Running at the end of the world, part V

Lessons Learned

I loved this race, in spite of all my bitching about the hills.  It is a hard race, but it's not played up like Boston or Big Sur.  There is a homespun or craftiness about the whole operation.  And heart: there is so much heart poured into this race by this tiny island community.  You feel as if the whole island has come out in support of this race--not just on the course but from the hotels to the restaurants to the stores, every person and entity feels involved in the race.  Heck, the restaurant where we had dinner after the Marathon was giving race participants $2 pints. 

All this, combined with the fact that I felt undertrained MDI has become the first race I have ever put on my "must run again" list.  Oh, and this video helped too. 

Speaking of training: I will probably not be doing the FIRST program again soon.  It was the easiest program to stick to because there is lots of flexibility, minimal running, and lots of cross training.  But on race day I knew I was only just ready enough so that I wouldn't fall apart--and not enough to do anything beyond that.  I know for the future when I'm training for a race that I'm looking to take a little easier that I can revisit this training plan.

Something that I didn't play up that much in the race report was the psychological component.  For the whole day prior every time I would worry about preparing for the race I would remember that I had my little schedule typed up already and that I had made sure to capture everythign I needed to do in that list.  It was a little thing, but it destressed me so much--mostly because I didn't think all day "oh, I have to remember such and such on race morning, I'm goign to have to make a note to remember it."  Those little notes pile up pretty quickly.

Also, whenever I would worry about the course or the hills or the weather I would repeat to myself my little "powerful beyond measure" mantra.  And it worked.  It simultaneously calmed me down and reaffirmed my faith in my running. 

During the race I did the same thing: everytime there was a tough hill or particularly labored breathing or endless thoughts about wanting to give up, I repeated "powerful beyond measure" to myself and that got me through it in a very positive way.  And that led to a very happy experience overall--so much so that even missing a PR by 8 minutes didn't phase me.

Running at the end of the world, part IV

My northernmost race, continued

Somewhere just after the halfway point of the race my iPod died.  I quickly realized that despite plugging Rene Argent (the latest to join my iPod collection) into the laptop I forgot to leave the laptop open so that it would actually charge.  It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen on the course, but it certainly didn’t help.

About this same time I met Amy.  Amy is the woman I’m covering in this picture (which is from a little later in the race), I'm the one in the gray top (ahem, IN THE FRONT of the pack):

 

Amy was being extremely friendly with everyone on the course.  Just after Mile 13 we started tracking each other and chatted a little bit.  She was full of energy, and I, well, I never know what to talk about during a race (see The Flying Pig Marathon).  So the conversation trailed off, but not before we passed by Amy’s cheering squad, which consisted of her husband and one year old son holding a big signing cheering her on.  (This figures into the story later.)

By Mile 15 I was out in front of Amy and the pack of three guys in orange shirts.  At this point the course turns out of the woods and the road is suddenly on the edge of a cliff looking straight north into Somes Sound.  Surrounded by hills, this fjord (the only one in the US) was my second favorite view on the course, and it’s the view where the race gets its lone tree logo from:

The next five miles were pretty uneventful accept for two things.  First, Amy’s cheer squad kept on appearing along the course and cheering loudly when they saw her (and apparently she was always right on my heels).  Second, in the awkward turn off the high way during mile 18, I was running behind a woman who was in awesome shape—we’ll call her “hot woman.”  Apparently I wasn’t the only one who noticed.  While I was about to pass hot woman another woman, a spectator who was cheering people on from the sides, calls out hot woman and says “Damn!  Look at that!  Those abs are tight!  That’s what hard works gets you!  You rock that hot body girl!”  That blew away any “looking good” or “nice work” I was going to throw her way so I just said as I passed her “that’s definitely not what you were excepting to get today, especially from what appears to be a straight woman.”  Perhaps it was funnier at the time.

Mile 20 marked the last turn and last leg of the race: it was a 6.2 mile shot south to Southwest Harbor.  And here is where things started to get sticky—I guess that’s not a surprise.

I looked at my watch on left wrist.  I could roughly calculate my finishing time and knew I’d be in the 3:50 range if I didn’t fall apart.  However, in my right hand was my water bottle and it was almost empty.  Somehow, despite drinking at every single water stop I went through my entire water bottle.  And I was still thirsty.  I’d never run out of water before, but I did run Portland without a water bottle—and I ended up walking twice during the last mile of that race.  So I started to formulate a plan.

The problem with this last segment of the race was that it was so long.  So I kept telling myself “only six little miles to go.”  “Only five teeny, tiny miles left.”  “Only 4.5 itty-bitty microscopic miles to go.”  The closer I got to the finish the smaller the miles go.  By the last mile I had convinced myself it was length of an electron. 

Of course, nothing was farther from the truth.  Not only where they regular size miles, they were also the longest and highest incline of the whole race.  Whatever I had left was being spent left and right.  I swear I was running, but it felt like I was crawling.  During this sluggish run I saw team Amy for the fifth or sixth time and by this point I was calling out “team Amy” every time I passed them, but this time Amy’s husband shouted back “now we’re also team Steven” (he had read my name from my bib).  That felt awesome—as did the two or three following times I saw him on the course.

As forecasted, by mile 24 I was completely out of water.  So I walked through the water station and asked the volunteers to fill me up.  Thirty seconds later I was off “running” again—and according to data from Garmin I actually did pick up the pace a bit.

The first sign of the end of the race was the “Top of the Hill” restaurant; pretty obviously named for being at the top of a hill and doubling as the marker for Mile 25 and the start mile long descent to the finish line.

I tried to pick up speed but my legs we extremely fried from all the hills.  Moreover, there was a lot of traffic on the street (not closed) going in and out of Southwest Harbor, so we were running on the shoulder or the sidewalk (when there was one) for the entire final mile.  That meant passing was super difficult and you were constantly afraid of bumping into someone or falling into traffic.  This was my only complaint about the race, because if any part of the course needs space, it’s the last mile. 

Of course, this is all in retrospect.  During the race my chief thought was “where the hell is the finish line?”  Then, very suddenly, the traffic was diverted away and we moved onto the street just in time for the finish to come into my crosshairs.  Without even thinking I raised my arms and pretended to fly, zigzagging across the street for a few weightless seconds.  All the weight and hurt and worry of the previous miles feel off my shoulders and I started to sprint.  My pace dropped like a rock from 9:43 to 9:28 to 7:18 to 6:54 to 6:39 to lift off:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: all of these wonderful pictures were taken by (and are linked back to) Kevin Morris who does some really excellent running photography.

Running at the end of the world, part III

My northernmost race

For reference, here is a course map:

 Heading out from Bar Harbor was wonderful.  Although this was a small race (just under 1000 runners) there was a great crowd of loud and enthusiastic spectators right at the start.  But within the first half mile we were already out of town passing fields and starting the first climb of the race.

I knew the first major challenge of the race came right up front at the three mile marker, which was the second highest point on the course.  Since it was so early I felt extremely fresh and I had to fight with myself to keep the speed in check.  I knew the hills at the beginning wouldn’t seem hard, heck they were down right enjoyable, but that would fade pretty quickly with the oncoming miles.

The first three miles clocked in pretty much at a 9:00 pace on the dot.  No where near the 8:24 I was training for, but it looked like everyone else was taking it easy too since there was very little passing going on.

Knowing that first major obstacle was behind me and given the easier hills I started to pick up the pace and got decent splits (for me) for miles four, five, and six.  I played a little back and forth with a guy in a red t-shirt.  I had to assume he was a rookie Marathoner.  He was wearing a cotton shirt and I think he was wearing basketball shorts of some kind.  He would also gun it to pass me and then slow down.  Eventually I passed him completely and never saw him again.

Hands down miles six and seven were the most scenic on the course—and probably the flattest.  Right after the mile six marker we turned off the highway to a small road that plunged into a thick forest.  The road snaked through the trees, with only fleeting signs of civilization (a dirt road, a fence in the distance).  Suddenly, between the golden leaves floating on the crisp, cool breeze the forest thinned away.  Off the edge of the cliff you saw the jagged and geometric rocks descend down, down into the cobalt blue water laced with foam.  Rock formations jutted out of the water just off the coast, in defiance of the waves beating down on them rolling in from the endless Atlantic. 

Ok.  I may have heavy handed that.  I’ll just take the points on my poetic license and move on.

The next several miles I was in a comfortable groove.  The hills kept on coming as the course hugged the coast and then plunged into the woods and back.  I was starting to feel the strain and was very happy that I had decided to take it easier than I had trained.  For the most part, whenever I turned the corner and saw yet another hill I repeated to myself “powerful beyond belief,” which is my abbreviated version of Marianne Williamson’s words.  The hearty crowds (and flatish mile) at Northeast Harbor were great motivation at the close of the first half of the race.

Running at the end of the world, part II

Preparing for lift off

I woke up right on schedule at 5 something, my watch alarm going off first and then I turned off the phone alarm before it went off two minutes later (yeah, total runner’s OCD here).  It was a perfect chilly and cloudy New England morning, a day ideal for racing.  My prep schedule came in handy as I mindlessly moved down the list in my half awakeness, half anxiousness:

Wow, could I fake it more for the camera?

We were so on time that we parked and were at the staging area with just over an hour to spare.  Getting to a race start early is actually something that has taken me a long time to learn.  It gives you time to properly warm up without stress, you can “settle” your stomach (and my stomach always needs “settling” right before a race start), you get the good parking spaces, and you just worry less.  We were able to grab coffee for Wifey and I was able to get a few warm up jogs around the town square with Benny--it was his first time running and it looked like this:

 

Er, it was less blurry in real life.  Here’s a better shot after the warm up:

A few stretches and kisses later, the race took off:

Running at the end of the world, part I

Getting there is half the fun

One thing I quickly picked up on after signing up for this race is that no one knows where Mount Desert Island (MDI) is.  So to set the stage here is a map of the route from Astoria to Bar Harbor:

According to Google Maps it is a trip of eight hours and 54 minutes.  This trip involves five different states.  Effectively, we would cross all of New England…and then take a rural highway for two hours to reach this island off the coast of Maine.  By all measures, MDI is at the end of the world.

The long trip was made longer by the non-stop New England rain/drizzle/mist that plagued us all the way to MDI.  And to make it particularly New Englandy we got hit with fog on the coastal highway from I-95 to MDI.  This was no ordinary fog—this was stuff straight out of a Stephen King novel.  I could only see about ten feet in front of me and could have easily hit a car or tree.  Yikes.  Like I need to do that again.

We eventually rolled into the hotel at about 11p (we had left New York at 10a).  And I was extremely happy to be finally off the road.

The next morning we had breakfast and visited the expo.  For those of you who plan to run this race you should know that this is a race that is decidedly small and not flashy.  Compared to the uber-galactic expos for races like the NYCM or the Flying Pig, this was intentionally meant to feel like a mom-and-pop affair.  Kinda as if it were a race organized by a bunch of old school, I-don’t-care-what-the-weather-is, let’s-prepare-14-pages-of-final-race-instructions, hardy New England runners—which in fact it was.  And I was just about to find out hardy these runners were.

The other thing I quickly learned about MDI is that it is rather inhospitable place for a Marathon.  Coastal Maine in October can be rainy, windy, sunny, overcast, even snowy—or a combination there of.  And since it’s open to the Atlantic the weather is hard to predict.  In addition the terrain is mountainous—not hilly: there are a handful of actual mountains on the island. 

Post expo we drove the course, because despite the multiple warnings I refused to believe how hilly the course was until I saw it myself.  To be the honest the first couple of miles weren’t as bad as the elevation map would lead you to believe.  I was thinking to myself “this isn’t THAT bad:” some rather extreme rollers, but nothing I couldn’t easily tackle.  But around the fifteen mile mark I realized it wasn’t that there were particularly hard climbs or steep declines, but that the terrain never flattened.  Ever.  The course was basically going up or down the whole time. 

After driving the course I gave up on making anything like a PR.  For this training cycle I did the FIRST program.  Overall it was a good experience because I did feel ready to run a Marathon and all the forced cross training let me change things up to stay interested.  However, there was basically no hill training in the program and consequently I wasn’t prepared at all for the onslaught about to happen.

We had an Italian feast that evening and I was tucked away in bed by 10p.  In a fit of runner’s OCD I had scheduled out the 12 hours before race time: I went as far as to detail minute by minute what I had to do the night before and morning of the race.  This helped tremendously because for the first time ever I knew exactly what I had to do and didn’t go to sleep worried that I had forgotten something.

Race report: Marine Corp Historic Half

I’ll be honest: I’ve delayed this post a couple weeks because I am not proud of my performance at this race.  Folks, I did bad.  Especially for having just run a PR by seven minutes at my previous Half-Marathon, I did real bad.

Splits:

Mile 1: 8:16

Mile 2: 7:36

Mile 3: 8:00

Mile 4: 7:44

Mile 5: 8:21

Mile 6: 8:31

Mile 7: 8:24

Mile 8: 8:26

Mile 9: 8:33

Mile 10: 8:29

Mile 11: 11:07

Mile 12: 9:02

Mile 13.1: 9:16 (8:13 pace)

Final Stats:

Distance: 13.1

Net Time: 1:53:35

Watch Time: 1:51:45 (no potty break)

Pace: 8:40

Overall Place: 963/5697 (top 17%)

Gender Place: 774/2942 (top 26%)

Age Place: 110/335 (top 33%)

The Story:

The days leading up to this race I noticed that I just wasn’t feeling it.  I wasn’t excited for the race.  I couldn’t meet the paces on the training plan.  I wasn’t in any kind of groove.  I couldn’t really explain it.  I would wake up in the morning and just wanted to go back to sleep and I could barely fight back and pull myself out of bed.

My suspicions are threefold:

1.       I planned on running at a pace that was faster than my abilities.  So I was always tired and just couldn’t keep up with the training paces.  I’ve considered that I might have been overtraining, but I feel like I didn’t train enough to be overtrained.  I’ve run more in preparation for other races and have done just fine.

2.       This wasn’t the race I wanted to run in Virginia.  At some point I had told myself that I was going to run the Richmond Marathon as my Virginia race and got excited about that prospect, but then Fredericksburg came up and I did that.  I guess there is something significant to be said about the anxiousness that leads up to a race and your performance on race day.

3.       There were some major hurdles during training.  I had lots of travel (including a trip to Hong Kong) and lots of work—making it difficult to pay attention to my running.

So Wifey and I showed up in Fredericksburg and I was feeling iffy about the race.  I had already resigned that I was not going to make the 7:15 pace I had wanted—I could barely hold that for three miles on the treadmill, much less for 13 miles outside. 

The other bomb thrown my way was the day before the race we signed up for a walking tour of Fredericksburg.  Turns out it was over three hours and six miles.  Exactly what you should not do the day before a race, right?  However, I thought I was good to go come race eve after a hardy pasta dinner.

Race morning went off without a hitch: ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches washed down by Gatorade.  The drive to the starting area was less than 10 minutes.  And, for the first time ever, there were enough port-o-potties for the amount of people.  I’m still in a bit of shock about this one, but I realized that this event was staged like an event several times larger than it actually was—probably since these are the same people that put on the Marine Corps DC Marathon and they pour in the same amount of resources (although this only highlighted the disparity between my low level of excitement and the high level being pumped into the atmosphere).

I went for a warm up jog and ate half an apple before going into the starting corrals.  Well, what I thought was the starting corral—the staging area was really large for an event this size.  Eventually I wiggled my way into the correct area, but it was jammed with people, so I was stuck where I was (a good 25 meters behind the marker for the 1:40-1:35 finish group).

The starting musket was fired (I’m pretty sure it was a musket, they got all historical during the pre-race announcements) and the crowd surged forward.

Before the first mile marker I had already looked at my watch with the thought “ok, how long until this is over?”  That was a bad sign.  And despite getting down to goal pace in mile two, that was all the result of a long downhill stretch—when the course turned flat I was struggling to get under 8:00 minute miles.  And somewhere around Mile 5 I just gave up on pushing myself to any specific time goal—it just wasn’t in me that day.

This was all a horrible shame because this was such a well put together race and the town came out in full force to support the runners.  But worst of all, instead of hiring police officers to marshal the race, they used Marines, meaning that on every corner, at each intersection there was an active Marine in fatigues watching over us.  Let me just say I’ve never felt worse walking during a race as when I had to walk in front of Marines.

I finally gave into the demons in my head during Mile 8.  I saw a port-o-potty and just ducked in.  I had the need to go, but it wasn’t that bad of a need, nothing I haven’t convinced myself to run through in the past.  After about 90 seconds I bolted out, faintly hoping that the pit stop was what I need to fix the funk I was in. 

Then there was the set of hills in the back of the race.  If I wasn’t doing bad before, the 200ft climb that was all of Mile 10 wreaked me.  Apparently in town it’s known as hospital hill (because of the hospital on this hill) and it is a beast.  As the splits above show, that stretch leading up to marker 11 involved a lot of walking.

The good news was that after that crest I ran the rest of the course without stopping, charging up a second uphill second and picking up speed as the finish line approached.  I had enough fuel and emotional drive to charge the last 800m—although I may have been pushing a little too hard because I was going to faint before I finally crossed the finish line.

In looking at my stats, this was not a good race for me.  I did better when I ran the National Half-Marathon and I was a wreak for that race, having gotten into a car accident the day before and only getting four hours of sleep before the race.  But then I looked at my finishing percentages (i.e., I finished in the top X% of finishers) and this is actually my second best Half-Marathon—I’ve only done better at my PR race in Austin back in January.  And—mind-boggling as it is—it was the best I’ve ever placed in my age group for a long distance race (Half or Full Marathon).  WTF?  I’ll have to guess that everyone else found the course as bad as I did.

Speeding in Austin

In an uncharacteristic move I’m going to do the big reveal up front: I finished in 1:41:47!!  That’s a 7:44 pace and happens to be a new Half-Marathon PR by almost seven minutes!  Other milestones for this race:

·         First long distance race (i.e., Half for full Marathon) that I’ve run at sub-8:00 pace

·         First time I’ve ever sustained this pace for more than six miles

·         First net downhill race (there were still hills mind you)

·         First race that I showed up early for

·         First race I ran with heart burn

While I missed my goal time by 48 seconds, I will gladly take it.  Having run this race so well, having shaven off seven minutes from my PR, and proving that I have a faster runner inside of me—that makes all the effort worth it.  To keep things moving, let start with the splits:

Splits

Mile 1: 7:34

Mile 2: 6:43*

Mile 3: 9:20 (registered as 1.21 miles, pace: 7:43)

Mile 4: 7:42

Mile 5: 7:14

Mile 6: 8:10

Mile 7: 8:00

Mile 8: 7:52

Mile 9: 7:48

Mile 10: 7:56

Mile 11: 7:54

Mile 12: 7:28

Mile 13.1: 8:00 (7:14 pace)

Final Stats:

Distance: 13.1

Net Time: 1:41:47

Pace: 7:44

Overall Place: 544/4515 (top 12%)

Gender Place: 408/1915 (top 21%)

Age Place: 60/170 (top 35%)

*It was dark and I’ve kinda gotten out of the habit of wearing Fenny (my Garmin), so I accidentally stopped Fenny at Mile 2 instead of lapping.  This number is the difference between Fenny’s time and my chip time and reflects .82 miles that I had my watch turned off.

Story

It’s getting harder and harder to remember what happens out there on the course.  I’ll scratch part of it up to not being as excited for Half-Marathons as I used to be, so I’m less attentive on the course.  Then this course wasn't scenic or particularly memorable—the real hallmark is the 300 meter net drop.  On top of that I was running with a much, much faster group this time around.  The 1:40 group is very different from the 1:50 crowd I’m used to.  There is little frivolity here: it’s a more hard-core-I’ve-got-pavement-to-kick-I-will-run-you-over atmosphere.  As the first time experiencing this it’s a bit frightening.

I ended up getting to the starting line way earlier than usual.  This wasn’t the best race in terms of pushing information out to runners—we ended up arriving for a 6:15a start, when the race really started at 6:45a.  But it all worked to my advantage.  First off, all the stress of getting there were off because there was no traffic and plenty of parking.  Second, there were no lines at the port-o-potties: I had my pick of clean, unused plastic out houses.

Over the next 45 minutes, runners arrived by the truckload.  Soon enough I was eating an apple (final food/sugar intake) and heading over to the starting corral with Wifey and our friend C.  I kissed Wifey goodbye and gave a hug/thanks-for-driving-this-early to C and then wiggled my way halfway between the 1:40 and 1:45 pace groups.  While standing there I felt the first few drops of rain—I was in complete denial because rain was not in the forecast and we were in central Texas (it just doesn’t rain here during the winter).  I had a flashback to the Portland Marathon that was all rain and then quickly shut that down—no negative thoughts before a race.

The gun fired and the corral swept me away—there was no false start or casual walk to the start line, these Texans go immediately from zero to run.

The first couple of miles were a negotiation.  I didn’t want to go out too fast, but I couldn’t go out too slow.  Heart burn appeared pretty early in the race and subsided for a brief time if I managed to burp—odd, no?  It wasn’t until the 1:45 pacer appeared over my left shoulder somewhere between Mile markers 3 and 4 that I told myself to stop dicking around and kick up the pace—if the 1:45 group was getting ready to pass me I was definitely slacking.

After a mile or so I got the 1:45 group behind me and out of ear shot, thanks to some long downhill stretches.

By the halfway point I saw that I was tracking pretty well on my time.   Probably because of that I eased up a bit and that’s why there are those random 8:00 splits at Mile 6 and 7.  But after Mile 7 I locked onto one guy wearing a San Antonio RnR Marathon shirt who seemed to be running at my goal pace.  I tacked onto him and let him do the driving.  (Look at me borrowing strategies from the elites!)

By Mile 9 I was in a full groove—I wasn’t necessarily hitting my goal pace, but I was cranking out as hard as I could.  I hit a series of songs on Liam (my iPod) that I could sing along to and I was that annoying guy singing loudly to music only he could hear.  My apologies to the more disciplined runners.

The last three miles went by incredibly fast.  There were no turns and it was all downhill.  I knew the PR was waiting for me, but because I had turned off Fenny for Mile 2 I had no idea what I was actually going to finish at, so I started throwing it all out there.   At the Mile 12 marker I went into free for all mode and must have passed at least a dozen runners.  After spurring off onto Trinity St there was a clear downhill view of the finish line five blocks away.  I didn’t get the tremendous kick that I normally get at the end of races (probably because I spent everything on the course) but I got a nice kick regardless and I was over the finish line faster than I thought possible.

I scoured for milk immediately after crossing the finish line—the heartburn was still killing me.  But no luck.  Wifey and C’s mom found me within a couple minutes of crossing the finish line.  After eating a banana and getting a few stretches in, I fought my way to the results board and scanned for a while to find my name.  I passed the 1:43s and the 1:42s.  I found my name finally—holy crap, those numbers are mine?  That blew me away.  I trained for a harder pace and I actually (more or less) did it, and in the process brought my PR down by seven minutes.  Insane.  A goofy smile spread across my face that I couldn’t wipe off.

We celebrated with a huge breakfast at Kerbey Lane Café where I was finally able to down about a quart of milk, followed by fried eggs over sweet potato hash, home fries, sausage, and Texas toast.  We napped until 3p as a delicious post-race food coma set in.

Twenty-Six Miles through a Lake, Part III

Race statistics are like porn to runners, and Portland had no shortage of runner’s porn.

Starting off with the basics here's how I did:

Looking at these stats, Portland is actually now the best race I've run (on paper).  While I didn't get a PR I did finish in the top 18% of overall finishers, the only time I've done better than that was the Warrior Dash a few weeks back--and that wasn't really a running contest.  For Gender place, it's a tie with the Delaware Marathon at top 30%, and for age group it's my best Marathon performance by 1%.  I'm interpreting these numbers to mean that even that I may have been having a crappy day, everyone else was having a crappier day--which makes me feel better about the whole race.  It lets me know I didn't completely squander this easy course. 

I should note there are discrepancies between some of the reporting (finish time, number of runners, etc.) depending on where you get them from.  I went with the numbers on the results website since those appear to be the most robust.

The race also recorded quite a few split times.  I find this funny because the race didn't have clocks at the mile markers, but they did have timing mats to record splits.  I would think that you would want to provide clocks before providing splits.  Anywho, here's how I was pacing during various parts of the race, looks like I was doing pretty well (but notice there is no split for the final 5 miles):

It's pretty cool that the race provided all these stats.  Especially since it didn't register when I marked the finish on Fenny--the Garmin download says I ran for 36.7 miles in 7:21:15.  Even though I got every split on the course, I didn't get the most important one--despite race pictures showing me hitting my watch while I crossed the finish line!

In addition to the splits above, there were some cool graphics that the results website provided.  This first screen shows my placing in the various groups in a graph form.  But the coolest thing on this page is the box on the bottom right where it reports how many I passed (223!!) in the last 10K and how many people passed me (just 26?).  That's a huge ego boost.

This second screen has interesting ways of presenting my averages during the race (average mile, average kilometer, average speed).  There is also a diagram of the finish area when I crossed the finish line.  I have no idea how they did this, but it shows everyone that was immediately before and after me in the race.  And when you hover over those dots on the site, the name and time difference pops up underneath the dot.  Pretty freakin' cool.

This last screen is also interesting.  The map shows you 1) where you were when the overall winner finished, 2) where you were when the female winner finished, and 3) where the average runner was when you finished the race.  There's also that bar chart off to the right with average speed for each quarter of the race.  On the site if you hover over those numbers it provides the exact timing and distance for those splits.  Pretty cool.

Now that I've looked at the numbers I realize that things weren't that bad.  This was actually a good race.  The bitching and griping has to be done in order to come to the conclusion that the bitching and griping aren't all that necessary: I still conquered the Marathon (again!!) and I still ran my best.

Twenty-Six Miles through a Lake, Part II

The Splits:

Mile 1: 8:51 (recorded as 1.17 miles)

Mile 2: 9:28

Mile 3: 9:09

Mile 4: 8:32

Mile 5: 8:38

Mile 6: 8:25

Mile 7: 8:51

Mile 8: 8:33

Mile 9: 8:20

Mile 10: 8:25

Mile 11: 8:20

Mile 12: 8:55

Mile 13: 8:24

Mile 14: 9:03

Mile 15: 8:00

Mile 16: 8:32

Mile 17: 8:55

Mile 18: 8:18

Mile 19: 7:46 (recorded as .9 miles)

Mile 20: 9:41 (recorded as 1.12 miles)

Mile 21: 8:29

Mile 22: 8:24

Mile 23: 8:42

Mile 24: 8:38

Mile 25: 9:21

Mile 26: ???

Mile 26.2: ???

The Story:

To say I was happy with this race would be a lie.  Fortunately, with time all races develop a particular patina where I appreciate the things I gained while training and while on the course and overall the memory becomes a series of positive takeaways instead of a chain of challenges that systematically bore me down.   Unfortunately, this race hasn’t completely developed that patina yet.  It still feels like a non-accomplishment that I need to trick myself into believing was a great achievement.

What is holding me back from enjoying this race as yet another triumph over the Marathon is that I am tired of complaining.  Every time I run a race I have a series of excuses and bitchings as to why it wasn’t my perfect race. 

As a seasoned Marathoner I feel I don’t have the right to complain anymore.  I lost that right somewhere along the way because at this point I know what to expect, I know what I’ve signed up for, I know how to prepare for it, and I know what will happen afterward.  If this all caught me by surprise I’d be correct to complain about it.  But I know what’s coming and I do prepare for it.  So it still catches me off guard when after a race all I can list is the things that went wrong and the things I can improve for next time.

In order to set this right I need to embrace complaint as part of the process; have a bit of catharsis before the euphoria.  It’s only through a thorough hashing of 100 things that I perceive to have gone wrong that I can truly inventory and appreciate the 1,000 things that went right.  With this in mind I will proceed with the complaints.

While running this race I knew about four miles in that it would be a long race.  The miles weren’t passing by as quickly as they normally do during a race.  This isn’t a comment on my speed, it a comment on my mental state.  Usually I can get about halfway through a race just on excitement and the real racing doesn’t come until after the halfway mark.  But with this race I remember specifically looking at my watch before Mile Five and thinking “OK, when is this going to be over?”  That was bad.

Of course I blame the rain for this, but I also blame my reliance on my Garmin too.  At the start I knew the GPS signal wasn’t registering, so my splits would be a bit off.  But then my first split came back at 8:51: about appropriate for the first cluttered mile of a race if I’m shooting for an 8:24 pace.  However, I didn’t see until after I loaded the race into my computer that the GPS signal registered within the first block of the race and that the first split registered as 1.17 miles instead of one so that I had a pace of 7:35 for that first mile.  Now that probably explains why it felt so difficult to get into a proper pace during those first few miles, which probably explains the erratic pacing later in the race too.

A brutal truth about this race is that large chunks of it are just not pretty.  I can count at least nine miles (five through 11 and 13 through 16) that went through warehouse districts, large rail yards, or remote strips of highway lined by industrial businesses with large parking lots.  And it’s not the race directors’ fault.  The geography of Portland is essentially a valley: stray too far away from downtown/the river and you run into hills.  It is actually quite an accomplishment that there is only one significant hill on the entire course.  But those lonely miles do take a toll on you, especially the strip from Mile 13 to 16.

Speaking of the hill, it was a mighty climb and I loved every single second of it.  With everything else on the course virtually flat, it was a relief to climb up the 205 foot rise of the St. Johns Bridge.  My quads came alive with power, their stores of energy finally being tapped.  I passed people left and right, as if it were the easiest thing to do.  This was the part of the race I loved the most—and I felt a little sad once I reached the peak knowing that there were essentially no more hills for the rest of the race.

On the other side of the bridge the crowds were great and essentially did not stop until the next bridge some seven miles later.  Actually, I was really impressed with the crowd turnout at this race.  Portlanders were great at coming out in the non-stop rain and cheering on runners.  The kids were also never afraid to take a hi-five from a soaked runner.  The volunteer turnout was also incredible: each water station easily had 25 people handing out liquids and for a race of 12,000 that is a luxurious ratio (I never had to worry about getting water).

The only bad thing about this the race after the St. Johns Bridge was that to the right you basically had an uninterrupted view of downtown (the finish line) behind a whitewash fog.  Something about that made the finish line seem so far away.  It was also in these miles that I started to feel the absence of my water bottle.  I noticed halfway between water stations that I wanted water and that I couldn’t turn to my hand and get it.  While I had appreciated having both hands free during the race, I saw that I really needed a steady flow of liquids during these last six or so miles.

Besides the rain, missing water bottle, and choppy pacing I really thought I was doing well.  And up until Mile 24 I was still looking at a PR—not 3:40, but something like 3:45 or 3:46.  Then it just all got really hairy after that.  Since the halfway point I could feel my stomach aching for more food (despite a steady schedule of GU every 45 minutes).  I could also feel cramps going through my abdomen (a sure sign that I should have stayed in that port-o-potty a little longer before the race).  Knowing that the finish line was close only made those sensations worse.

Despite only having two miles to go I couldn’t muster up enough good thoughts to keep me plowing through.  Or maybe I had forgotten to focus on the good thoughts once I got to this point. 

On the other side of the Broadway Bridge I started to feel the weight of the previous miles upon me.  My knees were starting to worry me because for the preceding weeks they had been aching more than usual and feeling weird and for some reason I couldn’t find my heating pad to make them feel better.  Trying to envision the finish line was useless because of all the tall buildings and street names were unfamiliar—I had no idea where it was and could only tell you it was not close enough.

All of these things compounded into a weird heart burn/stomach cramp/gas bubble/stitch flare up concentrated in the area at the bottom of my chest sternum.  I felt myself start to hobble and then uncontrollably started walking.

“Fuck,” is all I could say.  Less than a mile to the finish line and I had to stop to walk.  I felt like I let myself down, but it was something I could recover from.  About 30 seconds later I picked it up again set on making it to the finish from there.  But a minute or two later I stopped again from the same pain.  The second walking break felt like failure.  That was where I realized that the PR would not happen and that I felt I let the race get the best of me.  That hurt in a way that was trivial (I was still going to finish a Marathon!) and soul shattering (I couldn’t perform despite my hardest effort).  And that is the same thing that prevents me from coming to good terms with Portland today. 

When I felt better and finally recognized where I was (only four blocks from the finish line) I started running determined to not stop until the finish line.  And I did.  I unzipped my wind breaker (never ended up taking it off due to the rain) to show my bib number, which had my name printed in all caps on it.  Sure enough people started yelling my name.  Though it was vain it was great.  Despite the shortcomings of the previous mile, I crossed the finish line as I always do: running hard and strong, blasting any doubt that I once again defeated the juggernaut.

Final Numbers:

Net Time: 3:49:00

Overall place: 1388/7835 (top 18% of finishers)

Men: 1025/3407 (top 30%)

M25-29: 160/437 (top 37%)

Twenty-Six Miles through a Lake, Part I

Marathons are run come hell or high water.  Well, I got the latter.

The forecast I posted ten days prior of partly cloudly and 62 never happened.  The very next day the forecast changed to 50% chance of showers and only went up from there.  Even the night before the race, when the local weather man forecasted the rain to start an hour after the race start—even that delay didn’t happen.

This was my first race in the northwest and fate had decided it was going to be a quintessential experience, climate and all.  When we got to the lobby and looked out the front doors my heart sank.  Sheets of rain were dancing across the street.  A curtain of water was pouring over the awning.  We huddled under our one umbrella and went out into the downpour. 

As we walked the ten blocks to staging area, more and more runners joined the trek.  Some were carrying umbrellas, others wearing ponchos—several pragmatic ones were wearing garbage bags.  I thought the garbage bag was a good idea: the jacket I was wearing was no match for the elements, one minute out from under the umbrella and I’d be soaked.

A block away from the starting area we ducked out of the crowd and into a covered area in front of a building.  It was still very dark, the rain and clouds prevented any light.  I went through my stretches while I was still mostly dry and had the space.  I started eating an apple, but knew that I probably didn’t have quite enough food inside of me.  For the previous 72 hours I had been a nervous wreck between staying up late to pack, squeezing a ten hour work day into seven, taking a transcontinental flight, all mixed with the anxiety that comes with a Marathon.  And when I get stressed, I don’t eat—my stomach just locks up, to the point that the day before I had to force myself to eat lunch and dinner because I just didn’t have an appetite.

Even while eating the apple, I could feel my body saying “I don’t want this.”  Getting down two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches earlier that morning was already a major effort.  But I forced myself to eat as much as possible of the apple as you can see here in the moments before I entered the starting corrals:





Note: when I said “human baggage” I actually meant the people accompanying the runners (like Wifey was accompanying me) not their actual personal effects.

It doesn’t come out so well in the video but I was mentally stuck between “I don’t want to run in the rain,” “I don’t want to be on camera,” “where is the nearest port-o-potty,” and “how much more of this apple can I take?”  The surroundings were equally discordant: runners trying to stay dry under ledges, a giant crowd of runners trying to get through one gate in the fence, marshals calling out directions, humming generators from the flood lights, the faint smell of port-o-potties.

I kissed my videographer goodbye and wiggled into the mob.

Once past the security fence I went immediately to the port-o-potty lines.  Geez, there are never enough of these.  Right before my turn to go in I decided to go for quick 30 second jog around an empty area of the start.  When I hopped back in line I was ready to, um, go.

After the pitch black port-o-potty there was about 10 minutes left before the start of the race.  I went over to my starting corral.  Not sure how, but somehow I was placed in the second corral just behind the elites/really fast people.  I found a dry spot off to the side under a tree and waited. 

At this point the rain had gone from downpour to drizzle to almost gone back to drizzle.  I just accepted the fact that I was going to have to run in the rain for this race and that I would be very wet.  I thought of the previous times that I had run in the rain and nothing bad happened then—I was just running wet.  And then I realized: I left my water bottle with Wifey.  I had meant to grab it when I grabbed the apple, but didn’t.  I scanned the crowd near the fence to spot her umbrella, but no luck.  And with only minutes before the start I couldn’t step out and find her.

I hadn’t run a race without a water bottle in years.  And I had run all my other Marathons with a water bottle.  Funny, it was going to be my wettest race ever, but my first without a water bottle.

As they sounded the wheelchair start I went over my basic game plan: get down to an 8:24 pace as quickly as possible and then hold it for as long as possible.  That pace would get me a 3:40 finish.  I also remembered to turn on my Garmin.

After the horn sounded for the runner start I figured that all the corrals would be released at once.  But when my corral (B) shifted to where corral A was they held us back.  Not only had they corralled runners according to pace, but they were spacing apart the corral releases by about a minute.  Something I think was very smart.

In the seconds before they released my corral I looked at my Garmin, it still hadn’t registered a GPS signal.  Uh oh.  It was taking longer than it should to get the signal, probably because of the weather and tall buildings surrounding the start.  So I assumed I would have some choppy splits for the first couple miles: one more atypical thing to juggle during this race. 

And then they counted down for our start:

Warriorhood

The Warrior dash was two weekends ago and it did not underpromise.  Half-way through this 5K I was already fantasizing about it being over.  But I'm already psyched about doing it next year, and next time in costume.

Here is my group about 15 minutes before the start of the race.  Yes, there was face paint and furry viking hats with tusks involved.  Oddly enough, we were downright conservative when you compared us to the clan of red Avatar characters, clans of Scotsmen, and squad of girls in 80's prom dresses.














The race started with an uphill dash--up a ski slope.  Most people made it only a few hundred meters before having to walk.  I held out for about a quarter mile before realizing that I shouldn't kill myself at the onset of the race.  There would be plenty of obstacles later to blow my energy on.

The first obstacle was a tire run on a plateau halfway up the ski slope.  Then a little further ahead was a series of chest high barricades I had to jump over.  After another third of ski slope uphill (I was mostly walking at this point) there was a crawl through (clean) sewer tubes about 25m long.

The first downhill was a relief--no more walking.  But the problem with going down a ski slope is that it is so steep you couldn't pick up your speed, because then you'd topple over.  At the end of this first taste of downhill was a nasty surprise: a shoulder high pond that was freezing cold.  It's probably 60 degrees, but it was frigid compared to the heat radiating from my body from the uphill runs.  I walked/swam through the length of the pond, about 50m, and emerged victorious on the other side:

The next segment of the race was series of sharp downhills combined with long muddy cuts across and wooded trails between the slopes.  In the middle of this craziness I took a tumble and rolled onto my knee.  I rolled right out of it into a run, but I could feel the scrape on my right knee stinging from the dirt and sweat.

After more downhill/mud/woods there was a short plank bridge to scramble across and then a cargo net.  Before the race I was most afraid of the cargo net obstacle, thinking that I'd lose ridiculous amounts of time on it because I have zero upper body strength.  But when I saw the net, it was all of 20 feet high, and I easily scaled over it to the home sprint.

The last bit of the race (all within a quarter mile) was a series of three obstacles.  After the only downhill where I could actually sprint came the first obstacle: the longest slip n slide you could ever imagine.  I slid belly down through sprays of water on a tarp tunnel for about 25m.  Not only was this tough on my abs and man parts (it felt like the tarp was over gravel!) but after knocking into a girl at the end of the slide I realized that my contacts were all sprayed out of place--and maybe had even fallen out.  

I did a bit of a Frankenstein walk, afraid that I wouldn't be able to see for the last two obstacles.  But after playing around with my eyes a bit my contacts fell back into place.  With my eyes set I got a running start to leap over the next obstacle: two rows of flaming coals.

I flew over both rows of without hesitation (or burnt hair) and dove right into the last and signature obstacle: a crawl through the mud under barbed wire.  It wasn't pretty.  It was totally designed to guarantee that you leave this mud run filthy dirty.  Oh, and how dirty I was:

After emerging from the mud I bolted for the finish line, which was a few short yards away.

Final Numbers (as if this was a serious race):

Net Time: 34:02 (10:32 pace)

Overall place: 409/5020 (top 8% of finishers)

M25-29: 110/751 (top 15%)

Afterward, I took my best victory pose.  Um, not my best work:

Perhaps it would have been better if I was also ripping into a giant roasted turkey leg at the same.

The rest of my group straggled in afterward--I came in second from our group of 10ish.

Victory tasted like...well it tasted like dirt.  Sweet, sweet dirt.

SOS kicks off with a fizzle

Hindsight is always 20/20, isn't it? I realize now that I probably shouldn't have picked the JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge as the kick off to my Summer Of Speed. For starters the race is an irregular distance: 3.5 miles. A few less tenths of a mile and it would have been a 5K (one would wonder why it they didn't do that). Then, there were the 14,000 runners. For such a short race that is a friggin nightmare. But none the less, I counted it as the official kick-off to my SOS (borrowed generously from Nitmos).

The event is a corporate charity run (and walk as I found out) benefiting the Central Park Conservancy. My office organized a team and paid for the entry fees, so when I saw the email I was one of the first to sign up. The race was also exactly one month after the Delaware Marathon, so I figured I had plenty of time to switch out my Marathon legs for 5K legs.

Lesson #1 from the JPMCCC: I have never had 5K legs. By training and by racing I am a long distance runner. For six years I have only run Half-Marathons and Marathons (except for one 5K and one 10K). So training for this race was exceptionally awkward. The biggest problem was that I would wake up to go running and then I would think "it's only a three mile run, it won't hurt if I miss it" and then went back to sleep. And then when I did run my legs were super sore. I'm not used to being sore after every single run--at least that hasn't happened in a very long time. Hopefully this means this SOS will break out some long dormant muscles.

On race day (Wednesday) me and a couple of coworkers gathered up to head uptown together. We were all dressed up in running shorts and the team t-shirt when the head of our East Coast operations (my boss's boss's boss) passes by and starts chatting us up. Since I'm the "professional" runner he singles me out and says that if I don't finish in the top five I can consider myself fired. Actually, he grabs a sharpie from a desk and writes that ultimatum on my t-shirt. Great. No pressure.

Since we're running late when we get off the train at Columbus Circle me and my coworkers decided to "warm up" with a run from Columbus Circle to Tavern on the Green.

Lesson #2 from the JPMCC: running with a backpack is difficult. Worse than running at a sprint is running at a sprint with a back pack full of work clothes. It actually wore me out pretty bad--and that was before I got to the bag drop off for my company.

We put our bags down and stretched before walking over to the massive mess that was the starting line. I didn't realize how far back we were because the starting chute wrapped around a curve. But once the crowd started moving I saw that we were waaaay far back in the non-competitive section (excuse me: non-competitive? That's a joke, right?). After we passed the non-competitive banner then came the markers for 12 minute pace, 11 minute pace, 10 minute pace, and so on. We were essentially with the walkers and knew that we would be weaving through the crowd the entire way.

Lesson #3 from the JPMCC: weaving through a entire race is like cross training in the middle of a tempo run. Weaving through the crowd the entire race felt like I was alternating between a tempo run and calisthenics. There was no way to get to my goal race pace of 7:15 and I was constantly shuffling, hopping, skipping, passing, and dodging. It was an entirely different workout than I'm used when I run.

I immediately lost my coworkers in the crowd. I was so focused on making my way through the crowd that I didn't see the first mile marker. For someone used to running long distances where there are usually sections of the race when you're all alone, this literally was a nightmare.

Lesson #4 from the JPMCC: team t-shirts should be recognizable from a distance. I work in an ad agency, and while it's not the type of ad agency that produces advertisements we nonetheless have professional designers on staff to make presentations and such look good. Apparently, no one in my office thought of tapping one of those designers for a t-shirt. Our team t-shirts were plain white t-shirts with the company logo on the front and some uninspired words on the back. Finding one of my coworkers was impossible in that crowd.

Even though our t-shirts were hard to find, I did eventually find a coworker in the distance near mile 1.5. I tried to lock-in on him but I couldn't close in because of the crowd and the weaving that had tired me out prematurely. But at least I had that goal to pass him (remember, I had to finish in the top five if I wanted to keep my job) and that kept me going through the race.

On the final downhill (cat hill) I made up a significant amount of space between me and my other coworker and finally passed him just after the boathouse. Then was the unforgiving 90 degree turn just before the finish line and the even less forgiving uphill to the finish line.

Lesson #5 from the JPMCC: that was the worst finishing chute experience ever. One of my co-workers pointed out that between my finish and his finish about 800 people crossed the finish line.  Want to guess the amount of time that passed between our finishes?  Thirty seconds.  With that many people crushing at the finish line it was like running into a wall at the end.  Actually, I did run into two people who slowed do faster than me.

I finished the race in 28:11, a pace of 8:03.  However, according to Fenny I managed to run an extra .1 miles, bringing my adjusted pace to 7:53.  While this was about 45 seconds slower than I intended on finishing, it sets an incredibly low bar for the SOS.  I can only go up from here.  Hooray for optimism!

Running in circles, Part III

Splits:
Mile 14: 7:36

Mile 15: 8:31

Mile 16: 8:13

Mile 17: 8:22

Mile 18: 8:16

Mile 19: 8:32

Mile 20: 8:34

Mile 21: 8:50

Mile 22: 8:40

Mile 23: 8:47

Mile 24: 8:39

Mile 25: 8:39

Mile 26: 8:38

Mile 26.2: 1:26

Story:

The first loop of the second lap was an out and back along the waterfront—a bit different from the first pass at this loop when the course snaked around office parks and shopping centers.  This route was narrower, but more scenic.  Taking a look at my time I knew I was doing well but didn’t want to let that go to my head and sudden burn out.  I always feel weakest at those high-teen miles (17-19), and if I’m burnt out by then I know it will be a bad race (see The Pig).

However, at the turn around on this loop I could see that the blonde girl, who I thought I had finally shaken, was just a couple meters behind me.  I knew I couldn’t take it easy on this loop if I was going to stay ahead.

As I got back to the nexus of the course I saw Wifey again with camera in hand.  I learned later that she had been standing in the same exact place during the first lap, but I totally missed her.  I maneuvered my way through the narrow course and sharp turn through the relay exchange, hoping to not bump into a barricade (this area was extremely tight!).

Entering the second (and final!) loop of the second lap I started to pay some serious attention to my stomach.  Essentially since Mile Three it was telling me it had to go to the bathroom.  At first I thought it was just a one off wave, but it kept coming back every 15-20 minutes.  For about 12 miles I was trying to decide between taking a preemptive bathroom visit now, take the time hit, and then proceed knowing it was over, or press chance and plow thorough the last 11 miles and run the risk of a major issue down the line.  My head was saying to press on, but knowing that there was another pass at that big hill coming up I knew I had to listen to my body more.

At the same time I could feel the eyes of the blonde girl burning into the back of my head.  I would hear her get close and then I would pull away.  And then she’d get close again, and I’d pull away again.  And while that was fine for the flat part of the race, the hills were going to start and I was already pressing my pace into the 8:13 area.  I didn’t need someone forcing me to go too fast when I was holding down stomach issues.

Finally, around Mile 16 I gave up and decided that I wasn’t going to pull away from the blonde girl this time.  If she takes me over on these hills, well, then she would just be the better runner.  My 20-something-year-old-who’s-out-to-prove-himself ego would just have to be shelved for now.  But then something weird happened.  She parked herself on my right and did not pass me.  Through downtown we ran step in step.  We never got further in front of each other than a foot or two.

After about 20 minutes of this, I turned to her and said “hi.”  She turned to me and in a too loud voice said hi back and said that I’m really good at pacing myself and that she had been behind me the whole race (Ha!  As if I didn’t know).   She asked if we were going to make it under four hours and I told her at the pace we’re going we’ll make it under 3:50.  I didn’t even get to tell her that I was trying to make 3:40 because she quickly said that she was listening to really loud music and “let’s just run.”  While I appreciate the purist approach to running, I wasn’t exactly looking for someone to share my life story with.  I was just opening up the dialogue between us new-found running partners.  So I left it at that.

By this point we were crossing the Swinging Bridge again, where I had noticed her the first time.  I knew that there was now less than a mile before the big climb and that I should really find a port-o-potty, especially since my stomach was flaring up again.  I knew there was a port-o-potty halfway up the hill, but I would have to cross oncoming runners to get to it and would have a blind approach (and therefore I wouldn't be able to tell if there was a line).

But magically an empty port-o-potty appeared half-way along the course to the climb.  There was no line and the color on the handle was green—it was empty!  Knowing that the blonde girl was listening to loud music and that my decision to stop was made in about .68 seconds I gave her no warning.  I saw her head flick back around when I peeled off and headed into the bathroom.

Ninety seconds later I was back the course—perhaps the quickest time that the Browns have ever made it to the Super Bowl.  On the approach to the switchback where the climb started I saw the blonde pass me and marked the time.  I saw that I was about 1.5 minutes behind her.  In my head the intention was to catch up to her, and 1.5 minutes shouldn’t be too hard to make up, but I knew that would be a big task with the mile of climbing in front of me. 

I slowed down ridiculously on that hill, but this late in the race if I didn't slow down I was never going to make it.  Even though it was the same exact hill I had passed just two hours earlier it felt like it had tripled in difficulty.  The last 200m I could feel the energy pouring out with every step, and the scary thing was that the energy was not being replaced by more energy, it was getting replaced by tiredness--it was the closest I came to stopping during the whole race.  I was never so happy to see a Mile Marker as when I saw 20 at the crest of that hill.

Then started the twisty-turny section of the loop with sixteen turns in three miles.  While I should have been happy that this part was flat I felt like I didn't have anything left.  I guess I'm used to running on bridges and rollers here in NYC, so every uphill is followed immediately by a downhill.  Climbing for 10 minutes and then just going flat is not something I'm used to doing.  This section was going to be hard and it didn't help that the sun had just come out at full strength, bringing the temperature up at least 10 degrees from the starting time.  I did everything I could to distract myself until the downhill stretch where I would have some relief.

After all sixteen turns I came on the long downhill through a shady park.  I hoped to regain my speediness on the downhill, but I simply couldn't.  I was zapped, the special sauce--the gravvy--was gone, the hill had sucked it all out.  I kept on trying to push myself faster but according to Fenny my body was not responding.  I saw the miles creep higher and higher--23, 24, 25--but nothing, I could get nothing additional out of my legs, confirmed by the approaching hill I had to now pass to get through downtown.

On that last hill I looked at Fenny.  My top goal of 3:40 was out of reach, but a PR was completely doable.  Barring any disaster in the last mile I could "easily" make a sub-3:50.  So I didn't give up looking for gravvy, even though I knew I had none left. 

That last mile there was a guy close to my age who was running the last mile in fits and spats (run for a minute or two and then walk, and so on).  I was keeping a steady pace so we passed each several times in the course of the mile.  At Mile Marker 26 I passed him while he was walking and I shouted "Come on buddy, you're not walking now!"  He picked up the speed and came up next to me and said that's what he needed to finish.  He told me his name, where he was from, that his PR was 4:00 (or around there?), and that he was trying to break it.  I little shocked that he was bounding with this much energy at the end of the Marathon and that he had no clue what his finish time was going to be.  I told him he was going to break that PR for sure and probably shave off more than ten minutes.  He sounded really happy about that and sped off around the corner to the finish line.

I tried to use my grappling hook on him, but that was busted too.  And thanks to the two left turns to get to the finish line he was out of my site in seconds.  So I poured it on as much as I could--and it was definitely all I had left because my calves cramped up during those strides to the end.  In a tip of my hat to my great run at the Breakers Marathon I hopped on the timing mat to make sure it read my chip.

Final Numbers:

Net Time: 3:47:01

Watch Time: 3:45:33 (no potty break)

Overall place: 133/555 (top 24% of finishers)

Men: 105/345 (top 30%)

M25-29: 13/28 (top 46%)

While I didn't feel like this was my best race while running it, numberwise it was one of my best runs, second only to the 5K I ran in 2008.  And now that I'm squarely in the top 25 percent of finishers I somewhat feel like I can say that I've moved on from the middle of the pack.  Hooray!