.<br />
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Running’s closest match is the masters age grading tables, though it’s not equivalent by any means. Golf uses that person’s actual performances, while the masters tables just count the number of times you’ve travelled around the sun. The masters tables do nothing to make it easier for the mid-packer to ‘beat’ the elite, but they do give the aging runner the ability to compare their performances against both their previous, younger-days performances, as well as those of other competitors, both younger and older. They are an admission that we get slower as we get older, but since we don’t all do it on the same timetable, they’re just a good guess.<br />
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Golfing style handicaps would be nearly impossible to administer in the running world, where courses aren’t nine or eighteen holes and aren’t finite in number, so they can’t all be rated for difficulty. And on the flip side, golfers don’t vary quite as linearly relative to age – think of some of the aging legends of the sport, or even that retirees finally get more time to hone their game – so age-grading tables wouldn’t make sense for them. Given all that, we’ll keep our respective systems and recognize that they both have similar goals – comparison across unequal competitors.<br />
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So how come we don’t hear more about age-graded performances in races? Certainly most races have age group awards, but really, how did the winner of the masters, the seniors, the veterans, perform relative to the young whippersnappers who broke the ribbon? Did that lady who won the fifties run a killer race, relative to what the accumulated statistics of millions of races by people of her age would suggest, or was she just the only one to show up? That’s where the tables step in.<br />
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If you’re not familiar with them, as I hinted, these tables are based on literally millions of race results, statistically analyzed by some method which I do not know. What I do know is that they were developed at least in part by Alan Jones, the same Alan Jones who brought the running world the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jones_Counter">Jones Counter</a>, the internationally recognized standard for measuring and certifying courses. If you see a pattern from this esteemed gentleman, I can personally attest that you are right. I ran in high school with Alan’s son and knew Alan through the Triple Cities Running Club, where he was putting out race results in computerized documents in the late seventies. Yeah, a little ahead of his time. And as we’d say in New England, wicked pissah smaht.<br />
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Alan is my Patron Saint of Getting Older. I’m at the age where my times are inevitably slipping. Without the age-grading tables, that would be the end of the story, and I’d have to admit to decay. But by running results through the tables (it’s easy, do so at <a href="http://www.howardgrubb.co.uk/athletics/wmalookup15.html">this link</a>), you can compare this week’s race against those run years ago. It’s not a perfect system, because every race is different based on the course, the weather, and so on, but in general, it’s easy to see if you’re slipping, holding steady, or improving on how you should perform relative to you some time ago.<br />
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What’s wakes up the crowd is when a race director or a scorer applies these tables to an entire race. The first time I ever saw this was in a local 5K I dropped into while on a business trip. Enlightenment! Of course, I wasn’t quite as old then, so it didn’t carry quite so much weight. But still, sure I got beat by some local kids that evening, but based on the tables, did I?<br />
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Back in March at the New Bedford Half Marathon, the spreadsheet wizard who compiles the USA Track & Field New England Grand Prix results and statistics did just that. In that star-studded gathering of blazing speed, I justly got my butt kicked, soundly walloped into two hundred and sixtieth place. Ouch. For a guy who occasionally wins a small race, that really put me in my place.<br />
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But <a href="http://usatfne.org/wp/new-bedford-half-marathon-2018-gp-race-1-by-age-grade">ranked by age-graded performance</a>, that two-sixty rose to spot number one-oh-five. Yeah, I still got my clock cleaned by over a hundred people, but it was pretty comforting to see that I wasn’t acting my age. Note that’s not one-oh-five against the old folks like me, that’s one-oh-five against everyone, age eight to eight-eight.<br />
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All of this was on my mind a couple weeks ago when the results rolled in from the Clinton Tribute five miler, a local favorite that we often refer to as the Hill From Hell race. In truth, there are three Hills From Hell in this brief race, plus another right out of the starting gate, and only one stretch flat enough to allow you to gather your wits. This being my fifth Tribute, I’m ready for those trials; I’ve got a pretty good mental map of the pain to come. And Mama Nature laid out fast racing weather: chilly with the threat of rain (which did roll in around the halfway mark), but nearly windless, so no repeats of Boston’s Monsoon Monday. In short, there were no excuses for this one, just the chance to turn in a decent time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yc7WKUv8PfU/WxR8mvpSXdI/AAAAAAAAElA/KnyrT1xAFBYd0jGjYdFNCAMs-4TO1CLaACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-345%2Bturn-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yc7WKUv8PfU/WxR8mvpSXdI/AAAAAAAAElA/KnyrT1xAFBYd0jGjYdFNCAMs-4TO1CLaACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-345%2Bturn-1.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a></div>As Tributes go, this one rolled out with a predictable story line and a happy ending. The usual local kids bolted off the line and spent themselves by the third block of the uphill kick-off, though one, a bit older, and who I’d later hear was a solid local trackster, would hang on through the first mile and run a solid race overall. I couldn’t seem to find my racing gear in the first mile, but that may have been a blessing as I didn’t burn out on adrenaline but instead settled in to crank out what may have been my most consistent Tribute, holding steady splits through the quasi-alpine terrain. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-emXq-26ZsPA/WxR8g4_oydI/AAAAAAAAEk8/cLH2Yj_7i-0koMgHL2eSvioScRk-WqDPACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-345%2Bmile%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-emXq-26ZsPA/WxR8g4_oydI/AAAAAAAAEk8/cLH2Yj_7i-0koMgHL2eSvioScRk-WqDPACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-345%2Bmile%2B1.jpg" width="320" height="201" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1005" /></a></div>At the second turn, the spot where the field is usually sorted out, I counted nine ahead of me. I eclipsed that somewhat older kid and dropped into the single digit place zone, then took out another pair by the time we topped the first Hell Hill around one-point-five. A mile later, in the midst of that blessed flat stretch, I put on a surge to assure that when I passed what would turn out to be my final victim of the day, he wouldn’t have any thoughts about debating the topic. Being somewhat fond of hills, I didn’t expect any further arguments, and since clubmate Matt – same of last race fame – was far enough ahead to reach the next time zone, there was no chance to close that gap, so I just ground it out for a sixth place finish and another Slightly Fossilized (a.k.a. senior) division win.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RVQWT4izD3k/WxR8Pnr0ZoI/AAAAAAAAEk0/d9tN0zWOjZ4vUIrZkXUVW_cl4LCN2n6GwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-345%2Bfinish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RVQWT4izD3k/WxR8Pnr0ZoI/AAAAAAAAEk0/d9tN0zWOjZ4vUIrZkXUVW_cl4LCN2n6GwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-345%2Bfinish.jpg" width="215" height="320" data-original-width="360" data-original-height="536" /></a></div>It’s worth noting that after the previous weekend’s race, where I looked like Utter Hell in the finish line photo – even worse than my usual Death Warmed Over look – this time I made a conscious effort to try to crack a smile while screaming into the downhill finish, since I knew they’ve always got a photographer poised. On a relative basis, I’d say it worked out; small children probably won’t run from that finish photo.<br />
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It’s also worth mentioning that the Tribute knocks itself out for the runners. This event exists to honor the annual Tributes, folks who have knocked themselves out for the community (and thankfully, aren’t forced to subsequently kill each other a-la Hunger Games) and raise funds as well. But unlike many of these events, the organizers haven’t forgotten that it’s a race. The trophies are bigger than Mt. Rushmore, and each divisional winner gets their mug recorded and published in the local paper, which as it turns out, one of my professional colleagues, a native of the town, happens to read and forwarded a snapshot of the page (first pic in this adventure) with a nice pat on the back – thanks! But the point is, competition still matters here, and that’s one of the big draws.<br />
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It was on that note that when the results rolled in, I churned the numbers, as my perpetually nerdly demeanor demanded. After finagling for a course measurement discrepancy (how a course I’ve measured as accurate in the past was coming up a tad short was a mystery, and no, it hadn’t changed, but apparently Google had, and this is precisely why you can’t certify a course that way, thank you [Alan] Jones Counter), I opted to adjust my time upward a bit for, let’s call it, personal integrity. Even though this adjustment put this one at a disadvantage compared to my four previous outings on this course (I didn’t retroactively adjust those), to my surprise found my age grade rating still made this my best Tribute, and in fact my best five-miler since hitting my fifties. Who knew? Praise be to Alan.<br />
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I took it a step further. I scanned the results and spot-checked the obvious suspects: runners nearly my age who’d beaten me (there was only one in his late forties), and runners older than me who’d come in relatively close behind. My suspicion was confirmed: nobody attained my age grade rating or higher.<br />
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So, did I win? Obviously, no, that’s not how races work; this isn’t golf. Was there an award for this? Clearly no (though I have heard of races that do this, but I got a hunk-o-hardware for my division, anyway). Should there be? Probably not. But is there some quiet satisfaction (admittedly less quiet after publishing this column) in this micro-achievement? Of course, he said, grinning. Does a golfer smile when she wins the tournament, even if that win was based on handicap?<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-35058712249448310372018-05-14T22:15:00.001-04:002018-05-15T10:12:07.610-04:00Mercenary<br />
There are races that you target, key races that mean something in the great scheme of a life of running. Then there are races that you jump into in the hopes of lifting your established team, your clan so to speak, to some level of perceived greatness, like the Grand Prix series. And there are races that are simply local fluff or fun. But every now and then come the days when you’re really just a hired gun. Not that you’re really hired, of course; real money doesn’t change hands, but hired in the sense that you’re brought in to do your job, to load the dice. I guess I’m quick enough – not in any big pond, mind you, but perhaps in some small to moderate sized ponds – that I get that call now and then. Jump on our team, we need you, we need to kick someone’s butt. Yup, just call me One-Eight-Hundred Runner.<br />
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Thus it was I found myself riding to the unlikely destination of Canton, Massachusetts, to run on a team supporting the <a href="http://www.prhc.us/about/">Pappas Rehab Hospital for Childre</a>n in an event to support the same institution. All I knew about this team was that it had apparently been snubbed the previous year by, of all people – horror! – the caterers! While this event was certainly a fundraiser for the hospital, it wasn’t a fundraiser in the as in hit up your friends, but rather a fundraiser as in big supporters anteing up the sponsorships because little supporters – like us – will show up and because it’s a great thing to do. For me it was simply a chance to jump into a grudge match and help settle a score. My clubmate and his friend who works for the hospital – a fine institution recently renamed in honor of <a href="https://www.umassmed.edu/news/news-archives/2016/03/arthur-m.-pappas-md-founding-chair-of-orthopedics-dies-at-84/">Arthur Pappas</a>, most popularly known as the Red Sox’ doctor but in truth someone who accomplished oh so much more – needed to be sure they didn’t get beat up by a bunch of burgermeisters again.<br />
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Those burgermeisters, by the way, deserve great kudos, even if they were our targets for the day, as they were one of those big supporters. Foley’s Backstreet Grille in Stoughton annually dedicates their support to this kids’ haven to the extent that they close their restaurant for the day to send their staff to support the race. That’s pretty much unheard of in the restaurant biz. On top of that, every category winner walked away with a gift certificate from their fine establishment. You can be jaded and say that’s just a way to drum up business, but in total, it was a lotta’ dough, or wings, skins, burgers, or whatever.<br />
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Whatever, indeed, because for the moment, they were to be vanquished. And I was brought in to help with the cause.<br />
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One of the aspects of being a true mercenary is that you don’t really know the rules and you don’t really care; you just do your job. Admittedly, once I learned about the hospital, I did indeed care, but I never did learn the rules; we just did our job, we being myself and a few others from my local club. We vanquished those chefs. But we didn’t know then and I still don’t know now how the scoring was done, nor do I know whether I made a difference in that score. That’s when we pull out that word again, whatever, because, well, yea, there were burgers, dogs, and beers to be had ex-post-race-oh. Mission accomplished, good enough for me.<br />
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Our recruiter Paul led us to believe that nobody competitive showed up and that it was an easy, flat course. After all, said he, look at last year’s winning time! Mercenary Matt and I loosely pondered the idea of a one-two walk-off; and though he politely avoided anything remotely approaching trash talk, I knew clearly who’d be the one and who’d be the two in that scenario (hint: I’m old, he’s not).<br />
<br />
Never believe the marketing. It wasn’t flat. Not brutal, but not flat, either. And it was a tad long, which explained at least a bit of last year’s winning time. While the course was certified, a certified course is only guaranteed not to be short. It can be a bit long (or sometimes crazy long, recall the nine-point-four mile Boston Tune-Up 15K). On top of that, the marshals sent us off course – avoiding a cut-through on the certification map – within the first tenth of a mile. Ah, the joys of small races. Courses aren’t perfect, mileposts aren’t either (by their postings, my second mile clocked in under four minutes, um…), and even the flag got stuck when the veteran color guard tried to hoist Old Glory pre-race. Again, whatever. As Belichick would say, do your job.<br />
<br />
It was obvious by the time we’d circumambulated the hospital grounds that a few real players had, as we’d suspected while reconnoitering the pre-race gaggle, shown up. One-two certainly wasn’t in the cards. Heck, coming up on the mile mark I had a dog – yes, a dog – breathing down my back side. Between the idea that a dog might overtake me (dog owners, don’t be insulted, I know they can be fast) and the adjoining idea that his owner could be on my tail while repeatedly shouting, “Heel!” while I was gasping for enough oxygen to hold the pace, well, it wasn’t comforting.<br />
<br />
Fido faded, I took out a few folks on the first significant rise and shortly thereafter, and spent the rest of the brief adventure (five-k’s are just too short and too fast for my liking) staring at Mercenary Matt from thirty seconds back. No chance of catching him, nobody threatening from behind, just grind it out.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MDQaN5Zw7m4/WvpCqISOz9I/AAAAAAAAEkk/zY-NvyLInz4jl7HAWtGbMV4YTfcb-ubSwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-344-finish-cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MDQaN5Zw7m4/WvpCqISOz9I/AAAAAAAAEkk/zY-NvyLInz4jl7HAWtGbMV4YTfcb-ubSwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-344-finish-cropped.jpg" width="268" height="320" data-original-width="215" data-original-height="257" /></a></div>About this time I recalled that my fellow mercenary and I had made a pact a couple weeks back to join motivational forces over the summer and hammer out enough track work to shave our respective five-k times down. About this time I realized that the target time I’d agreed to was more than a bit unreasonable. About this time it occurred to me that on an age-graded basis, I’d have to run the race of my life by summer’s end to pull it off. But at this moment, I decided I’d be happy just being within a minute of that irrational goal, so even with no threat, I swung what little hammer I had and came across the line looking so God-awful, as the finish line picture would reveal, that I made a mental note to try and smile at next week’s race (spoiler: I did, sort of, but that’s the next story).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M2UOC5VFYfY/WvpCD1W4jJI/AAAAAAAAEkY/CqZVNcWN8FAmHVKUClEcUI0JWUSloMDwgCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-344-marketing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M2UOC5VFYfY/WvpCD1W4jJI/AAAAAAAAEkY/CqZVNcWN8FAmHVKUClEcUI0JWUSloMDwgCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-344-marketing.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="720" data-original-height="960" /></a></div>That imagined one-two walk-off became a four-five placing as we were roundly thrashed by those fast guys who weren’t supposed to come to this race. But still, fifth out of a few hundred, even if a bunch of them were just there for a walk, well, it’s respectable for an aged goat (and yes, I took what I’ve come to call the Somewhat Fossilized Division). And that idea of being within a minute of my miniature Impossible Dream even sort of materialized, if you took the long course into consideration. But considering that my age-grade rating on this one bordered on what I think of as my ‘gold standard’, the thought of knocking off a whole minute from a short race by summer’s end... Well, let’s not think too hard about that for the moment.<br />
<br />
Burgers, beers, and the accumulation of enough awards among our carpetbagging crew made for a fine outing, and forced us to start planning a return trip to the area just to eat our winnings (after a run, of course). It even allowed me to forgive Paul for his sins of marketing, since he too walked off with a certificate to add to our edible prize pot. And there will be next year, since I suspect the caterers will be seeking their revenge.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OJwRmvOUOak/WvpBumYSz6I/AAAAAAAAEkM/x7GpBwn3_DoUhj-ALWfXk50Zi3IKzD6DQCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-344-mercenaries.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="960" height="256" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OJwRmvOUOak/WvpBumYSz6I/AAAAAAAAEkM/x7GpBwn3_DoUhj-ALWfXk50Zi3IKzD6DQCLcBGAs/s400/GMC-344-mercenaries.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Happy Mercenaries</div><br />
<b>Meanwhile… Boston Follow-Up:</b> Check out this seriously excellent video on the Boston Monsoon Monday Marathon experience from my buddy Chris Russell’s friend Eric (Eric made the video, Chris narrates and stars, so to speak). It’s fifteen minutes of your life well spent. Enjoy it <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRLw59VWTso&feature=youtu.be">here</a>.Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5205430197599874226.post-37328323919319675402018-04-22T23:33:00.003-04:002018-04-22T23:33:48.319-04:00Frozen Food Department<br />
<i>[ Ed Note: As is often the case, postings on marathons themselves become marathons. Pace yourself, there’s a lot to this story! ]</i><br />
<br />
A week later I cannot begin to figure out how to describe this experience. The usual question I get is, “Have you warmed up yet?” to which I reply with a crack about having completed the swim portion of the event (funnier if you know how weak a swimmer I am), and thinking to myself that every subsequent blast of wind since that day has evoked a PTSD-like sense of dread.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gKj7wc9U8PU/Wt1NdFtS5VI/AAAAAAAAEjM/psz_dIlkzqAJiqVrFlgmbJQG1_rC5zpfwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-343-1-poster.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gKj7wc9U8PU/Wt1NdFtS5VI/AAAAAAAAEjM/psz_dIlkzqAJiqVrFlgmbJQG1_rC5zpfwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-343-1-poster.JPG" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="320" data-original-height="240" /></a></div>I’ve run twelve Boston Marathons and twenty-eight marathons overall, plus a few more I think of as unofficial. I’ve run over a hundred and fifty races. I’ve gone hypothermic several times. But I’ve never seen or experienced anything like what hit us last Monday. Nor has anyone I’ve spoken with. Not veterans of twenty or more Bostons. Not those who remember forty. Many have said this was the grand-daddy of all one hundred and twenty two, so far as the impact on the runners.<br />
<br />
If you’ve been under a rock or just don’t follow this stuff, the perfect storm intruded on our party. To a runner, purgatory is cold rain, and hell is cold wind-driven rain, and perfect hell is all of the above escalated to a level of intensity that drops both jaws and internal core temperatures. Anyone who has qualified for Boston has run and raced in cold weather, in rain, in snow, in wind. We get it, we deal with it. This one was different. I’d rather race in the single digits – been there, done that, just a few months back. I’d rather race in snow on a thirty degree day – snow gets you wet, but most blows by, brushes off. Neither penetrate like cold, wind-driven, heavy rain.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hJDNWZ81jvk/Wt1NYoeHGOI/AAAAAAAAEjI/qPuUVBFdJaA33U9DBxmXf558lLHm9obywCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-343-3-weather.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hJDNWZ81jvk/Wt1NYoeHGOI/AAAAAAAAEjI/qPuUVBFdJaA33U9DBxmXf558lLHm9obywCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-343-3-weather.png" width="320" height="256" data-original-width="865" data-original-height="691" /></a></div>Boston rained from the start, rained for the duration, and only ceased raining to allow interruptions of stunning downpours that exceeded the definition of rain. Marathon Monday (dubbed Monsoon Marathon Monday by a friend) dawned with a fresh coating of snow and ice on the ground, barely rose above that frigid temperature by the start, and never attained even the slight warming that was forecast. As I passed mile twenty-four, the thermometer still read forty-two – and that dial would drop even lower by the time friends passed it later. The fateful day started with a true-to-prediction stiff headwind that proceeded to deepen its attack throughout the race. The Weather Channel had forecast finish line sustained winds at nearly thirty with an ominous orange GALE WARNING banner on-screen, while the local TV news pegged expected gusts at forty-five. Neither were overstated. All were head-on, save for the brief two blocks of Hereford Street when ironically the canyons of the city spun the tempest around. A tailwind rarely registers as anything other than the lack of resistance. The intensity of that one-minute long hind quarter boosting reprieve spoke volumes of its power.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zDlZXzqPBqc/Wt1NtCJisbI/AAAAAAAAEjY/opTR9B7Xl_4bk4zki1maeD2p5lQTpy9zACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-343-2-ice2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zDlZXzqPBqc/Wt1NtCJisbI/AAAAAAAAEjY/opTR9B7Xl_4bk4zki1maeD2p5lQTpy9zACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-343-2-ice2.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="968" data-original-height="726" /></a></div>No clothing worthy of an attempt at racing the distance could stop the assault. Those who opted for the shelter of more clothing simply accumulated more refrigerated coolant against their skin. Those with wind gear became sailors, which might have worked well if they’d had the time and space to tack their way upwind, but that wasn’t an option. Slower folks in the charity-runner range may have enjoyed the luxury of worrying less about minimizing their clothing for speed and performance, but paid through their extended exposure time. And the post-bombing elimination of the Hopkinton baggage check once again haunted this race; save for throw-aways, my wardrobe choice had to be made by seven in the morning while my front yard was still white and icy.<br />
<br />
I opted for minimalism, recalling the 2007 Nor-Easter race when temperatures rose more than expected, and the 2015 gale, when similar, though as we’d learn, nowhere near as intense, conditions brought on hypothermia but not until well past the finish line. Racing shorts, one long-sleeve wicking shirt with a racing singlet atop, a thin beanie, and glove liners for some protection but minimal water absorption. And cheap throw-away expo shades to try to keep some of the liquid bullets out of my eyes. Of all that, only the beanie truly worked as hoped.<br />
<br />
It goes without saying that the dry shoes I’d brought to the Athlete’s Village and donned on my way to the starting corrals were wet shoes – at least not muddy, but still wet – by the start, and soaked shoes by the mile mark as attempts to avoid not just puddles but pools and streams and floods quickly became impossible to win. So drenched was the course that runners often coagulated on the non-flooded paths between tire depressions, leading to more traffic dodging and more bump-and-grind than I’ve seen in a marathon ever. That was just one more ingredient in what would quickly become an energy expenditure equation that couldn’t be balanced.<br />
<br />
Things got weird fast. Within a mile, my numb legs made me question whether I had, in fact, put on my shorts that morning – something I’d joked about while Dearest Spouse drove me to the race, being buried in voluminous quantities of pre-race warmth and unable to recall what sat at the bottom of that seven-layer taco dip. Cruising Ashland, I was certain that said shorts had to be drenched and must be riding up to my hip joints, giving those interested in well-aged thighs a cheap thrill, because I simply couldn’t feel them. You shouldn’t have to look down to verify the location of your clothing, nor should subsequent downward reconnaissance reveal a truth entirely in contradiction to what your nerves are telling you. The shorts hung normally, it was the legs that really weren’t there.<br />
<br />
But a few miles later, the opposite developed. Now, my exposed quads insisted they felt the presence of fabric – tights, track pants, whatever, hard to tell – but the unmistakable sensation of fabric brushing over them. Again, the visual confirmed a complete neural disconnect, they were, indeed, still quite (as intended) naked. All I can fathom is that the winds were strong enough to drive sensation down hair follicles below the upper layers of chilled numbness. Weird.<br />
<br />
While they may have been transmitting wildly corrupted data from their sensors, at least the legs worked – not terribly well; in the cold numbness I simply couldn’t break beyond a tight, choppy stride, but they worked – at least through the first twenty or so miles. Hands, on the other hand, rapidly became useless. Manipulating the zipper of my mini-pouch became a quarter-mile effort. Simple actions like clicking off splits on my watch became an engineering challenge; fingers failed and only a thumb was strong enough even for that tiny motor function.<br />
<br />
And then there was the acoustics. The wind drove even sounds into cognitive dissonance. Repeatedly I puzzled why runners approaching me from behind were carrying cowbells, only to realize that the sounds were coming from the dedicated drenched devotees lining the course – out there even in these conditions – right alongside. Fool me once, it’s a curiosity. Fool me repeatedly and there has to be physics involved, probably mixed with a dose of reduced brain capacity.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile I was already shivering; not superficial oh-that-gust-was-cold shivering, but deep, core, inner shivering. By Framingham. Mile six. Twenty to go, and the winds were nowhere near their apex. My mind, usually focused on the math of time in the bank and pace required to reach any of several goals, could think only of the rate of heat loss and whether there’d be any fire in the soul by Boylston Street. And no sooner would my racing efforts start to turn up the thermostat ever so slightly when the skies would open – about every twenty minutes – in unspeakable deluges that instantly saturated every pore and bloated every liquid-holding fabric fiber with the equivalent of an ice bucket challenge.<br />
<br />
Despite all this, I was having a pretty good race. How’s that you say?<br />
<br />
After the horrendous traffic of the first mile, partly an artifact of my first-ever second wave start (I’ve always been in the first) and partly an inexplicable mix of incompatible paces by people who had supposedly been seeded by time but now were reacting to the conditions in a myriad of unpredictable ways, I settled into a target pace range that would bring me back to the first wave for next year’s race. Save for a slight and entirely acceptable slowdown on the first Newton hill, I held that range till Heartbreak. On target, cylinders firing.<br />
<br />
At mile eight, one of my rocks of the race, perennial fan Cori was there, as always, come thick or thin. I’ve been doing this race so long that she’s gone from single (might have that timing a little off) to married to mom to her kid being old enough to make a poster in my honor (though sadly I didn’t see it till later). That kind of support and spirit keeps me coming back.<br />
<br />
Around mile twelve, I picked up a CMS teammate, a young woman I recognized but didn’t know well, and glommed on to her steady pace under the theory that two CMS jerseys were better than one and it might give us both a boost, and perhaps even a few hoots from the crowd. About the same time, while tracking her, I passed my New York buddy the Brooklyn Barrister, up for his first Boston, and having what I’d find out later was a day that hurt to even read about – worse than even what the weather dished out. It wasn’t till I’d overtaken him that he spotted me, but being slightly blinded by the dim and rain-streaked light of the cheap shades, I was hesitant to spin around to see him for fear that I’d trip over something I could barely see, instead shouting and hoping he’d join me. “I’m laboring!” was the last I’d hear from him till he recounted his own personal nightmare a few days later.<br />
<br />
At sixteen, Dearest Spouse was out there. I’d given her dispensation to skip this one, but love and dedication know no bounds. I couldn’t even give her the joy of sidling left, out of the shortest tangent path, to swing closely by, as everyone was huddled on the right, on the inside track of the curve. Even though drafting wasn’t terribly effective, not drafting was worse. Swinging wide into the wind just seemed unthinkable.<br />
<br />
Heartbreak hurt, Heartbreak slowed me, but Heartbreak didn’t kill me. Shortly thereafter, cold killed me. The heat equation hit zero balance coming down the back side, and systems began to shut down. Past the Graveyard, through Cleveland Circle, those repeated dousings had taken their toll. Staying vertical became the challenge. I knew my hometown club, Highland City, was manning the pedestrian crossings at twenty-three and twenty-four. That bit of coming familiarity was a bigger boost than you’d expect; it was cathartic to holler, “This SUCKS!” to friendly faces, especially one friendly face who was, to my spirit-lightening humor, wearing a rubber-ducky kid’s swim float around her middle. Little things. Thanks, peeps.<br />
<br />
At forty kilometers it was walk or fall. I stumbled from there to the twenty-five mile mark, a mere two tenths of a mile that seemed to take a lifetime. Irony of ironies, there happened to be a timing mat at both forty kilometers and twenty-five-point-two miles – the mile-to-go mark – so this lowest point was forever memorialized in a really bad pace readout. One more brief walk coming out of the Mass Ave tunnel, that Divine Wind of Hereford, about six years to get down Boylston Street, and it was over. Requalified for next year. If I lived that long, which at that moment, wasn’t certain.<br />
<br />
The human body delivers far beyond what anyone can expect of it.<br />
<br />
Crossing the line, my core temperature must have been low enough that even the gigahertz of my brain’s processor had slowed. My vision, already obscured by the throwaway shades that I could never find a calm enough stretch to discard, flickered as if the frame refresh rate on the video screen had been turned down by half. My legs wouldn’t have held another few seconds past the moment a medical volunteer appeared to provide support. From him to the next volunteer to the wheelchair scooping me up just as I was going down – not knowing if I would faint, vomit, cry, or all three – to the slightly warmer environment of what I’d later term the Frozen Foods Department of the medical tent, probably took less than a minute, but who knew? Time wasn’t registering. Another volunteer stripped my sogginess from the waist up, piled on layers of Mylar (and thankfully one real blanket), and put a cup of warm sugared water in my mostly non-functional paws. I have no idea how long I stayed, and the ordeal wasn’t over. Having finally displayed just enough motility and lucidity to gain walking papers, there still remained the task of navigating the finishing chute and picking my way through barricades and crowds, hauling a bag of leaden clothing and clad only in soggy shoes, soggy shorts, and a couple layers of thin film (sadly, without that one real blanket).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5gfvjqWfCZc/Wt1M5tlbwgI/AAAAAAAAEi8/SxZAdPI4hJk4gyotbz8vs-QmUccEswfRACLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-343-4-after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5gfvjqWfCZc/Wt1M5tlbwgI/AAAAAAAAEi8/SxZAdPI4hJk4gyotbz8vs-QmUccEswfRACLcBGAs/s320/GMC-343-4-after.jpg" width="320" height="224" data-original-width="1288" data-original-height="903" /></a></div>But I’m here, writing this. I survived, as did everyone else. I had it bad, but others had it worse. A record number hit the med tent, but nobody was lost. I made it to that Finest Hot Shower You Will Ever Experience, also known as the Squannacook post-race party (unending thanks to them for their efforts of bringing this together every year!). My time wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either, but frankly, nobody cares. The winning times were the slowest in decades. Most of the elites dropped out. Speedsters I know all faded out in the high miles, not, I suspect, because of the traditional wall, but because, I’ll bet, their core temperatures collapsed as did mine, and they too found it nearly impossible to function. But I did, and they did, and still some absurd number like ninety-five percent of those who started, finished.<br />
<br />
The human body delivers far beyond what anyone can expect of it.<br />
<br />
They’ll be talking about this one a decade from now, maybe multiple decades from now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Snippets:<br />
</b><br />
Like most marathons, there are too many stories to fit in one marathon-length narrative. Here are a few bonus tidbits.<br />
<br />
<b>Mud Shoes, Dry Shoes: </b> In a pre-race email, the Boston Athletic Association relaxed their stringent policies on what could and could not be brought to the Village and clarified that a pair of dry shoes would be allowed and indeed would be recommended, expecting muddy conditions at the Athlete’s Village. (Long-time readers will recall how I took them to task on this very issue in 2014 and their then-stalwart response; this message was welcome and long overdue.) The sea of mud, exceeded in my memory only by a legendary hike in the Adirondacks, delivered as promised. By the time I’d forded the muck pit and shoehorned myself into a patch of space, I was pleased to see that many heeded the call and wisely equipped themselves. What I didn’t expect was to then see people all around me donning those dry shoes while still in the tent – while still needing to re-cross that Rubicon to get <i>out</i> of the tent. I can’t tell you how many people I advised to wait until they reached pavement before making the switch. I just can’t explain this gap in their logic. (Further note: While I was changing in the Hopkinton High parking lot, someone with a BAA jacket came by and did an impromptu video interview – no idea where that landed…)<br />
<b><br />
Of All The Gin Joints, You Picked This One:</b> Yes, I shoehorned myself into the middle of the mob-scene of the tent in the Village. Yes, I found a patch of ground, laid down an old Mylar sheet, and invited another runner to share the space. Safe and dry till it was time to leave for the race, right? No, suddenly a torrent came down on the middle of our Mylar, and looking up, amongst the vastness of the canvas, was one hole – yes, one – that had been taped up, and that tape had just come loose and yes, it was right atop us. Go figger.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtnRzQhIHeg/Wt1M0IomodI/AAAAAAAAEi4/U4eacIaCr4YF87psuH4sSZ1JI9e0-HabwCLcBGAs/s1600/GMC-343-5-robe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtnRzQhIHeg/Wt1M0IomodI/AAAAAAAAEi4/U4eacIaCr4YF87psuH4sSZ1JI9e0-HabwCLcBGAs/s320/GMC-343-5-robe.jpg" width="239" height="320" data-original-width="1046" data-original-height="1400" /></a></div><b>Rubber Ducky:</b> I’d see my clubmate with her rubber ducky float down at mile twenty-three, but I missed my chance at the village. As a last-minute extra layer of pre-race warmth, I’d pulled an old terry bathrobe out of our basement heading-for-donation bin. Once ensconced in the tent and having removed my rain layers to expose this fashion, I took a walk over to get some snacks and suddenly realized how appropriate it was to be wearing a bathrobe while we were all taking a bath, so to speak. The crowd soaked it up (groan, pun intended). Oh, if I’d only had a bath brush or a rubber ducky.<br />
<b><br />
Wrong Date?</b> Why does it seem every year that Saturday morning before the race turns into a delightful morning for a marathon? Happened again this year. The day after wasn’t bad, either.<br />
<br />
<b>Small World:</b> I always love the variety of people at this global event. Sitting directly around me in the tent at the Village were people from Montreal, Paris, Monterrey Mexico, and Portugal. Closer to home, at the last port-o-john stop near the start, I asked the guy in line with me where he was from and he answered, “Binghamton, New York!” – my home town. My amusement at that multiplied when the guy behind him then said, “Me too!” Technically, the second guy was from about twenty miles away, but who’s counting. And no, they didn’t know each other.<br />
<br />
<b>Field Day for Bargains!</b> I’ve never seen more stuff – and in this case, lots of good, expensive stuff – discarded on the course. As clothing soaked up more and more water, it was abandoned. The quantity of fancy running gloves was staggering. But the only thing I’d like to retrieve is the discount coupon promised by the marketing director of a major trail shoe manufacturer that I met on the bus to Hopkinton. Whoever you are, I know your brain was probably erased by the day’s experience, but if you read this…trail season is upon us!<br />
<br />
Gary Cattarinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16342528564545284793noreply@blogger.com2