Okay, run junkees, your days of time-suck-surfing the internets, piecemealing information from one site to another in order to form that perfect race calendar are over. No more do you have to check out Marathon Guide, scour the pages of UltraRunning Magazine and then Google “Frozen Gnome”, only hoping to find something relevant to a midwestern trail race rather than curiously incapacitated garden decor.
Reviews of all those races — 5ks, 10ks, 21ks, marathons, ultras, road, track and trail — can be found in one, central location: RaceRaves!
From site co-founder, Mike Sohaskey:
Our vision for RaceRaves is a dynamic, race-centric community where runners can share honest opinions on their race-day experiences, for the benefit of other runners and race directors. A place where all runners – road warriors, trail enthusiasts, triathletes, maximalism aficionados, barefoot loyalists and competitors of all sorts – can come together to discover their next race adventure, immortalize their race experiences (including those “excretory tract gone wild” horror stories that friends and family don’t seem to appreciate), and connect with other like-minded athletes and weekend warriors.
While I haven’t had to write about or seek out any “tract gone wild” stories yet, I appreciate the fact that if I need to know about one, I will find it here. In fact, the site has been live for a couple of weeks now, and as the community of runners taking part grows, I can see how valuable an asset this is for the running world. The plethora of information that exists on races across the globe is neatly organized here, in one easy-to-navigate, easy-to-use location.
From runners to race directors to bloggers and everyone in between, signing up and being a part of the review community is free, easy and fun! Share your blog posts, write that review that will steer someone to your favorite race, and voice your opinion on race-day protocols that need to be celebrated or addressed.
For more information on RaceRaves, poke around the site. You can also read Mike Sohaskey’s detailed post. In the meantime, find, research and share thousands of races of running events around the world!
In the days since my dizzying yet mind opening 24-hour jaunt around Lisle Community Park, my body has recovered in full, responding to the training bell better than I ever imagined. I can’t emphasize enough just how awesome it feels to be running at full strength again. After all the nagging injuries from last year, I wasn’t really sure how my body would respond to the big mileage races, but everything feels strong and solid right now, and that is a huge motivator.
The key, at least for now, seems to be pace.
When I run fast — and for me, anything under an 8-minute mile is something I consider “fast” — both of my Achilles flare up, stopping me for several days. I have tried different shoes, different strengthening exercises, different forms. All speed seems to lead to the same thing currently: stiff, bum, calcaneous flare ups that SUCK. So I’m just shelving fast miles for now.
Long, slow, FUN runs.
Everything I run now is to prepare for the grueling test of the Pinhoti Trail 100. I will explore speed another day. Ain’t no need for a sub 10-minute anything in a hundred miler anyway. Looking at the elevation profile only confirms that.
Long, slow, fun it is.
Being one of the most anal retentive slaves to organization one could ever meet, the following faux pas of mine is extremely embarrassing to confess; but this blog is just as much about failure as it is success (otherwise success would be sooooooo boooooooring!) so here it is:
Um… so that half marathon I am supposed to run in Mexico City next weekend… um… yeah… it was IN JULY.
I don’t know how I (nor my buddy who has been training diligently for it) missed that small detail, but I did. We did. I originally wanted to run the marathon, and bummed that it was sold out, quickly obliged to the website’s tempting me to run the half instead. Assuming that it would be on the same day — because that’s how it usually works, the full and the half are held on the same day, simultaneously — I gladly signed up. To my credit, as far as I can remember, there was NO MENTION of the actual date of the race during the sign-up nor the confirmation process. I double checked the confirmation email to make sure.
Then, last month, as a follower of the race’s Facebook page, I was quite curious as to why there was another half marathon, under the same race name, a month earlier than the one I signed up for. Still, I never did conclude that the half marathon pictures I was seeing were from a race I was supposed to be running. It just didn’t make sense. My Mexico City Half Marathon was going to be on August 31.
Except it’s not.
It was only after recently checking packet pick-up details that the mistake was realized.
Oh well. There’s not much I can do about it now. While I’m a little sad I missed out on my first international race, I am still excited about visiting La Ciudad and exploring whatever roads and trails it has to offer. Maybe my friend and I will run our own half marathon.
THE WHY NOT
While I’m at it, I might as well run the Peapod Half Madness Half Marathon in Batavia this weekend. For the fourth year in a row. I won’t be running a personal best this year. In fact, I will probably have to work hard just to break two hours; but, in my opinion, this is one of the most fun, most charming races in all of Chicagoland: a scenic, challenging 13.1 miles through a quaint river town with all-you-can-eat pizza and all-you-can-drink Sam Adams beer at the finish line.
What’s not to love?!
And while I’m at the long, slow, fun running, I might as well enjoy twice the marathon action during the second weekend of October. At least, that’s what I was thinking when I recently signed up for the Prairie State Marathon. It’s the day before the Chicago Marathon, and should serve as a suitable warm-up to my favorite Sunday 26.2. Three weeks out from my first hundred miler, I figure back-t0-back marathons should be a nice way to start my taper.
As if ultrarunners actually taper.
Despite months of training through the polar vortex, mounds of snow and an insufferable treadmill, I went into The Armadillo Dash Half Marathon in College Station, Texas with pretty high hopes. I knew that the peculiar training patterns weren’t ideal, but I figured my mental toughness edge and increased strength training would power me closer to a new personal best.
I was totally wrong.
And I knew it before we even started.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
A thousand miles away from Hoth, Edna and I are in Conroe, TX. We’ve ditched our layers of neoprene and collection of balaclavas for a simple pair of shorts and singlet. We are out for a shake-out jog around my dad’s neighborhood and despite a few wild dogs barking at my pasty white legs, all is well.
It’s mild. It’s bright. It’s awesome.
Glowing in the natural warmth of the sun — something I haven’t done in six long months — I can’t help but smile. This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is what we miss. This is medicine for the sun-deprived sickness that is a bonafide Chicago winter!
And it’s humid.
I’m sweating. A lot. I’m running slow. But I’m sweating profusely. The air is fresh, but it is thick.
I’m not trained for this, I think to myself. The mood is so good that I really don’t want to crash it with a Debbie Downer quip, so I just let it go.
Go by heart rate, I tell myself. Go out at a race pace heart rate and just stick with that. And for god’s sake please stop taking the fun out of these races. Enjoy yourself damn it!
I give myself good advice sometimes.
Edna and I finish our run and I am completely at peace with my proposed protocol, which makes the rest of the day and evening that much more enjoyable. We go to packet pick-up, spend quality time with family under the sun and eat a hearty Mexican meal before getting to bed early.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
We have a 7 a.m. start today, so we’re up and moving early. I repeat the same pre-race ritual I always perform: coffee, banana, bagel.
Grease, nipple-tape, kit.
We’re out the door by 5:15 a.m.
The drive is dark and quiet. Dad is driving and it’s about an hour from his place to College Station. I fight sleep while occasionally attempting conversation.
We arrive at Veteran’s Park and step out of the car to an air temperature of about 65 degrees. The air is thick. It’s humid with a chance of rain.
Edna and I still can’t believe we’re in shorts and singlets.
But we are.
We go through the rest of our pre-race routines, give each other and my dad a hug and then break off towards the start line.
I line up near the front.
There’s not much of a crowd. The highest bib number I’ve seen is 900-something and just from looking around I can tell this is a pretty small race. Near the start line lurks a handful of sinewy young bucks donning short-shorts that make mine look like Hammer pants. I make sure to give them plenty of distance, finding a spot a few rows back.
National anthem. A speech.
And we’re off!
Bang! I’m right out of the gate and a voracious mob flies by me. The newbie rush is in full effect.
I try not to be a judgmental asshole, but when you’re huffing and puffing and dying for breath 20 strides into a half marathon, maybe you should slow down.
I start out at a comfortable pace, passing the huffers and puffers falling off along the way. I take notice of my surroundings — flat and gray — and try to settle into a comfortably quick cadence. I look down at my watch.
160 BPM! What the–???
I’m barely doing anything and already… what the… how can my heart rate be this high? Surely this is a faulty heart rate monitor.
BAM. I step on the gas, wait a few seconds, check my watch:
170. Yikes. Now I’M huffing and puffing.
I slow back down to 165 BPM and vow to keep it there the rest of the day. This translates to a 7:40-ish pace, a very far cry from 6:50 pace just six months ago.
Oh well. Dems da breaks.
I remind myself that I run because it’s fun and a good way to stay in shape, not to impress people who don’t even care with split times and PRs.
My focus turns to the course, but honestly, there’s not much to see. We follow a highway shoulder dotted with the occasional group of supporters. To their credit, the folks who are out on the course cheering us on are a boisterous lot.
The only thing missing is a cowbell, which seems ironic considering that much of this course follows roads lined by cow pastures. There seems to be a lot of them in this part of Texas. This probably explains why every time I come here I have the sudden urge to don a 10 gallon hat, dinner plate belt buckle and good old fashioned shit-kickers.
Maybe next time.
At mile 4 I am running shoulder-to-shoulder with a girl I’ve been yo-yo-ing with thus far. It appears she has had enough of the back and forth. She sits right on my wheel and we are moving together, stride for stride.
Not a word is said.
I start to play the mind game How long will this last?
Mile 5… I check my watch. 165 BPM.
Mile 6… Holding steady. Still at 165. Feeling good.
Mile 7. BAM! She breaks stride and heads straight for a porta-john.
I’ve been there, totally know the feeling.
Without the stereo of her feet pounding pavement beside me, I come out of the zone and notice how much I’m sweating.
Wow! This ain’t no polar vortex! Yee ha!
The first half of this race has gone by quickly. I’m running totally on automatic. I look down at my watch — a lot, too much probably — and every time I do it’s reading a 165 BPM.
Everything is smooth. Everything is the same.
Including my surroundings. Still on a highway. Still in the middle of vast cattle country. Still gray skies.
Rain spits down in unpredictable increments. Sometimes with gusto, sometime barely at all.
The aid stations are really the only respite from the stretched (and dare I say boring) silence. I welcome the high-fives and fluids each time I pass through before immediately finding myself back on quiet, open road. Often times races are a great way to tour an area, a great way to see and experience a city. Here, unless cow pastures for miles is your thing, there isn’t much to see or experience.
That doesn’t mean this is a bad race. It’s not. It’s perfectly fine. All the essentials are here. I have no complaints. The people are friendly and encouraging. The course is easy. The temperature isn’t freezing and I’m not traversing through mounds of snow or ankle breaking post holes.
There just aren’t any bells and whistles. And in a world where races fight each other for entrants by dangling bells and whistles ad nauseum, the absence of such is noticed.
But my mileage barely is. The 12-mile mark appears out of nowhere and I take comfort in knowing I’m almost done. A quick glance at my watch shows I’m still at 165 BPM.
Time to turn it up a notch.
BOOM. As if Mother Nature were timing her rainy surprise to coincide with my hard push to the finish, the gray skies open up and pour down some refreshing rain.
When was the last time I got to play in the rain? I ask myself. Man, this is fun!
As I make my way down the last stretch of highway that will loop us back into the park, I look down to see I’m pushing 180 now. My cadence picks up even more when I hear the PA announcer muffle something accompanied by cheers from the small yet audible crowd.
I turn left towards the finish line, kick hard, and about 100 yards from the finish I hear my dad, my sister Emily and her boyfriend Sam call out my name.
I try to look good for their sake as I finish with a time of 1:41:47.
Dad, Emily, Sam and I all stick around for Edna to finish. It’s not long before I notice her from far away. Her spry gait in silhouette quickly draws near. We watch intently as her trademark smile glows its familiar glow while she runs past us into the shoot.
Shortly after that and the skies REALLY open up.
We get out of there before I even know I won my age group.
– – –
An obsessive’s brain, if left unchecked, will obsess. That’s what it does. That’s what it knows.
Was I slower than I wanted to be because of the humidity? The lower mileage in training? The polar vortex?
Am I getting enough sleep? Am I past my prime? Am I a slave to the technology?
I don’t know. And the more I check the obsession, the less I care. It’s okay, Jeff, I tell myself. Everything’s okay. You run because you love it and because you can.
Now go get yourself a beer.
– – –
The Boston Marathon is less that six weeks away, and while I know a sub-3 hour finish is not a realistic goal right now, I’m still hoping a re-qualifying time (3:10) or a Chicago Marathon qualifer (3:15) is.
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.
-Phil, Groundhog Day
– – –
Saturday, February 1, 2014
You’re running a half marathon… in Grand Rapids, Michigan… in FEBRUARY!? Um… why?!?
This is myself scolding myself during the treacherous drive along I-94 East from Chicago to my sister’s place in St. Joseph. Visibility is poor. The roads are slick. The driving is uber slow. By the end of the day, 8+ inches of snow will have dumped on western Michigan.
I want to go run in it.
Because I want a challenge, I reassure myself. Mountains of snow, polar vortexes… if you can’t beat the weather, might as well get out and live it. Right? Maybe? Hope so?
My girlfriend, Edna, is gaming for the adventure too, so I don’t feel too crazy. As someone with several hundred milers under her belt, her continued desire to explore herself through physical challenges cements the sanity of my own decision.
After a nerve wracking drive, a nice home cooked meal by my sister and an evening of playing with toddlers, Edna and I are psyched to get out in the snow and have fun ourselves. When I receive an email from a friend telling me the course conditions — that the trail is brutally tough with snow up to one’s knees in spots — we look at each other and know that we’re going to give it a go anyway. Last week we ran in circles for 6 hours in the face of 40 mph wind gusts and barbarously cold temperatures. If we could survive that (and have fun!) then running in knee deep snow shouldn’t be much worse.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
At 5 a.m. our alarm clocks go off in smart-technology unison and we are up. I sip some coffee, eat a banana and then Edna and I eat some pie (why not?) to finish off our breakfast.
It’s 5:45 a.m. and we are on the road — one that is in much better condition than it was yesterday.
The temperature is going to stay in the low 20s with plenty of clouds overhead and *GASP*, no real accumulative snowfall is predicted. Still, knowing what we already know about the trail, we both expect to take it easy today.
An hour and twenty minutes later and we are in the John Ball parking lot, huddled among other frigid crazies waiting to catch the shuttle to the start/finish line. It arrives, we squeeze ourselves in, and by the time we make it to our destination we only have ten minutes left.
The two of us push ourselves through the crowd gathered inside the warm hospitality tent until we finally get to the check-in table and grab our bib numbers. Hurriedly, we pin one another, and venture outside just in time to hear “And they’re off!”
Miles 1 – 4.4
Hurry up and wait. That’s what we do. This is, after all, a race run on a paved bike trail (though you wouldn’t know it from the snow cover) and the trail isn’t exactly wide.
We are way at the back of a decadently fluorescent conga line and by the time we get to the timing mat, two minutes have gone by. I think about darting up ahead, but from the endless stream of slow moving head bobs, I know there’s no point. Might as well just take it slow until the crowd thins out.
I stick by Edna and after a quarter mile of struggling through shin and knee high snow, I accept what I already know: today is going to hurt and today is going to be slow.
“I think the key here is to take smaller steps,” I say to Edna. “If I take too large a stride the potential for injury is too large. I’m going to try to keep my feet under me.”
Even heeding my own advice, the potential for disaster is still there. The snow is powdery. Slippery. But it won’t pack down, not even with hundreds of runners trampling over it. It’s a snowy, ill-footed mine field.
Every step is a surprise.
We hit the first mile mark in just over 17 minutes. Holy shit.
With a hat-tip to the Bill Murray film, the Groundhog Day Half Marathon is a 4.4 mile loop run three times. It features mostly flat landscape with some pleasant views of the Grand River and surrounding wilderness, all of which is covered in snow and ice. Every once in a while I remind myself to look up — to actually enjoy the scenery — but most of my focus is on staying upright, requiring me to look down.
A couple of miles in and already my hips are starting to scream while my heart rate soars. It’s not every day I “run” a 17 minute mile and maintain a 160 beats per minute heart rate. As we reach the first aid station, where I fuel up on Gatorade and those delectable peanut butter pretzel bites, I feel like a rebel soldier fleeing the Empire’s invasion of Hoth.
You could use a good kiss! I think to myself. Whew, I could also use a good recliner. This is hard work!
A little more slogging later, and the crowd opens up a little. I turn to Edna, get my kiss and kick on down the snowy trail.
Down to a 15 minute mile now (HUZZAH!), I find that the footing on the back half of the course is even worse than the first half. Slip… slide… WHOA LOOKOUT… save myself… slip… slide… WHOA LOOKOUT…
A lot of things are on repeat here.
After much struggle, I find myself back at the start/finish line, only 4.4 miles into the race, in a whopping one hour, nine minutes. Yikes! Before I give in to the idea of quitting — as many ahead of me appear to be doing — I immediately turn around and get myself back out there.
Miles 4.4 – 8.8
Back out on the trail now, I know what to expect the rest of the way: powder, pain and suffering. At least it’s not very cold, I remind myself. And there’s no wind.
It could be worse. It could always be worse.
I will myself to remember this bit of truth. Just think about all those crazies running the full marathon!
Indeed, it could always be worse.
Right now, despite my achy hips and slow pace, life is pretty darn good. The crowd has subsided. I’m running pretty much all by myself now, passing people who’ve been slowed to a walk on occasion.
Shortly after refueling at the aid station and kicking back down the trail, my watch gleefully beeps to inform me that I am in the 13 minute mile range now.
Oh boy we’re blazin’ now!
Relatively speaking, I am moving pretty fast. Though I may look like I’m moving in slow motion, I maintain
running jogging slogging pace. I only come to a walk at the aid stations.
And because I’m paying so much attention to the ground beneath me, the time seems to pass quickly. Another hour and seven minutes has passed and I find myself at the start/finish line again.
I dart out for my third and final loop with the kind of enthusiasm born from an impending completion of epic snow schlepping. And oh look, my face hurts… from smiling! Again!
Miles 8.8 – 13.1
Beer, beer, beer… chili, chili, chili…
I’m going to hang on to whatever it takes to get through this fluffy mess, and right now, I know that concentrating on the finish line fare (and warmth!) will get me where I need to be.
I should also note that this fluffy mess seems to get worse as the day goes on, not better. If the snow were just a little more damp, perhaps it would pack down and stay down. Instead, what we get is surprise after surprise after surprise.
Just before hitting the first aid station on this last loop I notice someone close on my heels.
“Keep setting the pace, man,” says the guy behind me. I find out his name is Steve. We will share much of this last loop together. After the mental struggle of the first loop and the isolation of the second, I welcome the company and conversation.
We share our race resumes and talk about annoying injuries past. We discuss the difficulty of running a half marathon in February. In Michigan. In knee deep snow. And we both come to the conclusion that we need a beer.
“Just keep pumping your arms,” I say. Someone gave me this advice for the last 10k of my first marathon and it has stuck with me. “If you move your arms your legs will follow.”
After the last aid station, I thank all the aid station volunteers. I’m sure this has been a tough day for them too. Keeping water from freezing in sub-freezing temps and listening to cranky runners whine about the conditions probably doesn’t make for the best way to spend a Sunday, but they’re all troopers and it’s nice to hear their cheers each time we come through.
“These peanut butter pretzel balls are amazing,” I tell Steve, as I take off down the last leg of the loop. “I’ve been eating them all day. I’m ravenous. I’m starving!”
Chili, chili, chili… beer, beer, beer…
I’m coming for you!
As we reach the last turn back towards the finish line I pick up the pace and notice Steve fall back a bit. I keep going. I want to be done. I want to be warm. I want to eat and drink and–
“Hola, mi cielo!”
It’s Edna! “Hola, mi amorsita!” I yell back. She is heading out for her last loop while I finish up mine. We stop for a short embrace and she assures me she’s feeling fine. Her smile lights up the trail like always and I can’t wait for her to get back so we can both be warm, rested and DONE. “I will drink some beer and eat some chili for you,” I tell her.
“Very good,” she says ironically (Edna doesn’t drink) before taking off through the snow.
Stuck in cheesy smile mode, I run the last 200 meters to the finish, coming across the line in a whopping 3 hours, 18 minutes, 51 seconds, a time more reflective of my recent 26.2 mile races. Exhilarated and gassed, I head straight for the hospitality tent.
I can’t see!
Seriously, I can’t. I’m snow blind. Some kind soul directs me through the crowd of exhausted runners to collect my finisher’s medal. Once my eyes adjust I am able to see just how bad ass this piece of hardware is. Heavy and profound, the medal features a dancing groundhog in relief and I put it around my neck, where it will stay until I get home.
For the next hour and a half I camp out next to the New Holland kegs and sip The Poet until my equilibrium requires me to eat some chili to rebound. I talk to a bunch of strangers. I share war stories with other finishers. I’m about as happy as can be.
Edna finally comes through and we hug each other, celebrating our mental toughness victories.
“Wow, that was hard!” she says.
“Yep. Yep it was. That was crazy hard.”
But we did it. We stuck it out.
We chose to be here and we knew what we were getting into. We knew we’d escape with a story worth telling — one that would leave us starving and snow blind and smiling.
You can’t get this sort of experience on the couch. You gotta take a leap and learn to adapt. That’s life right there. That’s what keeps it interesting.
And interesting never gets old.
While I patiently wait for the Polar Vortex to subside so mother nature can give me a cleaner, safer surface on which to train, I continue to battle the elements the best I can. I’m approaching the end of my fourth week of Boston Marathon training and about half of my runs thus far have been on a treadmill.
Physically, I feel great. My body is working well. As I slowly build my endurance, I am getting regular sports massage, with lots of attention placed on those cranky calves. All systems are go for Boston right now, and while I continue to be conservative in my training, I still dream of running a sub-3 race come April 21, 2014.
That’s my “A” goal. That’s the dream of dreams, as it has been and will continue to be until I finally make that dream a reality.
But there is no denying that my conservative training approach (at least for now), may make running 6:50 pace for 26.2 miles on a challenging course more difficult than I’d hoped. Right now my speed workouts — hampered by sub-freezing temps and rusty legs — haven’t been ideal. The turnover is there, the leg and core strength is there, but the cardiovascular system has a long way to go to keep up with my demands. With 14 weeks of training left, I’m not sweatin’ it. I am going to give it my all on Patriot’s Day regardless, and that, ultimately, is all that counts.
But what about after Boston?
Yes, indeed, the time has come, my friends. In 2014 I aim to complete my first 100 mile race. The Pinhoti 100, on November 1, in Heflin, Alabama, will be the scene. Lots of New Leaf and M.U.D.D. friends will be there. I’m hoping to get my dad down there. Siamak the Beast has agreed to pace me. I’m ready to go further than I’ve ever gone before, mentally and physically.
Every race I run from now until April 21 will be training for Boston, and every race I run post-Boston will be in preparation for the hundo.
Here is my tentative race plan:
January 11 – The Frozen Gnome 50k
My good friends from the McHenry County Ultrarunning Dudes and Dudettes (M.U.D.D.) put on great events and this one looks to be no different. 30 inches of snow accumulation so far this winter? Freezing rain? Hills galore? Bring on the suffering!
February 2 – The Groundhog Day Half Marathon
4-ish mile loopty loops in bone-chilling, snow covered Grand Rapids, Michigan? Like Phil said: I’ll give you a winter prediction: It’s gonna be cold, it’s gonna be grey, and it’s gonna last you for the rest of your life.
March 2 – The Armadillo Dash Half Marathon
As one who seeks out opportunities where travel and racing can be combined, I found what looks to be a quaint half marathon in College Station, TX about a 40-minute drive from my dad’s place. And while Texas temps in March may not be tropical, they are almost certain to be warmer than anything I’ll find in the Chi.
April 21 – The Boston Marathon
No subtext necessary.
May 10 – Ice Age 50k
After the ass kickin’ I got last year, this is my 2014 revenge race. With some better planning and a good understanding of the course, I am hoping to go under 5 hours this time around.
July 18-19 – Christmas in July 24 Hour
What better way to prepare myself for my first hundred than running in circles for 24 hours? This race, put on by some friends of mine from the New Leaf club, is in my suburban backyard (Lisle, IL) and promises to be one heck of a fiesta. It’s on pavement. It’s on a short, one mile loop course. I’m looking forward to a post-race Frankenstein walk like I’ve never had before.
August 31 – The Mexico City Marathon
One of my best friends lives in Mexico City. I’m in love with a Mexican. The Mexico City Marathon, at 5000 feet of elevation, offers a scenic, challenging course. ¿Cómo no voy a correrlo? ¡Que onda, güey!
October 12 – The Chicago Marathon
Running my fourth straight Chicago Marathon proves to be the lone wild card in my 2014 schedule. Rumor (and history) suggests that this race is soon going to move to a lottery selection. I HOPE NOT! I remain hopeful that the registration process will be open like it has been. My steadfast ninja fingers are prepared to click forward the $170+ dollars as fast as they possibly can. For me, the biggest test with Chicago this year will be running it as a training run as opposed to balls-to-the-wall redlining.
November 1 – The Pinhoti 100
The holy grail. The heavy hitter. The big kahuna. For the greater part of 2014, my heart, and perhaps more literally my legs, will be focused on traversing 100 miles in one shot, for the very first time. And while I do feel a bit funny about throwing myself into a 100 miler that doesn’t even have a website (I’m told it is currently under construction), I have been assured by my friends — most importantly, Siamak, who ran it as his first hundred in 2012 — that this race is as challenging as it is breathtaking. I’m hoping it’s more breathtaking in the metaphorical sense, though in a 100 mile race it seems like there will certainly be some moments were even taking a breath seems impossible.
I don’t know.
But I’ll see.
Because THAT — the unknown, the adventure, the THRILL of it all — is what makes running long so worthwhile, fulfilling and fun!
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!
The Peapod Half Madness Half Marathon in Batavia, IL keeps bringing me back. I PR’d there in 2011. I did it again in 2012. And since the quaint little town is so welcoming with its serene course and opulent post-race party, I couldn’t help but toe the line for a third year in a row. Besides, the race fits quite well with my Chicago Marathon training and, for the last two years, has accurately projected where I can expect to finish in an all-things-being equal mid-October 26.2 mile contest.
Pre-Race, 4:15 a.m.
I am up and stuffing my face with bananas, toast and coffee. Despite the early morning butterflies, I actually slept pretty well last night. But now, just a few hours from the start, I begin to go through my regular cycle of self-doubt and reassuring affirmation. With this year’s Chicago Marathon goal being the loftiest I’ve ever imagined, the plan for today is to run all 13.1 at marathon pace, somewhere between 6:50-6:52 minute miles, finishing in 1 hour 30 minutes, which would be a new personal record by more than two minutes.
The weather doesn’t look too bad. It will be in the low 70s for most of my race with the type of humidity one can expect for the Midwest in August. If I can pull off a 1:30 finish in today’s summery conditions, I will spend the next 6 weeks feeling pretty confident about what I can do on October 13. Luckily, there will be a 1:30 pace group for today’s half, and having run this race twice before, I know the last two miles are essentially all downhill. As long as I can get to the 11-mile marker without dying, I should be able to accomplish my goal.
But 90 minutes at sub-7 minute pace… Jeff, you’ve NEVER done that before. You hear me? NEVER.
I’m only warming up and already my subconscious Debbie Downer is picking a fight.
And you don’t have the miles this year. Your heels are still wonky. Your speed work has sucked. Remember last week when you couldn’t hold 6:50 for two miles in a row!? And the week before where your legs just felt heavy and non-responsive? Yeah, good luck with that.
My subconscious Debbie Downer can be a real drag sometimes. I vow to shut it up. I’m coming in today off a mini-taper, feeling strong, feeling determined. I’m going to stick with the pace group as long as my body allows — and that means grinding through the pain.
“Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.”
I read that off someone’s Facebook feed this morning. I’m going to use that mantra when the going gets tough.
And it will get tough.
“Hi, my name is Jeff,” I say as I enter the chute and position myself next to two fluorescent yellow clad men holding the 1:30 pace sign.
“Hi, I’m Eric,” says the side burned leader, “and this is Kyle” he says motioning to his younger counterpart. I shake both of their hands and size them up. Both appear confident and svelte — two characteristics I usually look for in pace leaders.
“Do you plan on running even splits today?” I ask.
“Yes, 6:52 pace the whole way. Even splits,” says Eric. “I will be keeping track of the average per mile pace and Kyle will keep track of the actual mile splits each mile. If it makes you feel any better, we came in last year at 1:30:01.”
Awesome, I think to myself. Not only do these guys seem confident about their plan of attack, but they have also done this before, with success. I’m game.
“Okay, well I’m going to stick with you as long as I can,” I reply. “I just hope the heat and humidity don’t get to me.”
As soon as I say this I realize I’ve just given myself an excuse to abort if the going gets tough — an excuse my more determined self can’t accept right now.
Stick with them, Jeff. The whole way. The only thing that is going to stop you from achieving this goal today is a broken body part or a trip in an ambulance.
3… 2… 1… GO!
This is my third running of the race and the third variation to the start line I’ve experienced. In 2011 we began by going up a big hill. In 2012, that hill was gone. Today, there is another hill at the start but it’s in a different location. I think. Hell, I don’t know. I just know that we’re starting up an incline and it’s time to wedge myself into the group and get comfortable.
Eric and Kyle are in front. I tuck in directly behind. All around me are about 15-20 individuals who seem determined to hold pace.
This is your team, Jeff. Look around. Get used to these people. Stick with this group. Do NOT lose this group.
My subconscious voice is obnoxiously loud, but equally determined. Who am I to argue with what it wants?
The first couple of miles are a blur. We’re moving along right on pace and the folks in this peloton are focused. No ones seems to be huffing and puffing yet. Our footfalls create a natural, appealing rhythm. No one smells particularly awful.
This is work in motion — a thing of beauty.
Other than Eric and Kyle’s casual conversation, there isn’t much chit-chat. I can’t hold a conversation going this fast. I definitely admire those who can and the fact that our pacers seem to do so without losing a breath or a step is extremely comforting.
As we weave through the quiet neighborhoods of Batavia that remind me of the small town where I grew up, I notice everyone seems to know our pace leader, Eric. Course marshals, aid station volunteers and excited race observers alike are quick to shout out his name and wave a friendly hand.
This, combined with his detailed course preview assures me that Eric knows what he’s doing and that I should just stick on his heels. Right now, with the temperature still hovering right around the low 70s, I feel okay, but I am sweating a lot.
So when the first two aid stations only offer water and no sports drink, I begin to panic just a bit.
DOH! I need carbohydrate!
I recall this being an issue last year, that not all the aid stations offered sports drink and I had to just deal with it. I don’t know why I assumed that would change this year, but it didn’t. Am I being too snobbish by expecting that in a half marathon? I don’t know. I just know that the best fueling strategy for me is to take in carbohydrate and electrolytes from the very first aid station on through.
But a key element in distance running is adjusting to problems on the fly. I try to relax and know that I’ll get my electrolytes soon enough.
We get through the first 5k under 21 minutes and as I look around I see that our numbers are already dropping off. And so it goes with pace groups. Some days ya just don’t have it. I hone in on my constant mind-body feedback loop, keen to check my breathing, legs, feet, ankles. My wonky heels are aching a bit but that’s just going to be how it goes today. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. For now, I feel about as comfortable as I can expect to feel considering what I’m doing.
Somewhere around the 5-mile mark, we hit the steep downhill into downtown Batavia where the crowds are big, loud and supportive. The easiness of running decline combined with the cheering support and a MUCH needed Gatorade-rich aid station make the left turn on to the bike path a great relief to my tiring body.
We tuck in a little closer now as our path narrows, running alongside the picturesque Fox River. This well-shaded portion of the race is a welcome relief from the rising sun, and now that we find ourselves closer together, I marvel at the fact that no one has tripped yet. We are so close together that one slight misstep from anyone could cause a colossal crash and burn.
This is so cool, I think to myself.
But what is it specifically about running fast within a group that gives me goosebumps? Is it the sense of togetherness, the creation of community that is born of it? Maybe it’s the notion that I wouldn’t be able to sustain this type of movement just on my own. Or, perhaps it’s simply benefiting from less drag and focusing on the heels of the guy in front of me.
No matter what, I’m in the zone now. My only concern is right now. Right. This. Minute. Staying with the group. Sticking to Eric and Kyle.
“Eric and Kyle,” I say. “All we need now is Stan and Kenny to be complete.”
No one gets my bad Southpark joke/reference, but that’s okay, because we got work to do. A quick look around and I see we’re still about 8 strong. There are several fluorescent green and yellow shirts. There are also a few women among us and everyone is FOCUSED.
We pass the halfway mark and Eric briefs us on what is to come in the last half, which includes a couple of climbs.
Only 6.5 miles to go now, I tell myself. Just hang on. You’re doing great.
Oh yeah, you’re doing great, says my mischievous Debbie Downer self, if you consider feeling like shit doing great. You really think you can hold on to this pace? Ha!
I take a much needed gel, feel a bit more energized, and remind myself to pump my arms when the legs seem unresponsive.
The love and support our group gets from the people who came out to cheer us on along the course does wonders for my mind and body, but somewhere around mile 9, both start to suffer.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
No one cares if you run a 1:30 or a 1:35 or a 1:anything. No one cares. You can stop now.
It’s too warm. Too humid. You can chill out now, man. It’s okay. Seriously.
My Debbie Downer side bombards me just as my body starts to slow down. As we charge up an incline, I begin to fall off the pace. Actually, our whole group starts to fall apart. And while I entertain negative thoughts and consider just taking it easy from here to the end, Eric heads to the rear of the group, motivating those of us struggling to survive to stick to it, to pump our arms. His words and actions encourage me to dig a little deeper.
Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.
And it’s only 4 more miles… the last two are downhill so just stick with it. STICK WITH IT, JEFF! NOW IS NO TIME TO GIVE UP!
The old adage of holding on through the rough spots because they’ll go away soon comes to mind as I find a little something inside to chase down Kyle up in front of me. My 30 meter surge is matched by a few others in the group and slowly, we come together again. By the time we crest the last of the inclines and hit the bike path for the last section, including the pacers we are a strong group of six. Eric and Kyle resume their leader spots, giving us much needed encouragement and support.
Holy cow, I can’t believe I just got through that, I think to myself.
“Isn’t this great?” Eric asks aloud. “A nice, steady decline here.”
Great? I think to myself. This is effing brilliant!
Properly shaded again and moving along the gradual downhill path, I look at my watch to see we’re less than two miles from the finish line and for the first time today it hits me: I am going to make that 1:30 mark. I’m going to PR and I’m going to finish this day satisfied that my marathon training is right where it needs to be to do exactly what I want to do.
The hairs on my arm stand up and I feel a cool breeze of satisfaction wash over me.
“You guys, this is going to be a huge, 4 minute PR for me today,” says the woman to my right, arms pumping, legs turning over at the high cadence which has locked in to all four of us surviving runners.
This is awesome, I think. This is simply awesome.
“If anyone is feeling good and wants to get by, just let us know,” says Eric. I definitely consider it, but when I try to accelerate, I got nothin’.
Nah, just stay right on their heels, Jeff. Just ride this out to the end and save that jolt for the finish line.
It takes all the concentration I have to just stick with the pacers. They look back every now and then to see how we survivors are doing and I can’t help but think the face I’m making must be a scary mess. I feel terrible.
But I’m almost done.
We exit the bike path and are close to the finish line because I can hear the crowd and a PA system. We turn left and run under a bridge of some sorts where we are forced to run single file.
Eric drops back and gives me one last “go get em!” as I slide by, steadily chasing the speedy Kyle in front of me. 300 meters from the finish, I feel euphoric — all the pain in my legs and lungs ceases. I feel myself well up as I thank Kyle for his help.
“Dude, thank you so much. I never would have been able to do this on my own,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome, man, awesome job,” he says as he motions me past him for my final sprint.
As I come down the finishing stretch I pass one of the guys who was in our pace group and suddenly I don’t feel my legs at all.
Am I flying? Gliding? Where am I?
I’m at the end. I cross the finish line, arms raised in proud triumph.
Holy shit I just ran a 1:30:10 half marathon.
I take a few seconds to catch my breath from the last sprint before I turn around and look for the rest of the group members. Kyle comes across and I immediately give him a hug, whether he wants it or not.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I gush.
The last woman standing from our group comes across too and I give her a radiant high five for her huge PR. The smile on her face is one that I won’t forget. Those types of highlight smiles don’t wane easily.
Two other guys come through and I greet them with high fives.
Finally, Eric arrives at the back of the group and I make a beeline towards him, celebratory hug included.
“Dude! Eric! Thank you! That was awesome. I really appreciate your help. Two minute PR for me today. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
This enthusiasm, this cheer, this ecstasy… it always seems to find its way into my running adventures.
So I just keep coming back.
The good folks in Batavia host one hell of a post-race party. After my emotions calmed down, I had my share of all you can eat pizza and all you can drink beer. I was quick to thank all of the volunteers who made the event a special one.
Watching this race grow over the last few years has been a real treat. In talking with some of my friends at the post-race party, I learned that the race organizers and volunteers had to fight hard to keep the course winding through the neighborhoods like it does. Apparently there was some opposition. Some entity wanted to restrict the entire race to just the bike patch, which, in my opinion would totally kill the charming vibe of this race.
I love going through the actual town, seeing folks on their front lawns with signs and cowbells and high fives. If I wanted to run on a bike path the whole time I’d just stay in Chicago.
Hopefully, this race will continue its awesome streak and I won’t ever have to worry about that.
In thinking about my performance post-race, I realize it would have been nice to break that 1:30 barrier; however, my goal for the day was to run a 1:30 and considering the conditions, where the race fell within my training plan and the fact that I really gave it all I had, I have no regrets.
All I have is a sore face from smiling so much.
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!
As my summer of ultras comes to a close (but not definitely… yet), I begin to turn my attention back to what made me such a running fanatic in the first place: RUNNING FAST.
There is just something immensely rewarding about moving my body as fast as it will go, powered on its own, that hypnotizes me, calls me, begs for me to do it. Even though it hurts.
My ultimate “things-I-must-do-before-I-die” goal is to run a sub-3 hour marathon. My current personal best is 3:15 and my first valid attempt at cracking three will be this coming January, again in Houston. While I know the chances of me pulling off such a feat in such a short amount of time are almost as insane as they seem impossible, I figure the bar is better set high than not high enough.
Challenge is good. Besides, I keep surprising myself with what I’m able to do, on any given day, so I might as well keep crawling deeper into the caverns of my mind to slay every last dragon of doubt.
Enter the Peapod Half Madness Half Marathon in Batavia, IL. I ran this race last year and had a blast, so I made sure to sign up again. This time I would be joined by two new friends: Dan Solera, who is just past the halfway point in running 50 half marathons in 50 states; and Dan “Otter” Otto, who impressed the hell out of me by downing six Old Style heavies WHILE RUNNING a sub-2 hour race at Batavia (more on this a bit later).
Pre-Race 4 a.m.
I’m up before the alarm. I went to bed at 9:30 last night, so I wake up feeling fully charged. Ready to rock. I sip a half a cup of coffee, eat a banana and some toast with jelly before checking the weather report. It’ s already 72 degrees, so I slap on my 1:30 pace bracelet knowing it’s pretty much a given that I won’t be hitting these splits today. But I’m wearing it anyway because I think a PR is definitely possible. I haven’t run too many half marathons; and I’ve never trained to peak for one, so I enter Batavia with a 1:34 best, confident that, as Ice Cube reminds me via my laptop, today always has the potential to be a good day.
5 a.m. and I swing by to pick up Dan and Otter. We are leaving Chicago, on the highway by 5:20 a.m. All is well. There’s something comforting about company just prior to a race. It lessens the nerves, distracts the mind from busying itself with senseless worry. I enjoy the conversation, especially as I learn Otter’s race plan to carry a pack with six Old Styles stowed, with the goal of downing them all prior to the finish.
6:30 a.m. and I’m jogging my warm-up. Holy Nikes! I bump into a friend of mine from high school whom I haven’t seen since the late 90s! It’s so cool to see her! We make plans to meet up at the finish and I go on my merry way, feeling out the legs, wondering Do I have it today?
Early signs point to… probably not.
6:55 a.m. I enter the chute and stand next to Dan towards the front. We fist bump, the horn blows and I… am… ruuuuuuunnnnnnnniiiiiiinnnnnng!!!
This is just four 5Ks and a jog, Jeff, I tell myself. Run four decent 22ish 5Ks and you’re good.
Thanks, me! I appreciate that!
I also appreciate the course. Though the beginning has changed a bit from last year (they got rid of the big hill at the start), I am still impressed with how quiet and quaint this little town of Batavia is. Its river-centric, historic downtown and sprawling neighborhoods with lots of green reminds me of my hometown of Quincy; and the people who are standing out on their lawns at 7 a.m., though not in great numbers, are especially awesome in my book.
Thanks for coming out, everybody! I yell with a smile. I like your town! It reminds me of home!
And boom! Just like that I look down to see I’ve come through the first 5K mark in 20:44. Not too shabby. The 1:30 pace group is about 3o yards ahead of me, running ahead of schedule, but already I can tell that today will not be a 1:30 day for me. I’m totally cool with it though because I feel fine right now and know that holding on to 7-minute pace will be more than enough for me to consider this a solid performance. It’s warm. The sun is blaring down on me at certain points along the course. But I feel fine. My legs are moving in a rhythm that seems sustainable.
I hit the big downhill section just before the 6-mile mark, build speed then bang a hard left onto the bike path that runs alongside the Fox River. Ah yes, this is where I built momentum last year, I recall. Time to push it a little bit.
Covered by the abundant shade, this sudden injection of conscious speed should be sustainable… except that, well, it isn’t. Around the 7-mile mark, the voice of fatigue makes a home between my ears. I take a GU and down some liquids, hoping to shut its ugly face, but alas, here it is, still talking shit.
Okay, dude, you can chill out now, you’re not going to PR so… yeah. It’s too hot. You haven’t been speed training. You can’t even see the 1:30 pace group anymore.
I run harder to shut him up.
Oh, so you think you can shut me up, Jeff? You know who I am, right? I’m your central governor and I make the decisions around here. Just try to get anything past me.
I push. I push again. Yikes! Pull back.
Haha! See. Told ya. I, am, the master.
I look at my Garmin, which tells me I just ran mile 9 in 7:29, a number I don’t like right now. Who’s the boss of who? I decide it’s time to stand up to Mr. Central Governor.
I am the boss of me, Central Governor. Not you. Not anyone. Just me! And look! I’m almost done!
Ha! Yes, this is the beauty of the half. Ten miles into the race and I’m almost done! After the summer of ultras, where training runs regularly lasted 4-6 hours and races 8-10 hours, oh what a glorious feeling it is to know I am an hour and eleven minutes into a race and I’m almost done! With so few miles to go, of course I can go faster!
So I do. The central governor tries to stop me but I pick out a guy ahead, the guy in the green singlet, and reel him in. Concentrate, I tell myself. Catch that green man!
I catch him, he speeds up to race, I go a bit faster and then I’m by him.
I pick out another. Guy in red. I look down at my watch and see I’m cruising at 6:40 pace — something that felt hard just 20 minutes ago seems so easy now, because I have focus. I am here to do something.
Mile 11 and I realize it’s all downhill from here. Literally. The last two miles of this course are a continuous downhill. Ideal for building speed and passing people.
I do both.
I can’t believe how good I feel right now. Who does that central governor jerk think he is? I’m gonna have to learn to shut him up quicker next time. Maybe I’ll train to do just that.
Up ahead I see the big orange sign instructing runners to turn left. I know that once I get there, I’m at mile 13, with just one tenth of a mile (the “jog”) to go. A quick glance at my watch informs me that I AM GOING TO PR TODAY, marking yet another victory over my Debbie Downer subconscious.
Eat it, Central Governor!
I turn left onto the bridge, turn right then left onto the last bridge before making the hard right turn to the finishing chute. I blaze in with the emcee announcing my name, across the line at 1:32:37.
Ice Cube was right. Today was a good day.
There’s something uniquely awesome about eating pizza and drinking Sam Adams before 9 in the morning, so I take full advantage of that as I meet up with Dan, whom I learn had me in his sights for the first half of the race before trailing off a bit. He still finished with a solid 1:36 and was smiling at the end so all signs point to GREAT JOB!
We both look out for Otter, wondering if Dan might get the call from the county jail that he’s been picked up for public intoxication WHILE RUNNING A HALF MARATHON. Luckily, Otter’s drinking on the run made him a race favorite, a point the emcee even brings up as Otter chugs his final beer, crossing the finish line in under two hours.
I am extremely impressed.
High fives are had.
– – –
The Peapod Half Madness Half Marathon proved again to be a great event. It’s just small enough that it doesn’t feel crowded and big enough to feel like each runner’s needs are being met. From the big downhill after mile 5 all the way to the finish I think the course is just fantastic. The aid stations were a bit small for my liking, but the volunteers more than made up for that and everyone out there was extremely positive and energetic. Also, just like last year, the hardware doubles as a bottle opener, which may be the running gods’ way of telling me that, indeed, beer and running do make a beautiful couple.
As race fees continue to go up, one needn’t search far to find someone with an opinion on the matter. From Runner’s World to the blogosphere to the regulars of my weekly group run, people are talkin’ about it and sometimes it gets FEISTY!
Earlier this month, I signed up for the now sold out 2012 Chicago Marathon. I was so paranoid of missing entry that I registered THE EXACT MINUTE registration opened. I whizzed through the many pages of sign-up and when it came to pay the $150 registration fee (up $5 from 2011), I didn’t even flinch.
I would’ve paid $300 to run the Chicago Marathon. Any more than that and I’d have to seriously check my budget, but to me, every single penny of that $150 is well beyond worth it.
I’m a dreamer. I love to picture myself doing extraordinary things. But reality is an asskicker.
I will never take a pitch in the Big Leagues. I will never drive the lane or shoot a game-tying three in the NBA. The NFL will never see my touchdown dance.
But on October 7, 2012, I will take to 26.2 miles of my home city like a rock star, running at top speed, supported by the voracious cheers of the million plus spectators lining the streets with their bodies and their roars. The entire city will stop for me. I will be on top of my universe.
I will never get that feeling at the St. Louis Marathon. Or the Houston Marathon. Or any marathon that isn’t a World Major, or at least treated as such. If one hasn’t had this experience, he or she will have a hard time understanding it, but trust me: it’s definitely worth $150.
Not everyone feels this way.
And that’s cool too. Some folks have a dollar per mile limit, like they won’t pay more than $3 a mile, so no more than $78 for a marathon. That’s totally cool. You can run the St. Louis Marathon for that.
But it’s lonely. You won’t feel like a rock star (unless you win it maybe). And you’re in… St. Louis. I would pay $78 for that kind of experience too.
But Chicago… there’s just something about Chicago…
One of my sick fantasies is to run a 24-hour timed race… on a 400 meter track.
When I met Scott Jurek this past October, I was in complete awe of his description of the latter hours of a short looped 24-hour ultra, of how the mind is forced to go to unexplored places, and how self-discovery can be dug up from the deepest and darkest of holes.
The short looped course offers a different dimension of running than most conventional courses at long distance events. It’s not the scenic kind of race. It’s not the one you go out and enjoy with a buddy either. Instead, it’s the put-your-head-down-and-zen-out-til-you-know-what-it-means-to-BE-ALIVE kind of event. And I want as many of those as I can get.
Sometimes, to add variety to my training, I will do short loop long distance training runs to find that zone where my body and my mind become one powerfully synced moving machine. A 20-miler on a half mile loop around my house. 3 hours on the 400 meter dirt track at Palmisano Park. The same 3 mile out-and-back until I hit whatever number I want on that day.
The trick, for me, is to do these spontaneously, with gentle, easy effort. The idea is to just float along on the same invisible line, hitting every step exactly the same each time. When I’m really feeling it, I am able to hit near exact splits on every single loop, without even thinking about it.
That is some powerful mind-body connection right there. And I love experiencing it. But if I do it too much then it loses its allure, so I like to think of them as prized, perfect storm opportunities.
I always seem to know when it’s time for one of these. It’s like my body craves it. Like a drug.
One of the myriad benefits of long distance running is being treated to the wondrous and often times flabbergasted expressions of friends and family.
You did what this morning?
I ran 30 miles.
Because it’s fun.
You’re insane. Crazy. You ran 30 miles!?! Without being forced to? That’ s some real Superman shit right there.
Maybe it is!
Running any distance mark can be impressive. I’ve enjoyed the evolution of reactions I’ve received as I’ve transitioned from half marathons to marathons to ultramarathons. People really do think I have superhuman abilities, that what I do is simply not normal and shouldn’t be possible. But the truth is: anyone can run a marathon. Anyone can run an ultramarathon. It will take some time to lead up to such an achievement, but it’s certainly not as “insane” as folks make it out to be.
Desire. Discipline. A strong will.
And the courage to get out the door to say I’M DOING THIS.
That’s all that’s required.
Everyone has Superman power. It’ s just that most people aren’t willing to work to find it. Too lazy. Too comfortable. Too risk averse.
Living life like that, to me, is boring. Luckily, I found running before complete apathy found me; and the rewards from that discovery have been so rich and so fulfilling that I can’t ever imagine living without them again.
Confidence. Purpose. Strength.
I walk with my chest out, yes. But not in a douchey way. I just know that I’m capable of doing whatever I set my mind to, and that, in my opinion, is the only way to live.
Thanksgiving and running go together like baseball and hot dogs. And while most people enjoy the casual Turkey Trot 5K as a way to compensate for the inevitable overeating, my own brand of gluttony requires a much longer distance. Enter the Schaumburg Half Marathon — a fun (and growing) event out in the ‘burbs that makes it okay to eat an entire pie (or two) and not feel guilty about it.
I ran this race last year and had a fantastic time. I even set what was then a P.R., so I was hoping I might be able to run my way to another speedy finish, if the setting was right.
The morning was chilly (low 40s) and overcast with a chance of rain, that would later come about halfway through my race in the form of a heavy, annoying mist. Besides having logged a 50K fun run just seven days before, I thought my legs could still get me a sub 1:34 time, which would be a personal best. All through this latest training cycle, I have been routinely plugging away 6:50 to 7:15 miles, so I thought doing something special was not outside reality.
In fact, prior to the start, I forced the issue by lining up with the 1:30 pace group, intent on hanging with them as long as I could. A quick look around the group and it was obvious I was the odd man out. Sure I had on all the right gear and the demeanor of one sure-as-hell determined son of a bitch, but my 5’8 frame — which is somewhat hobbled by a muscular build (something I’ve been unwilling to abandon thus far) — wasn’t nearly as lean and speedy looking as all the rest.
I didn’t care. Just stick with the group. For as long as you can. That’s what I told myself.
And then we were off…
Mile 1. Check. Mile 2. Awesome. Mile 3. Damn! We’re running a 6:15 pace! Mile 4. Look, Mom! I’m hangin’ with the big boys! Mile 5. Oh shit.
That’s all it took. Five miles and I was blowing up.
How do I describe the feeling? For me, it was sorta like back in my partying days, where I’d be straddling the line of being super drunk and having a blast to being super drunk and feeling like death. Without much warning, I went from great to awful.
I had to pull up. I kept running, but it turned into a slog. I looked down at my Garmin:
8:45 pace… 8:55 pace… 9:20 pace…
Bleh. Well, now you know what that feels like, Jeff. Let’s just finish the run. You only have 8 miles to go (HAHA!) and feeling bad isn’t the end of the world.
And suddenly, I didn’t feel that bad anymore. I took a gel, cranked the legs back up to a comfortable 7:30 pace and moved on, reflecting on how my body felt despite what I had just put it through.
Mile 6. Mile 7. Mile 8. I was smiling again and high fiving folks on the out-and-back sections.
Mile 9. Mile 10. Mile 11. I’m gonna finish this in 1:36 and change.
Mile 12. Mile 13. And we’re done. And I’m freezing!!!
I finished in 1:36:30, a pretty decent time for me but not close to what I’m capable of. Doesn’t matter though, because for me, running isn’t always about the time on the clock at the end; it’s about what it does to me as a human being — how it makes me feel, how it makes me a part of something, how it makes me grow.
The people who organize this race are extremely friendly and accommodating, the aid stations were well placed, and the medal/schwag were all worth the entry fee. But for some reason they changed the course from last year’s and the last five miles put runners through one hell of a clusterfuck as the walking 5k’ers got in the way of the finishing half-marathoners (I can only imagine the traffic horrors the elite runners faced as they were trying to run the gauntlet of 5K participants in their way), but I’m sure race management will fix that for future events.
Barring any turkey over-consumption issues, I will be back in 2012.