Last June, I went on a weekend adventure with Jim Street and Kirsten Pieper. Along the way, they got me excited about a race they co-direct: the Evergreen Lake Ultra Series. When planning out my 100 mile race training, I made sure to put their event on the schedule.
It would not disappoint.
Pre-Race, Sunday, September 14, 2014
Of course it’s 2:15 in the morning and of course I’m awake.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Only crazy people get excited about losing sleep and comfort to the task of running 50+ miles in the woods.
I am certified crazy, man.
Edna is crazy too, which is probably why we get along so well. Either way, we’re both up and getting ourselves ready for what will surely be a long day. It’s 38 degrees outside, with an expected high in the upper 60s, so we both pack layers along with our Red Bulls and Starbucks Double Shots.
After a 20-minute drive from our hotel in Minonk, we arrive at Evergreen Lake (about 14 miles from Bloomington) and the groggy bustle of the start/finish line. We check in, get our bibs and say hello to Kirsten, who is busy greeting chilly runners and directing us towards the food.
“I’m only here for the food anyway,” I remind Kirsten.
She laughs as Edna and I dig in to the smorgasbord of breakfast items — several different quiches, potato wedges, and of course: BACON.
Nom nom nom nom…
As Edna already knows, the fastest way to my heart is through bacon, and there is so much bacon here I think I will love this race forever, and it hasn’t even started yet.
We finish eating and then go through our regular pre-race routines, which unglamorously include bathroom breaks and lots of lubricants.
Ready to go, we runners gather around for Jim’s pre-race speech. It’s cold. I can see my own breath and this pre-autumn chill only reminds me of the awful winter we had and what more awfulness might be on the way in 2015.
Brrrr! I have on a skull cap, long sleeve pull-over and gloves. All wrapped up, Edna looks like she’s about to embark on an Aleutian whaling expedition.
“Good luck, babe!” I tell her with a quick kiss.
There is a countdown… and then…
LOOP ONE — WINTER
Miles 1 – 17
There is a surge of eager runners that tightly pack in front of me. I let them go. I will be going slow today — locking in that 100-mile pace.
I laugh out loud at the idea of my “100-mile pace”.
You say it as if it’s sooo fast, I tell myself.
Nah, it ain’t, I reply. But eventually, it will hurt just the same.
I know that. Anyone who runs ultras knows that. Pain is part of the game. It’s part of what draws me in, keeps me engaged. By feeling my body’s reaction to the stress I put on it, I remain present and in a constant conversation with myself.
I’m not a masochist. I don’t like to hurt. But I do like to feel alive, and nothing makes me feel more alive than putting my body to the ultimate test and relaxing in the happy wasted comfort of accomplishment that comes after.
It’s a magical, transcending experience.
Can’t wait to get there today!
One thing is for sure: that end will be a long time coming. We have 13 hours to finish, and I plan to take as much time as I need. This race is 51 miles and consists of three loops of 17 miles each. I hope to keep an even pace — something on par with what I’ll experience at Pinhoti in November — and log each loop somewhere in between 3.5 to 4 hours.
Just a few miles in, and I am all by myself. The forest is quiet and dark. My new Black Diamond headlamp (thanks, Edna!) shines a brilliant beam, lighting my path ahead. Occasionally I look at the vast blackness above, in complete awe of the billions and billions of stars that exist, up there, way beyond my comprehension.
We don’t get this kind of view in the city. What a beautiful sight.
My awe and tranquility is interrupted every 10 minutes with the sudden urge to pee — another unglamorous staple of my ultrarunning career. There is something about running in the woods for hours and hours that causes me to urinate often, exemplifying my oft said japish quip of “The world is my toilet.”
I say that out of respect, Mother Nature. Please do not strike me down with a bolt of lightning.
She does not. Instead, she gives me an aid station.
I quickly take some peanut butter and jelly, and before I can say “my hands are clean, no really” I’m off on my merry, dark way.
Not long after, I find myself at a creek crossing. I stop, take a quick look around for any object that might make crossing this body of water a bit easier (and drier).
Nope. No help for you, Mother Nature surely chides.
Meh. Just as well. My feet are already wet from the dewy grass. Might as well get dirty too.
I plunge through the cold creek, water up to my knees, with a loud and boisterous “YEEEEEE HAAAAAW!”
The chill of the water complements the chill in the air.
How is it so cold? We never even got a summer! Thanks, Obama!
I pick up the pace to generate more warmth, and immediately my mind goes to a warmer place… like… um… here, later today, where it will be in the upper 60s. Soon.
I can make it that long, I think as I zip through the halfway mark of the loop, met by enthusiastic volunteers and a rising sun. I put away my head lamp and find comfort in being able to see everything around me. I was running cautious in the dark, trying hard not to trip. Naturally, an hour or so into sunlight I take my first head dive off an ornery root. I can’t help but laugh at myself.
That’s another reason why I keep coming back to these races, I think to myself. I always end up laughing at myself.
It’s hard to take things too seriously when my biggest concerns often revolve around something as simple as picking up my own two feet, one after the other; or whether or not I used enough Vaseline on my butt crack to keep from chafing halfway through the race. Such are the silly demands of an all-day runner.
I plop through another knee-high creek — this one just as cold — and shriek just the same as before. Not long after passing through though, and I start to feel the warmth of the sun penetrate my winter layers, telling me it’s time for a costume change.
Change hats, ditch gloves, change shirts, eat. This is my mantra before I reach the start/finish line aid station. I often repeat such phrases so that I don’t show up to the aid station and waste time not knowing what the hell to do (as is often the case if I don’t have a plan).
Change hats, ditch gloves, change shirts, eat, I repeat again as I FINALLY come up on other people on the trail. I’ve run almost the entirety of this 17-mile loop without seeing any other people.
“Hey, you’re moving too fast,” one of the female runners I pass hollers, “this is the no passing zone!”
We all have a good chuckle as I continue on.
I’m still chuckling as I approach what looks just like any other bridge, except that when I step on this particular bridge, I almost fall off as it bounces awkwardly, daring to toss me in the water it spans below. Once I recover my wits and realize I didn’t actually break any bones trying to get across, I think back to my youth and the bouncy bridges that used to be popular at the playgrounds in my hometown. I used to get such a kick out of scaring my sisters on those things.
Before I can answer, I start to see signs of civilization: generators, tents, camp fire smoke. At this point I pick up the pace and notice I’m sweating. Uncomfortable.
Change hats, ditch gloves, change shirts, eat.
EAT! It’s time. I’ve been munching on whatever looks good at the aid stations thus far — mostly peanut butter and jelly and some fruit — but I’m ready for some real food. The start/finish line aid station has it.
Potato wedges, more fruit and… rice balls? Yes! Rice balls! With some sort of tomato-something… shit, I don’t know, but they are delicious. So I grab a cup and stuff a bunch of them in there for the road.
I change my shirt (short sleeves now), ditch my gloves (too hot for them) and change hats (ball cap rather than skully). Feeling fresh and refreshed, I fill up my Salomon hydration vest with another 50 ounces of water and strap it on.
Before I head out, I see Jim and say hello. “I guess you know how much I loved creek crossings,” I tell him.
“You mean you couldn’t jump those creeks?” he laughs back.
“Well, I’m still smiling, so all is well,” I respond, heading back out onto the trail.
(Loop One Time: 3 hours, 42 minutes)
LOOP TWO — SPRING
Miles 17 – 34
I am still smiling. 17 miles in and yeah, my legs are starting to ache, but keeping a smile on my face keeps me from dwelling on any discomforts I have. For now.
The peacefulness of this trail — this outdoor wonderland — is also distracting me from any creeping aches and pains. In fact, this time around the loop seems like the first time, at least for the first half, since when I came around earlier it was pitch black.
My breath keeps getting taken away, not by the labors of my body, but by the beauty of the trail. The views are dramatic and pristine. Nature at its finest. My eyes wander on scenes reminiscent of a Bob Ross painting.
There’s a happy little tree next to a happy little lake. And, oh look, there’s his friend, Mr. Rock, all nestled into the happy little grass.
Fucking beautiful, man. I could stay out here all day.
Ha! Guess what, YOU ARE!
Oh yeah. I am. I AM!
Damn it, I’m just overwhelmed with happiness right now.
Don’t start crying, silly. You’re not even halfway through the race yet. Can’t get so emotional so early.
Yet sometimes the trail calls for it. For me, running is communing with nature. Running is meditation. Running is pure joy. When it is all those things together at the same time, sometimes I can’t help but get pretty emotional about it.
Ah fuck it, no one cares. If anyone asks, just tell them you got some dirt in your eye.
No one is around anyway. I’m all by myself. Just me, the happy little trees and… GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE.
Yeah, as much as I would like to think I’m all alone out here in this forest, the constant turkey gobbling coming from deep within the woods reminds me I’m not. This is the first time I’ve knowingly shared the wilderness with turkeys, so that’ s kinda cool.
Just us turkeys out here!
I wonder what the turkeys think of this weather. It’s spring now. In the shade I’m too cold, in the sun I’m too hot. I guess the turkeys probably don’t think about that too much. They will just be happy to be alive come November.
Past the halfway mark of the loop now, my legs are really starting to slow down, so I welcome the clockwork necessity to stop and pee every 20 minutes. It feels good knowing I’m more than halfway through the course, right on my targeted goal per loop, but it would also feel really good to be sitting on a couch watching football right now.
My mind wanders from Jay Cutler to Brandon Marshall to Alshon Jeffery.
I bet they couldn’t do what I’m doing right now, I think. Then again, I don’t think I could do what they do either, so I guess it’s a wash.
While debating what possibly hurts more: being tackled by 300 lb defensive linemen or running ultramarathons through he woods, I trudge through the creek crossing again.
WOOOOOO HOOOOOOOO! BRRRRRRR!!!
I wonder if anyone can hear me? Other than the aid station volunteers — whom are ALL AWESOME BEYOND AWESOME by the way — I haven’t seen a single soul on this loop yet. I’m all alone… with my thoughts…
And now my mantra is water, Ibuprofen, Red Bull.
That early morning wake-up is catching up with me now as I slumber my way through the back half of the course. The cold creek crossings do well to snap me out of my zombie-like state; and I keep running as much as I can despite the slow pace. But for the last 17 miles I’m going to want a pick-me-up.
And it’s getting hot.
Water, Ibuprofen, Red Bull… water, Ibuprofen, Red Bull…
I hear footsteps. About a mile from the end of the loop now and I hear hard, fast footsteps. What the —
I turn around and see a young man blazing toward me. It’s Zach Pligge, a talented runner I met at Potawatomi earlier this year. I recall he had a fast finishing time in the hundred miler at that race, so he must be on his last loop of this one.
“Finishing up?” I ask.
“Yep! You think we’re going to hit that bridge soon?” he replies.
The bouncy bridge. The scary bridge. The bridge that almost sent me home in pieces.
“I hope so,” I reply. I want to stick on Zach’s heels so I can see how a super fast runner with 50 miles in his legs handles that bridge monstrosity, but he’s too fast and I’m too hot (and slow) to chase. He takes off as I congratulate him on a great race.
Wow. So the only person I see on this whole 17-mile loop is the guy who laps me on his way to an overall win. Now that’s not something that happens every day.
Civilization creeps back into view, and I know I’ve only got one more loop to go. With a little help from my friends (Ibuprofen and Red Bull to be exact), I’m looking forward to getting done.
Back at the start/finish line aid station, Kirsten greets me asking, “Are you done?!”
“Um…. no. No way. I have one more loop to go.”
“Oh, okay, well be careful at the aid station. We are having a little bit of a bee problem.”
When I get to the food table, I see what she means: there are bees EVERYWHERE! Yikes! And they really seem to dig watermelon as they are all over that. Luckily, they’re not into those rice balls, so I take as many as I can, fill up my hydration vest, chug a Red Bull and swallow 400 mg of Ibuprofen. In about 15 minutes I expect I’ll feel like a new man!
(Loop Two Time: 3 hours, 49 minutes)
LOOP THREE — SUMMER
Miles 34 – 51
The sun is hot.
Duh. It’s only about 10 billion degrees Fahrenheit. And even at 92.9 million miles away from the earth, it’s pretty impressive that I’m not fried up and dead right now, because 10 billion degrees is really hot.
In moments of extreme fatigue, my mind spends a lot of time on the obvious.
Oh, look over there is a tree. And there’s another. And another…
Having chowed down on rice balls and Red Bull… I shuffle-cruise my way through the first couple of miles of this last loop. Still all alone. Still stopping to pee every 20 minutes.
I bet I could shave a good half hour of my finish time today if I didn’t have to pee so damn much, I tell myself.
Yeah, but you have to keep drinking. You have the bladder of a pregnant woman. Nothing you can do about that. Better to drink and pee than to dehydrate and suffer.
Good point, self. Good point.
I shuffle along wondering when the Ibuprofen will kick in when, all of the sudden. It kicks in.
BAM! Off to the races!
At this point, pace is relative. I know I’m probably moving along around an 11 or 12 minute mile pace (at best), but I feel like friggin’ Killian Jornet out here. Zooming down this hill, bending around that corner, power hiking up that climb.
How much of it is caffeine versus NSAIDS versus mental toughness, I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t care either. I’m feeling good and I’m lettin’ ‘er rip!
Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai?
I don’t know what I’m humming to myself exactly, but it’s a catchy hook to a song from Stromae, an artist a friend of mine introduced me to on my recent trip to Mexico, and I can’t get it out of my head.
Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai?
Now I’m singing it out loud. Why not!? Other than me and the turkeys, this forest is as still as can be.
Which begs the question: if an ultrarunner flies through the woods and no one is there to see him, does he really ever fly through the woods?
Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai? Où t’es, papaoutai?
I get to the halfway point aid station and chug another Red Bull from my drop bag. I notice in the bag that there’s another half consumed can, which means Edna is on the jolt now too. YAAAAAY EDNA! I hope she’s doing well. I love that girl.
“Thank you, volunteers! I love you all!” I shout as I head back on down the trail.
I’m getting finish-line syndrome — the phenomenon of central governor override that seems to happen the closer one gets to the finish line. Some people just call it “wanting to be done”.
I want to be done, no doubt. My feet and heels are aching, my butt is sore and all this running is making me a little too hot for comfort; but at the same time I don’t ever want to stop, don’t ever want to leave. I just want to be in the forest with my thoughts, surrounded by nature, consumed by beauty — perpetually in the moment.
This is the life! YES!!!
Oh my goodness! People!
I must be slowing down as there are people behind me. Two ladies. I look behind and they greet me: “Hi, are you in the 51 miler?” one asks.
“No, we’re in the 34 miler. You’re my hero though!”
Wow, that’s kinda cool. Who knew you only had to be stupid enough to want to run in the woods all day to be someone’s hero. I’ll take it!
“You’re too kind,” I holler back as I pick up the speed. “Enjoy your finish! Congrats!”
I rev up the engine. ZOOM!
YEEEEE HAAAAAW! through the creek crossings again, focused on reaching civilization, my mind wanders to the task of running 100 miles come November.
What an adventure that’s going to be, I remind myself. And what pain is in store!
“Running is a vehicle for self discovery.” Scott Jurek said that. It’s a quote I think about often, one that I live by.
Look at the person you have become, the self you have discovered, all because you decided to go run in the woods!
Indeed, this is the life.
I reach the wonky bridge, tip-toe over it, saving myself from any potential embarrassment while charging on towards the finish line. As I approach civilization again and am greeted by the friendly cheers of volunteers, spectators and fellow runners, I long to stay out here — to find out more about myself and what I’m made of.
There will be plenty of time for that, I remind myself.
The finish line is in sight, I charge forward to applause, throw my hands in the air and think that crazy thought I never thought I’d think: 5o miles doesn’t seem that long.
(Loop Two Time: 3 hours, 52 minutes)
TOTAL RACE TIME: 11 hours, 23 minutes
Not only is there a killer post-race spread of delicious recovery foods (roast beef, potatoes, drunken berries and sweets galore) but lots of folks stick around to cheer on finishers. I hang out, patiently waiting for Edna to come through, and enjoy some conversation with Jim. I also talk to several other runners, eager to hear their stories from the day. Many of them centered around the cold creek crossings and the wonky bridge. While I only had one face plant, some had several.
We are alike in that we all find humor in ourselves.
It still boggles my mind that I spent nearly all of those 11+ hours alone, by myself, on the trail.
Still, having done so gives me the confidence I need going into the hundred miler, especially knowing I will have a pacer to keep me company on the last half.
Edna comes through about an hour after me, all smiles as usual. She too has some stories to tell, and I can’t wait to hear them. We share an embrace — the kind that only comes from an entire day’s worth of exhaustive exercise — and collect our walking sticks (a unique, kick-ass finisher’s prize that has immediate worth I might add) before heading back to the hotel.
– – –
If you’re looking for a beautiful run in the woods next September, go run Evergreen Lake! They have three distances to choose from (17 miles, 34 miles, 51 miles) and the support is top-notch. The food was great, the volunteers spectacular and the views serene! Also, the trail was impeccably marked, a detail that can never be overstated.
More importantly, with running being that vehicle to self discovery, you’re bound to discover something new about yourself. And having the Shady Hollow Trail Runners’ love and warmth as the background for such introspection is a certain recipe for success.
The left Achilles strain that forced me to DNS at Ice Age was a stubborn little bugger. Stubborn injuries for stubborn people. I suppose that’s what the running gods had in mind.
But I knew better than to sulk and feel sorry for myself. Nothing good could come of that. So I remained patient, stayed active in my recovery, and hoped for a long, healthy summer of solid training.
Four and a half weeks and several short walk-jogs later, I finally had full range of motion back in my left Achilles. I could run without pain. I could get back in the game.
And my health came just in time to pace my friend and client, Nate Pualengco, at the Kettle Moraine 100 Mile Endurance Run. His first 58 miles were smooth as could be, but when he came into the 63 mile Nordic aid station, he was limping from debilitating quad cramps. His crew and I attended to him with massage, ice and fuel, but I could see in his eyes that he was having doubts.
Before he could think about them much more we hurried him up and whisked him away, back into the relentless roller coaster that is the Kettle Moraine forest. I ran with him for the next 38 miles, where we encounted quite a few ups and downs: more quad cramping, sleep deprivation and general fatigue. But all of that suffering set the stage for one of the most impressive final 7-mile strikes I’ve ever seen in a 100 mile race.
Smelling the finish line, Nate turned off all pain sensors and started running hard. Passing people right and left, he pushed even harder. Two and a half miles from the finish, he slammed on the accelerator and it was an absolute thing of beauty, even if I saw most of it from about 50 meters back.
I had to dig deep myself just to keep him in my sights.
But when we got to the finish line it was all worth it. What a glorious scene it was to see him overcome the mental demons and physical pains that are so much apart of completing 100 miles on one’s own two feet. The fact that he finished it with a new personal best time of 27 hours 30 minutes for the distance was just the perfect ending.
For me, it was just the beginning of what I hope will be a long summer of training in preparation for my very first 100 mile race this coming November at the Pinhoti 100. Next up, I’ll be pacing my friend Siamak again, this time at the Mohican 100 on June 21. The first time I paced Siamak to a hundred mile finish was at the iconic Western States 100 last year. His performance on that weekend was nothing short of brilliant, so I expect more of the same. This will also be my second time pacing the Mohican 100, as I had the honor of getting Supergirl to the finish there in 2012 in what was my very first pacing experience.
It’s two years later, and I’m now a perfect 6 for 6 in getting my runner to the finish line of a 100 mile race (no pressure, Siamak). Since Kettle, I have been stewing in anticipation to tackle the last 50 miles of the ominous Mohican forest. Mohican is hard. Extremely hard. But in training and in life, it’s the hard that makes the easy so sweet.
Let’s get it on.
It was a game-time decision. I was holding on to hope all the way up to the final countdown of the Ice Age Trail 50k race start, but ultimately, not running was the only correct decision I could make. It was my first DNS (Did Not Start).
Did nothing stupid.
Did not sulk.
Well, okay, I sulked for about 10 minutes, but sulking sucks and I didn’t want to be a baby, so I found a way to enjoy the rest of the beautiful day by hanging out with friends and cheering in runners at the finish line. There was also beer.
In a long, illustrious running career, a DNS is probably going to happen sometime. Now that my first one is out of the way, I hope to learn from it.
Running has many lessons and this week I learned that, just as in real life, nothing is for certain. Shit happens all the time and much of what constitutes one’s character comes from what he does when life doesn’t go according to plan.
On Monday I was boasting to friends about how good I felt — how after a year-long struggle with one nagging injury after the other, I was finally starting to feel like I had my fast legs again. So on Tuesday, when doing hill repeats with some guys from the gym, I thought nothing about trying to race the speedy 20-year olds up a steep incline.
It only took one overzealous bound for my left Achilles to riiiiiiiiiiiiip.
I was lucky that it didn’t rupture, but the damage was significant enough that I was left to a pathetic hobble on Wednesday, a sad limp on Thursday and a passable yet tenuous walk on Friday. On Saturday, there in the Nordic Loop parking lot with hope as my only companion, I tested out the heel using every functional aid possible: heel cups, wraps, heat, ice.
Nope. Can’t run. Hurts with every step. 31 miles on rolling terrain with a bum Achilles is a good recipe for rupture, Jeff. And a rupture would mean losing the entire season. No running. No nada.
10 minutes. I gave myself 10 minutes to feel sorry for myself.
But then I put on my big boy pants and went back out there and rang my cowbell like a boss.
A day of glorious weather with awesome people is a great day spent regardless of the activity. I had a blast, despite not being able to run, and I got to see my girlfriend conquer another ultra finish line with her trademark ear-to-ear smile.
A few more days on the mend hopefully and I’ll be back in action — lesson learned and rarin’ to go.
And no more racing kids who I already know can kick my ass.
The last time I raced to my maximum potential, I set a personal best in the half marathon. In the aftermath of that hard effort though, I also found myself crippled by the apex of bilateral Achilles tendonosis, an injury that would bury the rest of my lofty 2013 race plans and humble me to reevaluate my training.
That was six months ago.
Now I’m ready to give it another go when I toe the line this weekend at the Armadillo Dash Half Marathon in College Station, TX. I have been Boston Marathon training for ten and a half weeks now, slowly building back up to quality speed work and long, slow distance runs. I still don’t feel like I am in optimum speed running shape, but I do feel good. I feel strong. I feel focused.
And I feel like it’s time to see what I can do right now. But I also know that this feeling comes with a conscious finger hovering just above the abort button.
After my experience the last six months, my ultimate conclusion is that I would rather run slow than not run at all. To me, running is a gift. It’s a privilege. I am not guaranteed the ability to run, to have full use of my legs, to live this spry wonderlife each and every day. So each day that I get deserves my respect. If something goes wrong, I need to address it, immediately, and not just keep running anyway, just because. Like Stan Lee reminds us: “With great power comes great responsibility.”
I don’t expect to be swinging from building to building this weekend, using wrist-projected webbing and spidey sense, but I do expect to give my best race effort, using every bit of what is in the tank on that day.
Here’s to hoping I don’t run into any Green Goblins.
Or achy Achilles.
I owe the world a baseball metaphor.
First, the curveballs. Oh, how plentiful and how knee-buckling the curveballs have been this training cycle. Having trained through the winter for a spring marathon in the past, I was well aware that I would have to take some of my workouts indoors. I knew that I would have to fight treadmill boredom in order to get quality work. I did not know I would have to do it nearly every day.
Since I began training back in December for the Boston Marathon, 90% of my runs have taken place indoors. I have tried to get out at least once a week for a recovery or long run, but most of those workouts have been run at super slow snow picking pace. With the onslaught of sub-zero temps, knee-high snow and treacherously icy streets, I have been forced to go by heart rate, hoping that it ultimately translates to plus-fitness adaptations.
Creativity has been key on the treadmill. Trying to simulate the Boston Marathon course, while not actually going anywhere, has proved to be a difficult task, both mentally and physically. But pounding my quads with long, sustained downhills and interrupting tempo runs with three minute increments of squats, lunges and wall-sits has gotten me through much of that. So too have seven seasons of 30 Rock.
With eight and a half weeks left until race day, I feel like I still have enough time to log quality outdoor runs, but mother nature’s curveballs have definitely forced me to adapt my training plan. From a mental toughness point of view, these adaptations can only help. Besides, much of long distance racing is dealing with surprises on the fly.
As for the change-ups, I must shamefully admit my international race naivete. I knew the Mexico City Marathon registration opened in late January, but I (stupidly) didn’t think it would sell out — at least, not very quickly. Well, it did sell out. Very quickly. So in early February, when I went to sign up, I found out as much, and therefore had to opt for the half marathon version.
I was really looking forward to 26.2 in Mexico City to cap off a week’s vacation, but the half will have to suffice, which means I will be seeking out plenty of Mexican trail running in the days leading up to the event.
And just like the old adage proclaims, when one door closes, another opens. So I signed up for the Evergreen Lake Ultra and a Half (51 Miles) race being held on September 14, 2014, just a few hours’ drive from Chicago. I am friends with the race directors, Kirsten Pieper and Jim Street, both of whom have already been featured here in my Minnesota Voyageur report. Not only do they represent one of the best trail running acronyms of all time with the Shady Hollow Trail Runners (SHTRs), but they are also really cool people who sold me on this race by talking about the food they serve. If home cooked grub highlighted by scores of bacon is your thing, then you won’t want to miss this awesome race. Three different distances are offered, so make sure to check them out.
Hopefully by then we will all be out of our snow boots.
After a 2012 that saw me break beaucoup barriers and dream of crossing the marathon finish line with a 2-hour-something time, it would be easy to assume that 2013 was a letdown year for me. I didn’t come close to my goal time for 26.2. I suffered through a long recovery from ITBS. I got a nasty case of Achilles tendonitis.
But just like in any other discourse, life is what you make it.
So, positively speaking:
I negative split the marathon for the first time while simultaneously experiencing triumph through tragedy.
Despite the heavy rain and relentless terrain, I answered the bell for all 50 miles of the Minnesota Voyageur and had a kickass time doing it.
I PR’d the half marathon in one of my favorite local races.
I played in the woods with my friends, again.
I was reminded to be grateful for what I have, to live in the moment, to enjoy every second of life as it comes.
I volunteered at the Earth Day 50k, the Des Plaines River Trail 50 Miler and the inaugural Naperville Marathon, perfecting the art of cowbell ringing in one hand while handing out aid with the other.
I had another race report published in Ultrarunning Magazine (October issue).
I spent hours and hours pounding pavement, traversing trails, meditating through movement.
And I fell in love.
Thank you, 2013. My graciously heartfelt smile remains from ear to ear.
Happy New Year!
In college, I was fascinated with Daoist philosophy. In particular, the idea of action by way of non-action enchanted me. I was so taken with the concept that I chased the existential carrot all the way to its birthplace in China, and ended up spending several years there trying to figure it all out.
Action by non-action. Seeing without seeing. Hearing without hearing. Hmm… Yoda voice you hear now.
Though these were ideas I projected on my ideal self, I never really grasped what the philosophy was trying to say. I was never able to bear the fruits of practice because I was too overwhelmed by precariousness, status and “stuff”.
Many years have passed and thankfully, I can say I matured. I settled down. I chilled out.
Mediation, or the simple practice of sitting in comfortable silence, calming the mind, has improved my mental health beyond what I ever thought possible. So, if it works for the mind, it should work for the body, right?
After the Chicago Marathon, I took three full weeks off from running and instead focused on light strength workouts and the occasional sparring session. Once my heels started to feel better, I let myself run whenever I felt like it, for as long as I felt necessary, at whatever speed felt comfortable.
For the month of November, that philosophy translated to 2-3 short runs a week, with only one run over 5 miles the entire month. The result of this rest was an energized, healthy, eager me, ready to focus on the next big race.
I also dedicated a lot of my rest time to running without running. Volunteering, spectating, cheering. I own a bodacious cowbell. Staying involved within the community and being an active part of the success of others definitely helped rekindle my passion for the sport. Plus I got to make some new friends and see new places during the process.
This month I have begun to ease back into a familiar running routine, gradually building in distance and in speed, careful not to do too much too soon. So far, it is working. I feel great. I feel focused.
And I will begin training for the Boston Marathon in earnest on December 16.
The 2014 Boston friggin’ Marathon. Wow. The idea of running this historic race never loses its sexiness. And I think we all know that this year is going to be even more special.
November is my time to rest.
Of course, by “rest”, I don’t mean zero physical activity. I mean that, for me, November is a good time to rest from all heavy, goal-focused training.
It’s been almost three weeks since I ran the Chicago Marathon and I still haven’t returned to running. My Achilles heels are feeling WAY better and I intend to give them a little more time to heal fully before getting back to a regular pavement pounding routine.
This time off from running has allowed me to focus more on boxing again, so I’ve been spending lots of time on the stationary bike, beating the heavy bag and working with sparring partners. Not too long ago I was considering competing in the masters division for the Golden Gloves tournament this coming spring; but some unfinished business with the marathon and a sexy race in Boston have convinced me to put off those aspirations until 2015 and get back to the marathon training grind, starting this December. Until then, I’m looking forward to some fun, relaxed sweet science sessions padded by the occasional adventure run.
This weekend I’m putting the two passions together as I take in the Golovkin v. Stevens fight at Madison Square Garden, followed by spectating the New York City Marathon around mile 7 in Brooklyn on Sunday. Nothing gets me motivated like being in the presence of champions, and the streets of New York will be full of them on November 3rd.
No matter how bad I feel a run or race went, there is always a part of running where I am smiling from ear to ear. If running can keep me smiling like that, it will always be a part of my life.
I put a lot of pressure on myself to make 2013 the year I accomplished my ultimate marathon goal of running under three hours. In doing so I developed chronic Achilles tendonitis and spent a lot of time on the bike, neither of which got me any closer to my goal.
In the three weeks leading up to the Chicago Marathon, it became very clear that sub-3 was not going to happen on October 13. I made peace with that, and hung on to the hope that I could fight my way to a 3:10 finish.
The running gods, in all their ironic glory, would have a little something to say about that.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
It’s race morning and I’ve been up since I went to bed. Did I ever sleep? Not really. And all this tossing and turning through the night has left me achy, nervous and cranky. I better eat.
A banana, a bagel and a half a cup of coffee later, and I feel much better. Being up on my feet and totally awake now has slowed the constant loop of worry that was going through my head: Will my heels hold up? Am I fit enough for the distance? Have I set myself up for failure?
Now it’s just a matter of going through my regular routine and getting to the start line.
It’s a tad chilly, but perfect for running. I suspect the temperature is hovering around 50 degrees, and though I’m wearing sweats while I wait for the corrals to open, I have to keep moving to keep warm.
I got here early, in anticipation of large crowds and heightened security, and now all I can do it is wait. And think.
My game plan for today is to start with the 3:10 pace team and just stick with them through 20 miles, then see what happens. Over the last several days, I have convinced myself I can indeed run a 3:10 marathon despite not having done any speed work since mid-September. I have convinced myself that my long hours in the gym and muscle memory from races past will be enough to propel me towards the finish line at 7 minutes, 15 seconds per mile.
I mean, c’mon, it’s 7:15 pace. That’s easy.
Oh Mr. Confidence, sometimes you can be a sly, deceiving little punk.
I’ve hit the head four times now, so surely there’s nothing left. I make my way to A Corral and slip myself into the warm-up loop circling with svelte, uber fast specimens. After a couple of revolutions, I see John Kiser and immediately say hello.
My newly coiffed mohawk must be throwing him because he squints and tilts his head to the side questioningly.
“Hi, John, it’s me, Jeff.” I say.
“Yes! Hi! How are ya?”
We both give each other the look. The look is: I don’t really know but we’re gonna find out soon.
A few days ago, I emailed John, a friend I met through the New Leaf and M.U.D.D. groups, to see if he would be leading the 3:10 Nike Pace team as he has done in years past. He assured me he was, but that he had been dealing with some aggravating tendonitis in his knee that may limit his abilities. Of course, I told him about my Achilles tendonitis, and we bonded as only extremely competitive, marathon maniacs on the mend are wont to do.
Now, here we are, just a few minutes from the start, exchanging the look with nervous undertones disguised as light conversation.
“Did you see the Bradley/Marquez fight last night?” I asked.
“Nah, did you see the Michigan/Penn State game?”
We carry conversation to quell the anticipation.
Joined by John are two other pacers, Dale and Brian — both skinny and fast, looking the part. I remind myself to just tuck in with these guys and hold on. Whatever happens, happens.
The elites are introduced, the Star Spangled Banner is sung, a fly over misses its mark and then…
Um… why is it so quiet? I think to myself.
Ordinarily, the beginning of the Chicago Marathon is a raucous roar of people down Columbus Drive. But due to the increased security measures brought on by two lunatics earlier this year, no spectators have been allowed at this traditionally jam-packed part of the course. And it sucks.
As my legs move underneath my feet and the pace set by our leaders begins to set in, the eery quiet makes me think: Oh boy, we got a looooong way to go. And this might be too much.
Doubt. I knew it would pop up eventually. It usually does and I’m usually ready for it. But I didn’t expect it to pop up before we reach the first mile marker.
When I began marathoning, a wise runner told me to “always respect the distance.” Running 26.2 miles is never easy. The distance makes sure of that. So running it at a particular, fast pace is never easy either. To think that I’ve reached a level where I can just go through the motions to accomplish what I consider a relatively speedy finish is as dangerous as it is foolish.
Respect the distance, or it will beat your ass.
Pretty sure today is gonna be one of those ass beatin’ days, regardless.
After the symphony of Garmin beeps signals the first mile, I look down to see I never even started my watch. Oh, nice move, Jeff.
All the more reason to stick with John, Dale and Brian.
Our group is probably 15-20 people but I can’t tell for sure because we are all spread out, still trying to get through the early maze of runners bunched.
As we approach Lincoln Park around mile 5, I realize I haven’t looked up from the ground hardly at all. I am so intent on staying with the pace group that the only way I feel comfortable is by not paying attention to everything around me. In some ways, this is a shame, because the Chicago Marathon is one of the most supported races I’ve ever run, with exuberant crowds lining the streets. It’s also a fantastic tour of the city I love so much. But today I am giving up aesthetics for performance, and right now all I can do to hang on is watch the feet in front of me.
Surprisingly, I feel pretty good.
In fact, 7.5 miles in and I’m still feeling pretty good. Except… I have to pee.
It must be nerves still because I’ve never peed so many times just before a race. Plus, other than a half cup of coffee, I haven’t had anything to drink since 7 p.m. last night!
Too bad, bladder. I’m not stopping.
I can’t believe I’m holding pace as well as I am right now. If I stop to pee I’ll never catch up.
As we zip through Boystown and the rest of Lakeview, our even split pace and building camaraderie in the 3:10 group is enough to silence my bladder. As long as I concentrate on staying with the pacers, I am able to forget about what ails me. Watching Dale’s feet — one step in front of the other, over and over and over again — has hypnotized me into a time trance. I’m totally focused on breathing and breathing alone.
The miles go by. The crowds continue to cheer. I’m completely oblivious.
This holds true until we reach the halfway mark about 30 seconds faster than goal pace. The celebrations within our group wake me from my trance, just as both Achilles remind me they are not having much fun.
I knew I was gonna take a beating, I was just hoping it wouldn’t be this soon into the race. But it is.
Keeping pace isn’t so much of an issue, but keeping pace with the annoyance of Achilles pain is. With each compounded step I can feel the calcaneal bursa sacs rubbing against the back of my shoes — tender and inflamed. I try to convince myself that it will all go away, but I’m not as stupid as I think I am, and the convincing doesn’t succeed.
This is where I should be sucking it up. This is where I should be lowering my head and digging deep.
Instead, this is where I begin to think about alternative goals.
But why!?! some part of my conscience interjects. You’re right with the 3:10 group. You’re fine! Just keep going! You can rest your heels when you’re done!
Every time this voice encourages me, its mirror opposite gets in the way:
You’re not in 3:10 shape, dude. You’re not gonna make it. Just take it easy. No use fighting. You’re gonna conk out any minute now. Just wait and see.
Back and forth they go, those voices in my head.
Don’t lose the group!
You’re gonna lose the group.
Don’t listen to that asshole!
This asshole wants you to be able to walk tomorrow.
As the argument builds, so too do my efforts to stay with the group. It becomes increasingly difficult with each step. The latter asshole voice gets louder. Still, I hang on.
Everythiiiiiiiing sloooooooooooows dooooooooooooooooowwwwwwn.
Boom. Just like that. The wheels fall off and there is no question: 3:10 pace is too much.
Yes, my heels hurt, but it’s not my heels that shut me down, it’s my cardiovascular system.
My body has had enough of that pace and it refuses to go any further unless I slow it down. Every muscle, every breath is against running another step at that pace.
Before giving in completely, I put forth one last valiant effort to catch back up to the 3:10 team now quickly disappearing before my eyes and… I… struggle… to…
Fuck it. Just not gonna happen today.
I take about 30 seconds to feel sorry for myself, to wallow in my shattered hopes. And then I recall Ali Tremaine’s words:
No matter how bad I feel a run or race went, there is always a part of running where I am smiling from ear to ear.
Hot damn, yes! That’s the perspective I was looking for! Mentally, I put on my big boy pants, hold myself a little taller, and keep on moving.
I’m still RUNNING! In the CHICAGO MARATHON! And all these strangers are cheering for me, so let’s go!
Suddenly 8:30 pace doesn’t feel so bad, in fact, it feels GREAT!
I go through Pilsen on 18th street screaming “Viva Mexico!”
I turn right onto Halsted and high five my buddy Omar.
I turn left onto Archer and stop to give my girlfriend a great big hug and kiss.
Before I get to Chinatown, I stop to take a piss.
Feeling infinitely better now that my bladder is empty, I charge down Wentworth, tucked in close to the crowd for support, smiling ear to ear.
At mile 23 I see my friend Alison, so I stop to give her a big hug, and now I’m really feeling good. Well, I’m feeling as good as a fatigued, wonky-heeled runner with 23 miles in his legs can feel.
I’m still movin’ ain’t I!?!?
Ah, yes, here we are on the home stretch down Michigan Avenue. This part of the race sure does feel different knowing that I won’t accomplish my goal for the day, but the warmth from the enthusiastic crowd cheering me regardless and the perfectly blue skies above remind me that I am indeed lucky to be where I am right now.
Be glad you can run, period.
And eat some humble pie, dude.
Enjoy the last few miles to the finish.
Absolutely. I make eye contact with volunteers. I high five random kids. I smile big and cheesy.
Then someone pinches my butt.
I turn around to see it’s John, my pacer friend. Apparently his knee issues came up and slowed him down too. But he’s smiling! And moving relatively well (faster than me) as he darts on by.
“Wasn’t expecting a butt pinch 2 miles from the finish line, John, but I’ll take it!” I yell as he speeds on by.
I laugh to myself all the way to Mt. Roosevelt before I make the last left turn towards the finish line. It’s a good day after all. It’s a good day indeed.
3 hours and 20 minutes after I took off on this journey, I am humbled and finally done.
One minute later, I have a beer in my hand.
Two minutes later, I’m thinking about the next marathon.
A very wise person once told me that I should learn something from every race, regardless of the outcome. Well, I learned a whole lot in this one.
I learned that, just like anything else in life, a race is what you make of it. If you want to feel sorry for yourself and miss the beauty of reality, then that’s on you. Attitude is paramount. And with the right perspective, one can truly find joy, even in defeat.
I also learned that it’s okay to give myself a break every once in a while. Setting goals and being productive towards achieving them is great, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of my health.
But most of all, I was reminded that running is what matters for me. It’s not speed, not distance. It’s not splits or weather or terrain.
Running brings me to the state of now.
And that’s where I always want to be.
The pugilistic metaphors runneth still.
BEHOLD! My all-time favorite round of boxing from my all-time favorite fight:
The moral of the story, of course, is: you can knock a guy down, (sometimes more than once, in the same round!), but you can’t take away his desire to keep moving forward, despite all odds against him — especially if he’s a stubborn bull like the late great Diego “Chico” Corrales.
I will certainly channel my inner Chico as I take to the streets running my hometown Chicago Marathon this coming Sunday, October 13. I may be screeching with each step; but I’m going to keep moving forward as long as I can, head down, arms pumping.
The truth is, my Achilles tendonitis, while a little bit better than what it was three weeks ago, is still keeping me from feeling my best. I haven’t been able to run much at all without stiffness and pain since late August, and I’ve resolved myself to just going out and having a good time Sunday. The main goal will be to simply revel in the greatness that is this world class event. I will look for my friends along the way, throw out lots of high fives and remember how good life has been (and continues to be) to me.
Right now my plan is to line up with the first 3:10 pace team. That even-split finish time calculates to a 7 minute 15 second mile for the duration — a much more accessible pace than the 6:50 mile I was training for (and hitting!) earlier this summer. Hopefully I can hang with the group up until 10k to go, then decide to either stay with them or take off on my own (heels allowing).
Of course, a very real possibility exists that even a 7:15 pace won’t be tolerated by my under-performing heels and now under-trained cardiovascular system. It’s quite possible that I’ll blow up or will have to dog it much earlier in the race. But just like Chico, as long as my legs still work and my heart still beats, nothing is going to keep me from crossing that finish line.
So as the city of Chicago buzzes with the excitement of marathon week and a hearty welcome towards enthusiastic athletes arriving from all across the world…
LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!!!
In the fall of 2011, while recovering in the back of an SUV from a particularly muddy climb up what the Michigan locals called “the stripper pole” section of trail, a teammate of mine from the Dances with Dirt 100k relay team mentioned a peculiar event that had just taken place: Run Woodstock.
“Wait,” I interrupted, “You’re saying that a bunch of people get together for three days to just camp, run crazy distances and hang out?”
“Yep. And there’s a ‘natural 5k’, don’t forget.”
“You mean, ‘natural’… as in, naked?”
“You got it.”
And I was. In 2012, I may not have run the natural 5k, but I did pace the women’s overall 100 mile champion to a 21 hour+ finish while spending the rest of the laid back weekend drinking beer and hanging out with awesome, like-minded folks.
A week after returning home, I circled the 2013 date on my calendar and encouraged my dad to come out from Houston to join in the adventure with me. With race options from the half marathon to a hundred miles and everything in between, I knew that a weekend in the woods with friends, family and a cooler of beer would be something I would look forward to all year.
I didn’t plan on toeing the line a bit hobbled — both by my heels and my low alcohol tolerance — but life throws us curveballs all the time. It’s how we swing at them that determines who we are.
Pre-Race, Saturday, September 7, 2013, 4:30 a.m.
*BEEP BEEP BEEP*
Oh… my… what the… who was… ah, shit.
I’m hung over.
Hung over! WHY!?!? WHY DID I DO THIS!?!? WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS!?!?
Oh yeah, I am. I’m responsible. Well, shit.
Sure, it sounded good at the time. In fact, it sounded like a GREAT idea at the time:
Carbo load with beer! Why not? My heels and whatever Achilles-tendonitis-and-or-calcaneus-bursitis have limited my training to the point where I didn’t even think I would be able to run the race, let alone “race” it so let’s add something new to this race experience by getting loaded the night before! Your heels are gonna hurt anyway, let’s kill the pain!
At least, this is how I remember the decision making going down. Actually, as the fog clears, I realize it was less calculated. Only once I was four or five beers in (enough to put me in the ‘beyond buzzed’ category) was I able to justify my position with nonsense. And now… well, now it’s too late.
I’m parched. I’m dizzy. I’m running 50k.
I’m running 50k! I have the ability to run 50k… hung over… with wonky heels.
Life could be so much worse.
Dad wakes up beside me and our tent comes alive with amateur detective skills as we try to piece together all the shenanigans from last night. I am shocked to hear that I was a bit bossy towards my father in my delirium. Okay, so I’m not shocked, but I am embarrassed. I do my best to apologize before I force down a banana, chug multiple bottles of water and lube up for a long, long day.
Loop 1, Miles 1-15.5
It is still very dark as an amoeba of groggy headlamps makes its way towards the forest, where 15.5 miles of trail waits to inflict damage on my psyche and soul. My first several steps, as expected, are tender and sore. The backs of my heels — the absolute bane of my summer training — don’t quite seem to be in agreement with me today. I expect they will loosen up and not hurt as much after a while, but I know better than to think the aches will go away completely.
Luckily, my friend Jen is alongside to keep my mind off this fact. And I also have to pay attention to the trail in front of me for fear of–
Tripping. Tripping on the trail. Nice save, I tell myself, nice save.
I look down at my watch and am astonished to see I don’t have one on. Hm… no watch. Hung over. This IS a race of firsts.
So I don’t know how fast I’m going. That’s probably a good thing. I’m starting to feel a little bit better as I move along at what feels like a consistent pace, but if I knew my speed I would probably spend too much time beating myself up.
In fact, I interrupt myself, let’s just stop beating ourselves up NOW, shall we? You’re here to have fun. You had some fun last night, you’re having some fun now, you’re having fun, period. HAVE FUN!
And, just like that, I enter happy runner world bliss, not giving two shits about anything other than moving forward in time and space… and getting to an aid station because boy am I hungry.
At the first aid station, approximately four miles into the loop, I spy peanut butter and jelly. The volunteers look at me like I’m Godzilla on the attack as I stuff my face faster than I can chew. NOM NOM NOM. I grab a handful of Saltines for the trail and get going, intent on not stopping long enough for my heels to stiffen.
On my way out I wave goodbye to Jen who kept me company for these first several miles. Today’s going to be one of those days where I want the distraction of conversation so I’m glad I got through the darkness with a friend.
Now the sun is coming up, I’m starting to feel less nauseous and I have the whole day ahead of me.
The Run Woodstock loop is made up of mostly single track trail through luscious forest, but there are a few seemingly long sections of road that gnaw away at my patience. I remember this from last year; however, I didn’t run a step of last year’s pacing duties during the sunlight hours. I ran it all at night, so seeing the road stretch out in front of me tests my ability to shut off the negativity that seems to always want me to quit when things get tough.
Not today, negativity. Not today.
I spend most of miles 4 through 10 ping-ponging among a solid group of runners. My pace, while certainly below what I am use to, feels great and suits the wonkiness of my heels. I stop every once in a while to stretch out my Achilles, and I embrace the opportunity to slow down and power hike when I feel like my heart rate is too high.
By the time I hit the third aid station, around mile 11 or so, I conclude that my body has won the war against hungover dehydration. I celebrate by stuffing massive amounts of peanut butter and jelly in my mouth.
NOM NOM NOM
*ZOOM, ZOOM, ZOOOOOOM*
What the? Half marathoners. Blazing. Flying! Right past me. I knew this was going to happen, that I would be embracing my inner tortoise, comfortably laboring along only to have my ego slaughtered by slender speedsters. With each approaching huff and puff gaining from behind, I politely step off trail to let them through.
Then immediately chase them. Duh.
By the time I hit the end of loop one my heart rate is way higher than it should be, the sun is beating down from above and when I see the clock reads 3 hours and change I know this is going to be the longest 50k of my life.
But, as if the running gods could actually feel my pain, at the start/finish line aid station I am gifted with the glorious grace of… GRILLED CHEESE.
The kind volunteer who offers it to me marvels at my ability to clear the plate. Well, I hope he is marveling and not chastising. Either way, that grilled cheese doesn’t stand a chance.
NOM NOM NOM
Before I head out for the second loop I make a stop at my tent to roll out my calves with The Stick. My heels are really thumping me with aches now. Tight calves are often the culprit. I back all of this up with 800 mg of Ibuprofen and a nice long chug of water.
I stumble out of the tent and see my friend, Kirsten, who is running the 50 mile race.
“Hey, Kirsten, wait up!” I call out, anxious to share more miles with friendly faces. If I’m going to be out there for another 3+ hours, I want to have some conversation to keep my occupied.
Loop 2, Miles 15.5-31
Kirsten has showed up on this blog many times, notably here and here. It’s been cool getting to know her over the last year and a half, another testament to the notion that ultrarunners are awesome by default, regardless of gender, occupation, speed. We run long, and in doing so, share so much.
Her 50 mile race speed is slightly faster than my current 50k race speed, but I don’t want to be alone right now so I just stay on her heels as we head back into the forest. We chat about everything and nothing at all, keen on sharing elevated heart rate stories caused by the blazing fast half marathoners who caught us on the first go around.
My legs are getting heavy, and by the time we hit the road section I can tell I need to slow myself down. I wish Kirsten the best with the rest of her race before I stop, stretch, then settle back into a slow slog — smile still ear to ear.
Because really, what is there not to be happy about? I am still moving, right? I’m still having fun, seeing my friends, enjoying time alone in the forest. I’m alive, I’m sound. It would be easy for me to feel sorry for myself right now because I’m not 100% but I’m not having it. As long as I’m able to run — period — I am going to be happy about it. That’s the choice I make.
That choice, and the bliss that goes with it, is what convinces me to take the time to stop around mile 23. I’m really starting to feel the thumping in my heels now and I know that taking my shoes off and massaging my heels will give me some relief. I sit down right beside the trail and do this, to both feet, for a few minutes. The relief I get from it is well worth the time lost. I’m not breaking any records today anyway, so I might as well be as comfortable as possible.
Back on my feet now, my smiles grows along with my effort. I really, really needed that.
I reach a road crossing and tuck in behind a friendly woman in pink, donning a Marathon Maniacs jersey. Her name is Amanda and this 50k is her very first ultra.
ULTRA VIRGIN! YES!
And immediately behind me is a familiar voice. I turn to see it’s Betty, another friendly gal whom I met at Ice Age this year, where she was running her first ultra.
We’re just one happy ultra world, ain’t we!?
It turns out we are all New Leafers (hooray!) and we all have a lot in common: marathon-crazed, adventure-driven, Bears fans. We will spend the next (and last) 8 miles running together, enjoying a free-flowing, easy conversation that does wonders for my achy feet.
Now I’m not even aware my heels hurt anymore. I just concentrate on the company and conversation, quick to share my race experiences on nutrition, pacing and everything in between. The three of us are forced to stay on our toes as multiple masses of mountain bikers haphazardly fly towards us.
Death wish on handlebars.
After successful navigation through the gauntlet of disgruntled bikers, we are almost done. I can hear the music and laughter of the camp off in the distance. Betty and Amanda pick up the pace. I do all I can to stick with them, but as we approach the last 800 meters or so, I’m more interested in just finishing rather than finishing with a kick, so they leave me in their dust.
I couldn’t be happier for them both.
When I cross the line myself, arms up in triumph after 6 hours and 22 minutes of running, they are both there with big smiles and individual age group awards.
Hot dog! What a day! Now somebody get me a beer!
Post-Race, Hair of the Dog, Hippies Abound
If you assumed I would celebrate this 50k finish with an Anti-Hero IPA from Revolution Brewing, then you are most definitely correct. Waiting for me by the cooler was my old man, himself content with his own half marathon finish, and there, the two of us rejoiced in one of nature’s longest pastimes: relaxation.
With our tent situated right on the trail coming out of the start/finish line aid station, we spent the next several hours cheering runners (50 milers, 100k’ers, 100 milers) along with the raucous sound of beer and cowbell.
Much of the rest of the evening was spent in a similar manner. We ate, we drank, we cheered. We took in live music, shared war stories with friends, and some of us (not me) even enjoyed a naked jog through the woods.
But most of all, we celebrated the peace that is being in nature, running long and being alive.
For sure, I will be back to Run Woodstock. As for how sober I will remain, well, there are no guarantees.
My natural stubbornness has taken me to some awesome places in the world of distance running — a couple of fifty mile finishes, lots of 50k treks through the forest, a fast-paced BQ marathon. I’ve gotten to see and experience the world in a way most people never will, and for that I am extremely humbled and content.
But one thing we running scribes poignantly leave out of our epic storytelling is the fact that we spend a lot of time banged up — nursing nagging tweaks and pulls and strains, annoying bumps and bruises and aches — sometimes suffering injuries bad enough that we have to stay off the roads and trails all together. And while I have taken the time to write about my most serious of injuries — the ones that leave me sidelined — I rarely wax on the day-to-day maintenance of whatever has the potential to become debilitating.
And looking over my log books dating back to 2010, I conclude that THAT struggle is worth writing about.
Long distance running is just as much about pain management as it is time on your feet.
In 2010, I was constantly bothered by an irritating hamstring pull that would never quite heal. It wouldn’t quite heal because dumbass me wouldn’t quite stop running on it.
In 2011, I had a meniscus tear that wouldn’t quite heal because dumbass me wouldn’t quite stop running on it.
In 2012, I dealt with daily tight calves, a reoccurring soleus strain, and eventually a tight IT band that wouldn’t quite heal because dumbass me WOULDN’T QUITE STOP RUNNING ON IT.
See a pattern here?
That 2012 tight IT band ended up costing me four months of training when it turned into full blown chronic IT band syndrome by late October. And while the injury has healed to the point where I am back now 100%, I haven’t been able to rack up the mileage necessary to make me feel comfortable about racing a marathon or fifty mile distance event.
The moral of the story here is to rest when these damn things first pop up. It sounds so simple.
THEN WHY IS IT SO HARD?!?!
My personality has a lot to do with it. I don’t like sitting still. I have an addictive nature that leads me to focus all my energy on the few activities I really enjoy doing, and nothing else. And the call to progress is annoyingly loud in my consciousness.
It’s pretty hard to progress when every step hurts.
But pain is relative, and I believe I have a pretty high threshold compared to most people. I crave that last 10k of agony experienced in a fast marathon. I like pushing my quads to disintegration on long downhill stretches. I box a couple times a week and look forward to a nice 1-2 power combination on my noggin. Pain, in a strange way, makes me hyper aware, alertly alive. It sends bursts of energy otherwise absent through my body.
Still, if exposed to discomfort long enough, I will eventually cave. Today I am on time-out with some wonky calcaneus-Achilles-plantar fascia something-or-other. Since I took up distance running a few years ago, nearly every morning has begun with me doing the old man walk out of bed. I have just accepted that as a byproduct of what I love to do. My heels are always sore. Every day. Always have been. So what?
Well, last week those sore heels turned into what felt like someone slicing the back of my feet with a switchblade, making it impossible to run. Of course, I tried to anyway. I have a 50 mile race coming up to get ready for!
So I finally gave in to logic and rested all week. They were feeling better. Much better. In fact, they felt so good that I was able to get out for a short run with friends on Saturday. No problem there. But today I’m doing the old man walk again, with sharp, stabbing pains showing up with random steps and while I know I could probably get out for another short run today with limited damage, FINALLY the voice of reason is finding a home inside my head.
I’m taking the rest of the week off.
There, I said it. I mean it. I’m doing it. Total rest for the remainder of the week.
And then I am running the Minnesota Voyageur 50 Miler on Saturday.
Then I became a runner.
Nowadays, mud spattered tights and mucus crusted gloves are as common for me as bloody nipples and permastink-laden technical tees.
Meh, so what. As long as I’m having fun, right?
And boy did I have some fun on Saturday, March 16, 2013 whilst gliding, sliding, hurdling and traversing the ever treacherous and never clean Paleozoic Trail Runs 25K race course at the nearby forest preserve of Palos Heights. For me, the fun began before the race even started because I was at an event where I knew A TON OF PEOPLE! Having been a part of the trail and ultrarunning community for a couple of years now, I really feel like a part of the family. And that’s what the local New Leaf Ultra Runs group is to me: family. We run together, we get dirty together, we laugh together. That many smiling faces, firm handshakes and strong fist bumps is enough to make one’s day. Running the race was just extra.
And, to be honest, it was a bit confusing as well, but there were many reasons for this. As an inaugural event, I expected some obstacles outside of those offered by the freeze-to-thaw-to-freeze-back-to-thaw terrain. There was some uncertainty about course markings (weather washed a lot of them away). One of the aid stations wasn’t there when I got to it. I had a guy running a few inches off my heels for three quarters of the race. And I was trying to take it easy because a few days prior I aggravated my right ITB running intervals.
But I had a fantastic time in the cold, soupy weather, surrounded by good friends and warm community. I’m going to skip my regular play-by-play reporting of this race because all of the confusion caused by my missing a turn, adding mileage where it shouldn’t have been and then stopping to scratch my head a few times sort of took me out of my normal thinking patterns and now when I think back to the race all I can remember is putting one foot forward through muddy muck with a great big I-don’t-know-where-the-heck-I-am-going smile on my face.
When I finished, my Garmin read 1:55:47, but only 14.29 miles, a bit short of the stated 25K (15.5 miles). Upon further review, I missed a section near Bull Frog Lake but added some mileage on the east loop. All in all, I was still tired when I finished and I crossed the line with a healthy ITB/knee.
And oh yeah, this time I beat Peter Sagal (maybe? I dunno, after my misguided route maybe I didn’t). Still, I enjoyed chatting with him this go around, as he was quite lost too. In fact, I think everyone was lost at one point or another.
But I will be back next year. No doubt about it.
Meanwhile, Boston is just four weeks away…
Before I became a serious runner, all of the above would have been Greek to me. Or Latin. Yeah, probably would have been Latin.* But after several years of dedicated pavement pounding I am proud to report my working mastery of human anatomy — just one of the myriad benefits of identifying myself as a full-fledged running freak.
In fact, ever since making that dramatic transformation, I have notched one success after another. I quit smoking. I reached and now easily maintain optimal body weight. I got cut up into a lean (still not so mean) fitness machine.
No longer do I suffer from long bouts of depression. No more do I wake up feeling empty, without purpose, without drive. I don’t stress nearly as much about mundane, trivial situations that are out of my control; and overcoming hardships — major bumps in the proverbial road of life — hardly seem as impossible as they once did.
Running has taught me how to live — how to really, truly live, in the present, now and forever.
But perhaps one of the most beneficial real world applications born from my active lifestyle is that I learned about my own body. It started out simply, a long time ago by wondering what might be causing my heels to ache. That led me to study the soleus… then the anterior and posterior tibialis… then the gastrucnemus, gracilis and sartorius. Before I knew it I was
knee leg deep in anatomical terms, Wikipedia entries and real world exercise science.
The real irony here — and my parents can attest to this — is that as a student, I nearly went out of my way to avoid the sciences. I wanted nothing to do with understanding the mysteries of the body and in college, the only science classes I ever took were Rocks for Jocks and a bullshit applied chemistry class that I barely attended.
Fast forward to my 30s, after a couple years of really trying to understand my own body, I realized that all of the information I had retained could be applied to my workouts in the gym. Suddenly, things began to click. I was not only beginning to understand how my body worked, but also how I could manipulate it into doing what I wanted it to do faster, better and stronger.
Running isn’t just a recreational activity — it’s a potential life changer. One need look no further than this blog, this LIFE, to see clear evidence of that.
*After much research, it was (and still is) Latin.
Injury Rehab Update
Since my recent less-than-ideal half-marathon experience, things have been going quite well. I continue to strengthen my gluteus medius, hip flexors and hamstrings in an effort to eradicate the nagging symptoms of ITBS that have held me back since late October. In recent weeks, I have been able to work in minimal low mileage speedwork as well as some long, slow distance runs — all without any knee pain. This, to me, is further evidence that the Houston experience was just a simple case of too much, too soon. I continue to build upon my workouts each week with the hope that I can put in a good effort at Boston. I don’t expect I’ll be ready to run a fast time by April 15, but I do plan to enjoy the experience and cover the distance pain free.
Besides, I gotta give the gals at Wellesley College a good show of my gluteus maximus in my shortus shortius.
The two weeks of progressive running leading up to the Houston Half Marathon gave me plenty of confidence that my IT band syndrome issues had finally subsided. I knew that I probably wasn’t ready to push myself to the point of all out racing, but I knew that I had a good shot at finishing 13.1 miles pain free.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
Pre-Race, 4:15 a.m.
The alarm clock goes off and I’m ready to go through my now conditioned routine: half a cup of coffee, one banana and a bagel. I peek out the window to see the trees outside my dad’s house blowing violently in the wind. I open the door to see just what type of weather I will be dealing with today and I quickly shut it, less I freeze to death. Low 40s. Lots of rain. 20+ mph winds.
Dad throws his bike in the back of the truck and we begin the 45 minute drive to downtown Houston. I didn’t sleep much last night so I take this time to catnap. I visualize a succesful race, one without knee pain, without giving in to the elements. Training in Chicago the last several years has made me pretty tough. I don’t like running in the cold, windy rain (does anyone really?) but I know I have the ability to shut it out, toughen up and just get the work done regardless.
In my corral now, I’m huddled among a mass of anxiously freezing runners. I have decided to wear my lightweight running jacket over my singlet. The high powered winds are just too chilling for me to go without it. A quick look around shows that I’m not the only one dressed for warmth, and as the announcer begins his introductions, the rain starts to come down steady and strong. A gust of wind hits me below the belt. Dressed in my trademark short shorts, I start to worry about the safety of “my boys”. But it’s too late now. All I can do is focus on running.
And we’re off…
Brrrrrr! Well, it’s a good thing I’m not trying to break any records today, I remind myself. The first few miles are a mental showdown between me and the elements. The winds are strong and mostly in my face, pushing me backwards with violent force, but I just keep my head down and barrel through. I stop trying to avoid puddles — there are just too many of them, and my feet are already soaked anyway.
Since I lined up at the very front of the corral, I’m not suffocated by a bunch of people tripping and skipping their way across my path. I’m surrounded by runners who match my fitness level and at the two mile mark I’m drafting inside a tightly formed pack. My plan is to just go out at a comfortable 7-minute pace and hold it throughout the race. I cross the three mile marker in 21 minutes. Right on schedule.
My body feels good, but I’m not really enjoying myself. All I can think to myself is I can’t wait until this is over, I can’t wait until this is over. This is a rare thought for me, especially during a race, but the elements are wearing on my mind. The gusts of wind keep coming at me, from all directions, and I’m pretty sure my balls are frozen now.
At least my leg/ITB/knee feels good.
Until, *BAM*, it doesn’t.
Oh shit. Here we go. I pass the six mile marker and almost immediately, I start to feel that familiar ache developing at the ITB insertion point of my right knee. No, no, no… this is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening.
Except, it is happening. And there’s not much I can do about it.
Maybe it’ll go away, I think to myself. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore it. But having been dealing with this issue for so long now, I know better.
Around the seven mile marker, I see Dad, a bright spot. Goooo Jeff! he encourages me.
Not feeling good. My knee is starting to hurt, I tell him.
Uh oh, he responds. The look on his face is the same look I’ve been carrying for the last mile or so — the same one I was hoping to avoid indefinitely. Sometimes we do all the right things and we still don’t get what we want. This is a lesson I’m trying to understand.
I keep going, pushing along as my pack starts to move ahead of me. The ache is becoming a throb, so I stop and do some ITB stretches, hoping this will make it go away. The stretching feels good, but once I get moving again, the pain persists. I push and push and push, but another, more sane voice finds its way inside my head and says, Dude, it’s not worth it. Stop now. Live to fight another fight.
I hate that this voice is right. But, for once, I listen.
I stop running. I look down at my watch. 8.62 miles in one hour exactly.
Well, now what? I ask myself. All I really want to do is punch something, to scream, to break things.
I resort to a hobble-walk. I can’t walk too fast. The ITB pain gets worse the faster I move.
Just as I feel myself succumbing to the dark cavern of negative thoughts, I see Dad up ahead. I’m happy to see him, but beyond disappointed in my condition. I tell him how I’m feeling and, knowing how pissy I am right now, he doesn’t say much. Instead he peddles alongside me on the race course while I try to stay out of the path of the hordes of runners passing me.
I can’t help but feel embarrassed, defeated. I’m sorry, I tell him.
Don’t be sorry. You have no reason to be sorry with me.
I’m really trying hard not to be a baby right now.
If it wasn’t so damn cold, windy and rainy, maybe I’d have the strength to have a good cry. But I’m shivering, struggling to stay warm.
Do you want your warm-up pants? he asks. I try to run again, hoping maybe everything was just in my head. It wasn’t. I still have ITBS and running is not an option right now. We stop so I can put my pants on. I pin my bib to my front leg. He gives me his raincoat too, which helps immensely.
We discuss me dropping. I really want to. I hate hobble-walking while the crowds continue to cheer for all of those running past me. I know they mean well, but if I hear one more person tell me I’m doing a good job, when I CLEARLY am not, I might do something stupid.
We get to about the ten mile mark and I decide that not finishing is NOT an option. DNF’ing was not a part of the plan today, so I’m going to gut this one out and hobble across the finish line no matter what. Dad labors alongside me on his bike, offering consoling conversation when I need it, but mostly just staying quiet, like me.
I can’t help but think how lucky I am to have a dad who would bike alongside me like this in such shitty conditions, offering up his own coat so that I don’t freeze. Despite my bum leg, I’m a pretty lucky dude.
With a half mile to go, the course narrows and the crowd grows. There isn’t enough room for Dad to bike alongside me anymore so he splits off and we agree to meet back at the George R. Brown Center.
I cross the finish line just as the lead American marathoner finishes his 26.2. The deafening roar drowns out my depression and I take a second to cheer the guy on myself. I’ll have days like that again someday, I tell myself. This ain’t my last rodeo.
I’ve had enough time now to find a little bit of healthy perspective on the whole ordeal. Despite my positive training runs leading up to this event, I’m thinking that my body just wasn’t ready to handle that sort of continuous speed quite yet. Or maybe it was pounding on the few rolling downhills the course had to offer. Or maybe it was the conditions. I don’t know.
I will see my sports doctor on Tuesday to get his perspective and advice.
In the meantime, I’m finding comfort in the fact that I didn’t continue to push my body through the pain — that I didn’t act with recklessness as I probably would have once done. I let reason dictate my actions. And I’m hoping such discretion will allow me to have enough time to adequately train for Boston.
Perspective is a bitch sometimes, no doubt, but I’m glad I finally have it.
The New Year generally brings with it a storied whim of clarity, a daring dash of DO IT. I’d been feeling this wave of confidence in the weeks that led up to January 1st, 2013; and now that the arbitrary date has come and gone, I feel even more pumped riding on the very top of that proverbial wave.
One product of said wave riding is that I am officially training people now. My personal training and fitness website, Iron Lung Fitness, has all the details. This is a career move I have been planning for a year and a half, so to actually be doing it, to actually make it happen, is quite a joyous relief.
Another wave that came upon my shore is that of increased strength, power and flexibility. The six weeks I took off of running were not spent in front of the television with my feet kicked up, rather, they were spent in the gym, gutting it out, punching holes into heavy bags and doing pistol squats until I puked (well, okay, I didn’t actually puke, but I might have felt better had I done so). Those six weeks were also spent in a yoga studio, where I learned to love bending stuff, including my preconceived notions of what yoga could (or could not) do for me. Instead of kicking rocks and cursing my injured IT band for not letting me run, I focused on the only thing I could: getting better.
Boy am I better.
On my runs this week I have noticed my easy jogging pace is a whole minute faster than it was at the end of the 2012 season. Slowly burning into tempo speed also seems easier. My core feels more firm, my gait more balanced. And while I suspect some of this perception could be attributed to the extended period of rest, I am quite confident that most of it is due to hard work: getting it done, riding a wave.
My focus for this year, as previously mentioned, is breaking the 3-hour mark in the marathon. At this point I am going to look towards the Chicago Marathon in October to make the attempt, fully aware that weather could be a deciding factor. If it happens to be a fluke year weather wise, I’ll adapt and try again late in the season.
The build-up to that will be full of fun too. I have the Houston Half Marathon coming this Sunday, which will give me a good idea of where my current speed threshold lies, followed by an exciting new local 25K race trail race. Then April will bring with it my first Boston Marathon, something I’m itching to experience firsthand. I’m signed up for the Ice Age Trail 50K in May, another new and local middle distance trail race called the Wholly Hell 15K in June and as of now, I’m still trying to find a suitable 50 mile or timed event to tackle in July/August. Mohican seems to be calling me, but so too does a repeat at Howl at the Moon.
The decision making wave will come to me, eventually.
To stretch my legs out and relax before the big October surge, I’m looking forward to a wild weekend in Hell, Michigan, where I aim to take part in the Run Woodstock weekend. Tentatively, I’m thinking I’ll do the 50K option, but I may drop down to something shorter so I have time to run the “natural” 5Ks they feature each evening. Yes, natural. That means I have to invent a non-invasive adhesive for certain body parts that may be prone to floppage.
After the Chicago Marathon, I’m not quite sure what I will do next. Hopefully, I’ll be organizing a big party to celebrate an epic finish. But after my experiences in 2012, I think a good amount of rest will also be in the plan.
Or maybe I’ll just run along and see what wave decides to take me next.
Goodbye, dear 2012, and thanks for the memories. From a running standpoint, 2012 will go down as the year I upped my game beyond what I ever thought was possible. And I have the jawbreaking ear-to-ear smile to prove it.
I raced two major marathons and PR’d them both (Houston in January and Chicago in October). The Chicago race served as my very first Boston Qualifier — a feat that leaves me eternally proud and acutely focused.
In May, I finished my very first 50 mile race at the Ice Age 50 and followed that up in August by logging 50.85 miles during the Howl at the Moon 8 Hour Run. In the latter race, I also tasted another top ten finish (8th Overall), to go along with those achieved at Clinton Lake (8th Overall) and the Earth Day 50K (1st in Age Division, 4th Overall).
I also ran a few short races, completing my third Chinatown 5K (the race that started it all), while also logging a then PR in the half marathon at Batavia and a respectable time in my first short-distance trail event.
Plus, I got to spend a lot of time with my dear friends from the New Leaf Ultra Runs club, including two unforgettable 100 mile Supergirl pacing experiences (Mohican 100 and Hallucination 100), an inspiring Run Across Illinois and the most liberating impromptu adventure run I have yet to have.
No doubt, 2012 was something to remember.
It was also something to learn from, as the continuous pushing of my body without adequate rest eventually led to an IT band injury and a sincere reevaluation of my training techniques. But I am happy to report that after 6 weeks off and a highly focused physical therapy regimen, I have begun to run again pain-free and feel confident that I will be able to put forth 100% effort in training for my next major event, the Boston Marathon.
Indeed, a sub-3 hour attempt at Houston in two weeks will not be possible. However, I was able to transfer my registration down to the half marathon, which I will use as a barometer for my current fitness, the base from which I will begin Boston training in earnest.
And while I do have a couple of 50Ks and perhaps one 50 miler on the schedule for 2013, my main focus will be on the marathon distance and breaking that 3 hour mark. I am obsessed (in the very best way possible) with seeing my name followed by a 2-something marathon time. I will do it, by golly.
I will run 26.2 miles in less than 3 hours.
And when I do, I’m having a big party. You’re all invited.
Peace, love and all the running happiness in the world!
It seems so silly now to think how defiant I once was against even trying something like yoga to supplement my running habit. To think how I secretly questioned Scott Jurek, my running idol, and his unabashed dedication to the practice seems so immature. My prior disbelief that I could actually benefit from yoga seems, now, to go against all practical sense.
And such disbelief only existed because I thought… *GASP*… that I would look foolish.
Floundering in the land of what-ifs is foolish.
And so it wasn’t until I found myself injured, unable to do what I love to do, that I finally listened to all those who had advised me. In my circle, there was no shortage of yoga proponents. Every single one of those individuals touting the practice was sincere in his or her belief that it would help me. How could I ignore such considerations any longer?
I found a local yoga studio, signed up for their beginner’s course and seven weeks later I’m here pondering how I ever lived without it. As a runner, there are myriad benefits to practicing yoga (flexibility, controlled breath work, increased synovial fluid production to name a few), but what I appreciate the most are the calming, meditative principles applied through movement. This is essentially what happens to me during a really good long run: I connect movement to the breath and allow my mind to experience the now.
Like running, yoga is a door to the present.
I’m just as susceptible as most to the infinite technocratic noises of the world, but I also know there is a way out. I know I am happiest when I exist among the calm of the present tense. Running gets me there. A baseball game on a lazy, summer afternoon gets me there.
Now I know yoga gets me there too. And even when the practice is over, I still feel like a glowing, hundred foot giant of awesome.
* * *
I am still out of commission, but staying active and positive. I’ve seen a sports medicine doctor now who is sure my condition is ITBS and nothing else. So I can only continue to do what I’m doing: stretching, icing, foam rolling, strengthening, yoga, boxing, watching Bulls basketball (despite this giving me headaches from time to time) and re-reading all my favorite Carl Sagan books.
I will not be able to run the Houston Marathon in 2013, but that’s okay. I am at peace with that. There will be plenty of marathons to run once I’m back to full strength. My focus now is on getting better in time to train well for Boston. I start physical therapy this week and aim to invoke my inner Derrick Rose as I focus on strengthening my hip flexors as well as my mind.
One thing is certain: this unscheduled time off from the sport I love so much has been as humbling as it has been healing. The majority of my other constant niggles, aches and pains have gone away with the time off and I am confident that the forced disassociation has strengthened my mind. When I do come back, I am going to be more hungry, more ravenous and more determined than I have ever been.
Special thanks to Lisa Kinlinger, who has provided me with excellent ART treatments as well as a final, swift kick out the door and into a yoga studio.
Just like the beginning runner evolves into a leaner, faster, more knowledgeable athlete with time and training, so too does the injured one evolve into one who remains pleasant company despite his inward crankiness and stir-crazy circumstances. At least, in theory he does. Or at least he can, if his mind is in the right place.
While the last year and a half has allowed me to run injury free outside of the occasional twinge or sore spot that could be easily treated with ice and a day or two off, I now find myself at the beginning of a second week of practically no physical activity at all — part of the prescribed two week rest period ordered by my doctor in order to further heal whatever imbalance is still causing ITBS symptoms in my right leg.
I’m injured. I can’t run. I have no choice but to deal with it. Though I admit, sometimes “dealing with it” can be very difficult.
In April 2011, I suffered a meniscus tear to my left knee during the Go! St. Louis Marathon and was sidelined for six long, hellish weeks. It was my first serious injury and I didn’t know how to handle it. Looking back, I was nothing short of a baby. I whined. I complained. I pouted. I kicked the dirt saying “woe is me, boo hoo hoo.”
Once I got healthy and was back into training, I learned to cherish every single step I am able to take — to appreciate even the smallest of running achievements, whether it’s just getting out the door or accomplishing a major goal. I learned that it could all go away in an instant, that nothing — even our own physical ability — is guaranteed. And I learned that, like sex and pizza, even when it’s bad it’s good.
Professional athletes get injured all of the time. Derrick Rose, Jay Cutler, Desiree Davila… these are just a few of my favorite athletes who have suffered devastating injuries requiring an extended period of time off. Davila had to drop early from the London Olympic Marathon — her dream event. Cutler’s 2011 injury forced the Bears into one of the worst season-ending tailspins of recent memory. And D-Rose is likely going to miss the entire 2012-13 campaign.
Devastation can be a mental consequence from injury, yes, but the human body has a marvelous way of recovering if given time and treatment. The mind must remember this. Shit happens, everyone can agree. The mature, learned athlete accepts his situation and focuses his energy on doing what is necessary to get back on the field/court/road. Perhaps even more importantly, he learns to be mindful of the negative thoughts that may try to override his patience and he takes an active approach to taming them.
Adapting to the situation is one of the most important attributes a long distance runner can have. For me, utilizing that ability has never resulted in negative consequences during a race. I don’t suspect it would now as I dig deep to find the patience I need to get better, so I can get back to doing what I love to do.
With that in mind and a best case scenario of 3-4 weeks to train before a two week taper, it is highly unlikely that I will be able to attempt a sub-3 hour marathon at Houston this coming January; but once healthy, I will have plenty of opportunities to go for it in the future. Right now the best thing I can do is concentrate on getting better. I am still able bodied and I can stay active with the types of exercise I am allowed to do.
Doing as many push-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups as I can will get me the endorphin rush I so often crave. And with it being the holidays and all, my appetite will dictate that I do a whole lot of that.
I’ll even wear a smile on my face, because like someone said a bazillion years ago (probably), this too shall pass…
For a temporarily pruned long distance junkie still unable to run much past 6 miles without any run-stopping lateral knee pain, a short, fast trail race in the city seemed to be a perfect match. Of course, when I originally signed up for the Universal Sole Trail Challenge 5.25 mile race, I did so thinking of it more as a social event. Several of my fellow New Leaf Ultra Runs club members signed up at the same time (as evident by our ascending numerical bib numbers) and I wanted to be a part of the action. Homemade chili and a bountiful supply of Goose Island’s 312 beer were also calling.
Besides, who knew there were actual trail races in the city?!?
Schiller Woods on Chicago’s northwest side was the venue and the sparse city field of runners was a welcome change from the typically annoying and inappropriately overpriced short distance races that seem to get all the attention. Hanging out at the start/finish area prior, the atmosphere was very similar to that of a small high school cross country meet, which caused me to lament not opting for my short shorts.
The race started and 148 of us took off into the woods at a blazing pace. I couldn’t help but feel like I was doing something wrong running that fast. The trail race setting and my association of it with ultras has always dictated a long and slow strategy, so throwing down right at the start felt like sneaking out of my house late at night when I was a teen, hoping I didn’t get caught.
Unfortunately, in the race, I was getting caught. There seemed to be a good mix of fast, tall and lean guys at the front and I was happy to let them by me. While my only real goal was to put in a hard effort for the entire distance, my watch told me I was maintaining between a 6:40 and 6:45 pace and I was completely at peace with that. Knowing the race would be over very soon, I reserved to admiring the barren trees, to jumping over logs with a spartan step, to ebb and flow with the trail as best I could, like I was the trail.
About halfway through, as I was contemplating the supreme simplicity in the wide open Schiller Woods trail, a short, stocky dude crept up and passed me who, in my in-the-moment cocky opinion, did not look like a fast runner. What the…
Oh well. Let him go, I thought. I’m still gonna get beer and chili at the finish. That’s all I care about right now.
Except, I kept the dude in my sights. I couldn’t help it. That inherent competitive spirit I have kicked me in the ass and I was moving at its mercy. The guy was in my sights as I twisted and turned, as I slipped (but saved a fall), as I scrambled up one of two tiny little bumps reluctantly called a “hill”.
He was in my sights and getting reeled in as I passed the little aid station not far from the finish. And as we dumped out of the woods and back out onto open grass, I slammed on the gas, intent on catching him. I came up short. By four tenths of a second.
My time was 34:58, 6:40 pace, 16th place overall. I was happy with that.
But when I found out the guy I was gunning for was Peter Sagal, I felt like I could have — should have — would have done better. Had I known. Or not.
Who is Peter Sagal, you ask?
Wait, wait, don’t tell me! <—- Lame but obligatory throwaway line that you will forgive me for using. I hope.
All NPR jargon aside, I am reminded by Universal Sole’s Trail Challenge that short, fast races are fun too. And the hangout session after with my friends was great. As was the chili and beer. Hopefully, someday chili and beer will be as much a staple of the post-race vibe as salt-crusted foreheads and quartered bananas.
“Holy… effing… shit,” I said to Dr. Jay, my long-time chiropractor (and now, savior), “I wish I could explain to you the type of relief I’m feeling right now.” I lay there, face down, breathing alleviated breaths that seemed to crescendo into sweeter, livelier respirations of victory. Finally. Everything made sense. Sort of.
“Yeah, even your ribs were all out of whack.” he said.
Ribs? Back? But my problem is ITBS… or so I thought.
In fact, the last three weeks have been as frustrating as they have been debilitating. Laid up from my DNF at the Des Plaines River Trail 50 from what was most certainly IT band syndrome, I have spent the last 20-some days scouring the internet for anti-ITBS clues, searching frantically from one runner injury forum to the next, soliciting advice from anyone with any inkling of authority, even if his handle is RUNNERSLAVE69.
I bought a $15 compression wrap that would be better used as a headband. I endured three intense ART sessions. I rolled and stretched my IT band so much that I feel like I should be an inch or two taller.
But none of it seemed to do anything to help, which led to repeatedly asking myself: WHY? WHY ME?
My hip flexors are super strong! My gluteus medius could be used as an anatomy classroom specimen! My quads are about as muscular as one could ever expect them to be! SO WHY ME? WHY NOW? DON’T YOU KNOW I HAVE A MARATHON TO RUN IN 9 1/2 WEEKS?
It wasn’t until I was on the phone with my dad, complaining to him as best I could without turning into a complete baby, explaining how I went from being uber tough BQ runner to debilitated hobby jogger who couldn’t run 4 miles without a flaring IT band leaving him hobbled, depressed and defeated.
“First I throw out my back on the ab roller,” I told him, “then my knee locks up from ITBS, and then, because I was so frustrated with not being able to train, I went straight to the heavy bag without wrapping my hands and now I’m pretty sure I have a broken wrist.”
(Luckily, I don’t actually have a broken wrist. Just a sore wrist. A very, very sore wrist.)
“Wait, what did you say about your back?” Dad asked.
“I threw it out on the ab roller. The Monday before my DNF actually.”
“Maybe that and your IT band are related.”
DING DING DING!
Why didn’t I ever think of that? I should have known that. I should have known that!
“Oh yes, the two are definitely related.” said Dr. Jay. “When you strained your back, all the muscles around it tightened, pulling inwards, which pulled your hip upwards, rotating it into an abnormal position.”
With the rotated hip, the IT band got off track, and voila, after a few gentle miles I wanted to saw my own leg off. Thankfully, I won’t need to saw my own leg off.
In fact, Doc says after another adjustment or two, I should be back to normal. Seven to ten days should do it, which is fantastic news for humanity, considering I’ve been a moody bear without my regular training regimen to keep me centered.
But just in case I have any lingering ITB issues, I did buy some KT tape. I plan to start using it immediately, which finally offers me a legitimate excuse to experiment with shaving my legs.
The running gods giveth, and the running gods taketh away.
One thing I easily forget as I tally up personal bests and races of a lifetime is that no one is immune to the possibility of failure. And that definitely includes me.
Unfortunately, accepting that reality doesn’t make the process any easier on my mind (or body).
I signed up for the Des Plaines River Trail 50 Mile race just a few days prior to the Chicago Marathon. I did it for several reasons, all of which now, in retrospect, seem foolish. In fact, I’m a bit embarrassed by admitting as much and I’ve seriously contemplated just skipping over the reporting aspect of this race experience all together, thinking that if I don’t acknowledge my failure then it will just quietly go away.
Life ain’t always champagne and chocolate. Sometimes it’s Old Style and pork rinds. And it’s best to just accept as much, learn from it, then move on to the next thing before you’re uncontrollably drunk and smell like pig.
Fear of missing out (FOMO as I’ve heard it called) played a primary role in my signing up for this race. Focusing on road marathons is sometimes a lonely place for me because most of my friends in the running community are focusing on the longer distances (50 miles, 100 miles, etc). We go on weekend camping trips to run/pace the big distances. No one packs the car up and makes an epic trip out of running a road marathon. And running a 3:03 in a road marathon is great and all, but it’s still only enough for 1,049th place in a mega race, whereas a fast time in an ultra will likely bring a top-10 finish and accolades galore from my peers.
(Of course, as I write this, I realize just how bogus such a mentality is. WHY ARE YOU RUNNING, JEFF? Get the hell outta here, dude…)
Having spent the summer witnessing a collection of great performances from my friends (Supergirl’s Hallucination 100 win, my friends’ epic Run Across Illinois, Siamak’s Woodstock 50, Whitney’s Howl at the Moon victory, among many others), I could not help but get wrapped up in what everybody else is doing while easily forgetting my own personal strengths and weaknesses. One of those weaknesses — recovery time from a road marathon — would end up killing my race.
I don’t know the exact reason, but it takes me a good three weeks to fully recover from a road marathon. I tend to run road marathons as hard as I can, and even though the residual soreness goes away in a day or two, the lingering effects of fatigue and lowered performance remain. In the two weeks after the Chicago Marathon, I had a hard time maintaining an 8:30 pace. Each run labored into a jog — some even a slog — and a dull ache in my lateral right knee developed, most likely from a tight IT band, something I’ve been aware of and trying to fix for some time.
Even with all of this knowledge, I still thought all I needed was a few days of rest to clear everything up, so I took the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday before DPRT off completely. No running.
But perhaps the worst part of my lead-up to a DNF was the cocky mentality I had going in. Despite the aforementioned fatigue, the aforementioned achy knee and the aforementioned FOMO, I still had it in my head that I could run a very fast 50 miles. The Des Plaines River Trail course is flat. It is fast. And based on my recent marathon time and a few delusional minutes plugging numbers into the McMillan Pace Calculator, I figured a 7-hour 50 miler was definitely doable.
And sure enough, as I started out on Saturday morning, all systems were go. The rest had left me feeling fresh. Holding an 8 minute pace seemed easy. The trail was perfect and the day was beautiful. Who knows, I thought, could be something special.
But by mile 5 my right knee was aching. By mile 10 it was throbbing. By mile 15 it was hobbling.
Yet, I kept pushing on. WHY!?!?
I had never DNF’d before. And I always told myself the only reason I would ever DNF is if I was injured. Well, there I was, obviously injured, and yet I still couldn’t convince my stupid self to hang it up. The thought kept coming, but I kept shooing it out, thinking that if I just ignored it (and the knee pain) that it would eventually go away.
It did not. In fact, by the 20 mile mark, my stride had shortened considerably to compensate, and people started passing me.
At the 24 mile mark, I could barely walk. My knee wouldn’t bend. It was stiff as a board, and throbbing.
I walked/hobbled the 2.5 miles to Aid Station number 9, and as I approached, I knew that I was going to have to do the one thing I never wanted to do. I dropped from the race.
I haven’t had much of a love life in the last five years, but I still couldn’t help but notice the irony that exists in relationships as well as my favorite activity. Sometimes the thing (or person) you love the most, is the very thing (or person) that will hurt you the most. Not being able to run is my biggest fear. But I also know that sometimes, in order to avoid long-lasting, devastating damage that would keep me from running, that taking some time off is the only remedy.
The time spent in the back of the sweeper van allowed me to reflect on this. And I made it a point to suck it up and not make it an issue as I waited out the rest of the day, cheering on my friends to some fantastic finishes.
In fact, my friends were my saviors on Saturday. Siamak ran a 7:28 — A SEVEN HOUR TWENTY-EIGHT MINUTE FIFTY MILER!!!! — and Alfredo finished under 10 hours after having fought through his own troubles, both physical and mental. My friend Tracy WON THE WOMEN’S RACE! My friends Jen and Patrice both finished their very first 50 milers and a whole host of others had great days in the marathon and half-marathon as well.
Watching the joy and triumph from others was a good reminder of why I do what I do. And it was also a reminder to not get too wrapped up in the feats of others and feel obligated to replicate them. Right now my focus is on road marathons and that’s where it should stay until I finally reach all of my goals. Trying to push my body to do things it’s not exactly trained for, just because everyone else is doing it, is not beneficial to me.
So I am going to take a couple weeks off from running. I need to let my knee/IT band heal. I will get body work done. I will rest and regroup before starting my next training cycle. It will be pretty hard for me to do, mentally, but I will get through it by supporting my friends’ efforts (I’ll be manning an aid station at the Lakefront 50 all day this coming Saturday) and by acknowledging that everybody needs a break sometime, whether it be to heal an injury or to reboot from a long, long season.
Onwards and upwards!