Not dead

I'm still here. It's just with the constant run around associated with visiting my family in Miami I've haven't had a moment to sit down and blogicate. Heck, I've barely been able to get a run in these past two weeks (Saturday I did three miles, and before that I think I went for a three mile run the week prior). Can I really call myself a runner still?

One thing is for sure: when we get back to New York I'm diving headfirst into training.

Pop bits 1

Part of my work is to stay on top of consumer trends and be abreast of all things pop culture. While normally this involves broad ideas like knowing the percent of homes using DVRs and how to use Twitter as a marketing tool, there is are a thousand smaller bits of popular that I'm exposed to in the process. I'll come across a cool blog or interesting Google anomaly or funny picture and have a great laugh to myself--and then that's where it usually ends.

But that stops today.

I figure I have a lot of interesting stuff to share and this blog (while mostly running focused) does needs a little diversion. Well. It needs that much more than it needs another five part race report. So every now and then, probably weekly, I'll be sharing Pop bits that I think are interesting.

That's the whole plan I've got for now. Let's see where it goes.

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• Cake Wrecks - this is hands down one of my favorite sites on the interwebs. It's basically a site about baking gone wrong: horribly, horribly wrong. Admitedly the concept doesn't sound that funny, but there are some bad cakes out there and the commentary is f*ing unbelievable. I can no longer look at this blog at work because I get so many stares from the laughter. For example, scroll down to the 12/17 post on Santa cakes and look at the second cake. Hilarity will ensue.

• Google confirms: one is the lonliest number. Here's a neat trick: go to Google and search for "the lonliest number." Look at the results. Specifically look at the very first result from Google Calculator.

• More Google Fun--this time in French! Here's another Google trick: go to Google and search for "french military victories" and then hit "I'm Feeling Lucky." The result is brilliant.

• No man could measure up. A church in New Zealand is causing a stir with this billboard.

• Martha, did you really not know? Craftiness incarnated Martha Stewart had Snoop Dog on her show this week. Who thought this was a good idea? And who--who--had the cruel humor to have them bake brownies together?
  
  

• Octopuses just got cooler. In addition to their color-changing abilities, shape-shifting bodies, suction cup covered legs, and all-around bad ass demeanor, octopuses have now learned how to defend themselves with coconut shells. The article is here, but you know you just want to see the video. For some reason, I feel like this is one of the bosses from Super Mario Galaxy:

Gym carnies: Yo Adrian!

Gym carnies is an irregular series about the curious characters and intriguing individuals that people my gym. After a summer away from the gym, I'm heading back, but this time to a gym by my new office with a whole new set of gym carnies to rant about.
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I showed up at the new gym knowing that I'd have to put up with some kind of membership representative first. You know these people: they look jacked on the juice, are super-excited about everything, and have the cunning ability to back you into a corner to sign up for a two membership because they "like you so much, I'll give you my friends and family discount." I don't like these people. I know exactly what I want in a gym and I don't need you to force your gym down my throat thankyouverymuch.

When I presented my one-day pass at the front desk they immediately call up a membership representative. The guy who shows up could not have fit the profile any better. He wore a skin tight t-shirt and had pecs like balloons. He shook my hand right, flashed a coverboy smile, and instantly started dropping words like "bro" and "dude." For some reason Rocky Balboa saying "Yo Adrian!" flashed into my head, and it stuck. I was calling him "Yo Adrian!" in my head for the rest of the day.

He took me on a tour of the facility, which I have to admit was pretty nice. Although I always find the locker room portion so friggin awkward. Here we are, two fully dressed guys (me still in my jacket from outside), walking into a room full of bucknakedness. And me, charged with the role of attentive potential member, have to look around examining the place's details like the ample rows of lockers and the old men who walk around without a towel. Ew.

At the end of the tour we sat down at Yo Adrian!'s desk and he gave me the run down of what membership costs. I immediately thought: all you did was walk me around the place and you're already talking money. Jeez. Fortunately, a while back I discovered the trump card to get you essentially out of any uncomfortable situation, just say the words "I have to talk to my wife about this." Bam. It's over. No one can come back to that.

After that I quickly changed into my running clothes and hopped on a treadmill. During the whole run I felt like I was cheating. It felt so artificial and cheap, as if I was used to eating Kobe steaks and then suddenly someone slipped me a hamburger. I didn't like it, but I knew that it was pretty much my only option for winter running.

Afterwards I took a shower and headed back to work. The whole ordeal lasted 90 minutes (including Yo Adrian!'s spiel), which I could probably get down to 60 minutes and fit conveniently within my lunch time. Ha, after all these years of thinking it was impossible, here I am seriously figuring out how to get my runs in during lunch.

That evening I go home and actually do talk about it with my wife. Turns out her office has a killer deal with another gym--one that has locations close to my office AND her office AND our apartment. So we opted for that one instead, which meant I had to let down Yo Adrian!--not easy.

Yo Adrian! started calling me the next day. First he called during a lunch with clients, then he called a second time while I was in a meeting--how he managed to call me twice when I wasn't available is beyond statistical probability. I tried calling him back, but he had left for the day and this gym didn't have a voicemail system. So I wrote him a Dear John (Dear Yo Adrian!?) email telling him that another gym worked out better for me and Wifey; it wasn't his fault, it was our's. He was great and the time we had together was really special. It's just that we like this other place better, and yes it's cheaper, but we hoped someday he would be able to forgive us for our weakness and price conscientious.

A whole lot of nothing

Basically, I have been sitting on my ass for the past three weeks.

I was doing pretty well after the NYCM: I took one week off and then started running again and noticed some marked improvement (I always see the most improvement after a race). I was going out for runs twice during the week and then a long run on Sundays. But then the week of Thanksgiving I took off because of all the traveling. And then last week it finally got too cold to go out in the mornings (hello pre-dawn freezing temps!).

The decision last summer to cancel my gym membership has come back to haunt me. It made sense when it was 70 degrees and sunny when I woke up for a run, but now it's dark and below 30 degrees at 6am--and homey don't play that. Now I have to join a gym, but I can't go back to my old gym. I told them I "moved" so that I could cancel my membership without a penalty--and it would be mighty suspicious to unmove.

I could always find a gym near my office (there are a few), but Wifey and I are thinking of moving come January--and there is a 50/50 chance we'll end up moving into a building with a gym in it. I really don't want to enroll in a gym to only have to cancel in a couple of months.

And so I perpetuate this cycle of gym or no gym, all the while I just end up running less and less (and lose the fitness I gained from training). At least I still manage to get out on the weekends and muster up a very respectable 8:00 pace on 6-8 mile runs without too much huffing and puffing.

Meanwhile I'm still trying to figure out the 2010 race calendar. I really want to round out New England in 2010 and finally get Maine off my list, so I'm forgoing big races like Chicago and Marine Corp in order to do one of the Maine Marathons in October. Also, the Delaware Marathon is pretty well timed right at the start of spring in mid-May. The good news is that both of these races are within driving distance, so they'll be affordable AND easy to schedule into work. Besides those races I'm eyeing the National Half-Marathon in March and the Virginia Beach Rock 'n' Roll Half-Marathon in September.

If all goes according to plan I'll get three states and one District of Columbia off my list. The bad news is that after that I'll basically have to fly to get any other state off my list. Anyone have extra airlines miles they can throw my way?

Paparazzi, evacuate; the empire state is on fire!

After being out of town and on the road for just over a week, I'm finally settled back into the swing of things.

The weekend before Thanksgiving Wifey and I visited some friends in Boston. I didn't realize it had been over three years since I had been to Boston. Gosh do I miss Boston. It is still my favorite city--and if it wasn't for the crazy winters I would probably be living there now.

I also forgot how many runners there are in Boston. I don't think there was a single moment that we were outside that there wasn't a runner somewhere within view. I forget how strong an impact this city had on creating my love of this sport.

On Saturday morning we had a culinary revelation at Zaftigs. Apparently I lived within two miles of this restaurant for three years and never knew it existed. How I managed to do that despite the mob outside forming a 45 minute wait we will never know. But this place was unbelievable. I had the banana French toast and it changed my world. I tried Wifey's eggs Benedict--which were served on a cheddar biscuit instead of an English muffin--and my mouth just about exploded. If you are in the Boston area--or anywhere else on the Eastern Seaboard--go to this restaurant, your stomach will thank me.

I was pretty much in a food coma for the rest of the Boston visit. When I came to I had the distinct taste of Wagamama's in my mouth and a box of Mike's cannolis in my hand.

Then we drove the 14+ hours (over two days) south to western North Carolina to see Wifey's family and spent a rather long Thanksgiving Week with them, helping out at their bakery, and making way too much food for Thanksgiving dinner--which I didn't think was possible with the appetite her brothers have.

Finally, last Saturday we headed back to New York in one marathon 15 hour driving session (including fuel stops and one scenic detour). We spent our last day with the car buying way too much at Target, doing tons of groceries at Super Stop & Shop, and picking up a Christmas tree from The Home Depot.

I guess my body had enough from all that driving because Sunday night I came down with a nasty stomach bug. I spent all of Monday parked on the couch...dying...slowly...until 8pm when I magically started to feel better. And after one day back at the office where I found my computer sans mouse (who steals a mouse?) here I am.

(Oh, and the post title? It's a mash up of the four songs that were played about 40 times each during the 30+ hours of driving I spent last week.)

Wrapping up the NYCM

We’re still not done with the NYCM! I never got to post my playlist prior to the race and immediately afterward I was too consumed with my five-part race report to write up the ol’ list of play. [Side note: FIVE part? Geez, I wouldn’t think that was necessary unless I wrote it. Screw self-editing, right?]

I slapped together my playlist at the last minute—literally. In the last hour before I went to sleep on Saturday night I took out all my race day stuff and added two hours worth of music to my last Half-Marathon playlist (i.e., Grete’s Great Gallop). I’m not proud of it, but it was the only time I had.

Funny thing is that the music worked out really well during the race. I only listed to about two-thirds of the thing (accounting for pauses to check my pace), but I was really happy every time a song started. Perhaps I have been over-hinking my music selection—Marcy haunts me from beyond the blog-grave!!

• Proud Mary; Tina Turner
• Brandy Alexander; Feist
• Bennie and the Jets; Elton John
• Ulysses; Franz Ferdinand
• Boston; Augustana
• Chocolate; Snow Patrol
• Under Control; Parachute
• Lucid Dreams; Franz Ferdinand
• Bulletproof; La Roux
• Tears Dry On Their Own; Amy Winehouse
• Heavy Cross; Gossip
• Losing Touch; The Killers
• PYT; Michael Jackson
• Spaceman; The Killers
• Always Where I Need to Be; The Kooks
• Lisztomania; Phoenix
• No You Girls; Franz Ferdinand
• Tick of Time; The Kooks
• Dog Problems; The Format
• Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground); The Jacksons
• Heads Will Roll; Yeah Yeah Yeahs
• Jump In The Pool; Friendly Fires
• Resistance; Muse
• Can You Feel It; Michael Jackson
• HAPPY Radio; Edwin Starr
• Paris; Friendly Fires
• Blinded By the Light; Manfred Mann's Earth Band
• Barracuda; Heart
• Canned Heat; Jamiroquai
• I Saw It on Your Keyboard; Hellogoodbye
• Human; The Killers
• My Moon My Man; Feist
• Read Between the Lines; KSM
• Don't Stop 'Till You Get Enough; Michael Jackson
• Uprising; Muse
• The Love You Save; Jackson 5
• I’m Bad; The Last Vegas
• Zero; Yeah Yeah Yeahs
• I Kissed a Girl; Katy Perry
• Beat It; Fall Out Boy
• American Boy; Estelle
• I Don't Feel Like Dancin'; Scissor Sisters
• I Want You Back; Jackson 5
• This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race; Fall Out Boy
• Reptilia; The Strokes
• Times Like These; Foo Fighters
• Shockwave; Black Tide
• Let's Dance to Joy Division; The Wombats
• The Pretender; Foo Fighters

Onto lessons I learned from the NYCM, now that I’ve had time to decipher them:

1. I really did try to have faith in all the training I had done—and while it might not have produced a 3:40 finish time, I still finished very strong and repeated my PR. So the strategy worked! I will be keeping this in mind for future races.
2. My hamstrings were mysteriously NOT fatigued. I thought it was just a post-race fluke, but then the week of recovery they were never sore. I’m not sure why this happened. I need to investigate this. I’m wondering if I didn’t use them enough during the race.
3. I really liked my training schedule. It worked well with my work/life schedule yet managed to incorporate an extra day of running. The only thing is that I stepped up the mileage without setting my alarm clock earlier—so toward the end I had to cut runs short since I was running late.
4. I used to like Tempo runs, but now that I’ve gone through a training cycle having to do Tempo runs outside I no longer like them. In addition to having to run these outside, I lowered the pace for Tempo runs A LOT. I may have been too ambitious this time around, but should be OK using these paces for the next training cycle.
5. I knew my stomach was sensitive in the morning, but I never realized just how sensitive it was until I moved out of the gym, far away from any bathroom. I may have to start drinking coffee first thing in the morning just to get the constitutional out of the way before I start running.
6. The NYCM forces you to get to the starting line early. Ridiculously early. I’m normally a “just in time” type of runner, getting to the starting corral within minutes of the gun. So sitting in Ft. Wadsworth for over an hour was very different. But all that time let me prepare correctly, both mentally and physically.
7. Focus! I doubt there is any runner who can’t stand to focus a bit more, but I felt I had an incredibly hard time on the course focusing on my race. I suspect this was mostly due to the huge crowds. However, I think I could stand to devise some kind of mental process to stay focused during a race.
8. I can’t forget to stretch. My IT bands got really tight toward the end of the training cycle—and that is purely because I wasn’t taking enough care of them. Now that I’ve had time to rest I’ve been able to stretch more before and after runs and use heating pads to help loosen the muscles—I need to carry this through to the next training cycle.
9. It was strange, but I was very sore after this race. After Newport and the Pig I just kinda sprang back to life the next day, but I was tapped out by the NYCM. I didn’t get back to 100% until the following Thursday. Not sure what lesson to take out of this, but it’s worth keeping in mind.

Last, but not least, my time. I still don't have a resolution on that. I've sent pictures to the NYRR and long emails explaining what I think happened, but they're still trying to figure out what to do. There will be a final update on that, one day.

Turns out we were right

We all know that running not only makes you healthy, but also makes you happier. Apparently there is now scientific proof that there is a physical component. Researchers at Princeton found that when rats were given a running regimen they were neurologically less stressed than rats who were not. It's a pretty cool story that you can read here: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/11/18/phys-ed-why-exercise-makes-you-less-anxious/.

The Race of Races, Part V of V

Exit Strategy

I couldn’t control it. I found a barricade not 20 feet after the finish line, hunched over, and started sobbing. “I did it” ran through my head. IdiditIdiditIdiditIdiditIdiditIdiditIdidit.

I had just run the New York City Marathon AND I had come back to good terms with the Marathon distance (I consider The Flying Pig a misfire in Marathon execution). I never let myself enjoy this bliss immediately following the finish line, but damn it, I was going to do it this time: tears of joy mingling with drops of sweat. It was awesome.

I gathered myself up and starting moving up West Drive. There was still a long journey through the finishing chute before getting out of Central Park.

The first station was the medal. I went to the back of the group of medal volunteers and pointed to one young woman who was happy to put up with my stink and sweat and place a medal around my neck. It was heavier than I thought it would be.

Then came the finisher photo station. I understood that you have to take the picture before you load up with food and water, but the only thing I could think was “WTF, why is this here?” I took another minute to collect myself—the medal triggered another wave of emotion, that, and I couldn’t bear the thought of having to stand still for a photographer.

That’s when I got the first tap on my shoulder. A medical volunteer asked if I was ok. She had good reason to ask, I had just crossed the finish line of a Marathon and was hunched over and shaking. She insisted that I go to the medical tents. I had to stand up to show her I was in full control of myself and tell her that I was just having an emotional moment. “It’s been a hard four months,” I told her, but I really did appreciate the concern.

I waded to the back of the photographers and got on official finisher’s snapshot:



Stayin' classy.

Someone handed me a heat blanket and someone else put a sticker on my chest to keep the blanket in place. I wasn’t cold yet, but I imagined that it would set in pretty soon.

I continued to wade through the crowd. I grabbed a recovery bag and immediately busted into the water bottle in it. My stomach cringed at the thought of ingesting anythign solid.

Then I saw the first UPS truck. It was for runners with bibs numbered 60,000-59,000. Then the next truck was for runners with numbers 58,999-58,000. My bib was in the 27,000s, halfway through the menacing mob of runners before me. For the next 33 UPS trucks I shuffled with the mob for 50 feet and then rested, walked and rested, walked and rested. Each time I hunched over to rest a volunteer tapped me on the shoulder to ask if I was OK. Each time I said “thanks, I’m fine; it’s just a long walk.”

Eventually I came up on the 27,000 truck and got my bag. I was surprisingly agile and able to lower myself to the ground and change into my Crocs and pants easily—oh Jesus were my feet happy. I put on a dry t-shirt and jacket and put my heat blanket on over that (the chill was starting to get to me). The couple that was changing next to me mentioned that they had run London and Berlin and Paris and none had the ridiculous commute to the start or the long procession after the finish, but they quickly followed that by saying that hands down the New York spectators are the absolute best—and really, isn’t that what counts?

I followed the mob out of the park onto 81st Street and Central Park West (mind you the finish line was at 67th Street). The flow of runners coming down Central Park West was powerful, like the tide rushing out to the sea. I had to slowly break through the masses to continue on 81st Street to look for Wifey, Mom, and MBF in front of the Hayden Planetarium.

Sure enough, after breaking through the mob I spotted Wifey walking just 30 feet in front of me off to left. I called her name. No response. I called louder. No luck. Finally, as she sped off (or I just gave up hope on chasing her) I yelled out her full name. That got her attention (her full name is pretty unique). I gave her a big, big hug and kiss. She flooded me with everything that happened that day. She called over Mom and MBF, and they all hugged me and started texting friends and family that I had finished safely and snapped a couple pictures, including my favorite:

The Race of Races, Part IV of V

Manhattan/the Bronx/Manhattan

Mile 15: 8:26
Mile 16: 8:34
Mile 17: 8:47
Mile 18: 8:41
Mile 19: 8:36
Mile 20: 9:02
Mile 21: 9:00
Mile 22&23: 17:28 (8:38 pace)
Mile 24: 9:30
Mile 25: 9:36
Mile 26: 9:04
Mile .2: 1:42 (7:45 pace)

The Queensboro Bridge was not that bad. Actually, after running on mostly flat land in Brooklyn and Queens, the long climb was a welcomed change. Also, I was extremely confident going in because—as I told someone else while going up the bridge—this was my bridge. I did long runs on this bridge. I did hill repeats on this bridge. If there was anything I was ready to handle, it was this bridge.

Unfortunately, the stitches kicked in again and I had to hold back my pace. So while I was passing people left and right, I knew I wasn’t going at my best speed.

Then I heard it: the wall of sound. You hear about it in Marathon lore: the silence of the Queensboro Bridge (no spectators allowed) is followed by the Marathon’s first pass at Manhattan. It started as a distant hum until I came into the hairpin turn off the bridge where I met it face on. The crowds greeting me out of the bridge were easily six people deep. I turned again, this time onto First Avenue, and the noise filled up everything.

While the crowds were loud and fierce I realized this was the first time since Mile 1 that I felt breathing room on the course—so the crowds were a sharp contrast to the relief I suddenly felt.

Once I got into a comfortable pace I started pushing the speed. But stuff was starting to feel funny. I could feel that my IT bands were not happy and extremely tight. I also got a weird feeling in my left calf/shin. It was something I had never felt before and it most definitely was not a shin split—I’ve had those before and this felt very different. It was as if the outside muscles of my left lower leg were wound up tight and each step tightened them more. It wasn’t bad enough to stop, but enough to make me worry for a while and prevent any speeding on the last flat section of the course.

Holding true to what many others have said leaving Manhattan and entering The Bronx is hard. First, the bridge is full of pot holes and only two lanes wide. Second, I was just in Manhattan, within a mile of the finishing line, and even though I had run three miles away from the finish already, it didn’t hit me until I had to cross a river and enter an entirely different borough that I still had a long way to go. The worst though was that upon entering The Bronx I got the feeling like I was not welcome (at least contrast to the rest of the course). There were sparse crowds and the people just look at the runners. There was very little clapping and lots of WTF facial expressions. Let me tell you, I was very happy to leave The Bronx as quickly as I entered it.

Once back in Manhattan—in the heart of Harlem—the crowds were strong and lively. The course flattened out again and I tried to just focus on the last couple of miles to the finish. I was frustrated because I couldn’t get up to speed without sparking a stitch or bumping into somebody (yes, it was still crowded at Mile 21). I could feel the wear on my legs; by now the pain from my IT bands had become numb and my calves were starting to complain—and my calves do not complain until it gets bad. But while I was physically tired, my mind was still throwing logs on the fire.

Then came the last three miles. The dreaded Fifth Avenue Mile started at his point, the sneaky incline that has claimed many a Marathoner before entering hilly Central Park. I felt the drain instantly. After 110th Street I don’t remember seeing or hearing things as much as sensing them. The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and lit up the stern Fifth Avenue facades and golden leaves dangling overhead. It was a flurry of colors mixing together.

The crowds were deafening and so swollen they were spilling onto the street. They were shouting any name they could get a hold of—and of course I didn’t have my name anywhere, so I imagined that someone in the crowd was calling out “gray shirt!” because that’s what I was wearing and someone out there knew that I needed a shout out too.

The turn into Central Park was brief and abrupt. I had to slow down because of stitches, but I was constantly talking myself out of stopping. I cannot tell you what was driving me, because I wanted to stop and I almost did stop a dozen times, but something kept me going. I guess most people would call this heart, but I don’t like that word. The feeling is too complex to be bottled into one word that reminds me of Valentine’s Day. So it will go unnamed for now—which, quite frankly, only makes it feel more special.

Exiting onto Central Park South I stayed toward the left side of the course. Mindy, Mom, and MBF would be there at Central Park South and Seventh Avenue. I held on for them: I couldn’t bear to see anything but joy and cheers from them. Sure enough I spotted the bright yellow signs from half a block away and they did not fail:



They were all so happy. I let out a little sob of pain/happiness and plodded away from them. I couldn’t fail now.

The 800m mark passed and then the 400m mark. I know there was a hill before the finish line, but I don’t remember climbing it. The finish line was a sea of colors and sounds and seeing it unlocked that last reserve of energy—the one that is tucked away so deep inside of you that you have to run 26 miles to find it. My plodding became running, then my running became sprinting, and my sprinting gave way to catharsis as I crossed the finish line.

3:50:23 according to my watch. Within four seconds of my PR and 13 minutes better than The Flying Pig.

The Race of Races, Part III of V

Staten Island/Brooklyn/Queens

Mile 1: 9:35
Mile 2: 8:19
Mile 3: 8:46
Miles 4&5: 17:41 (8:49 pace)
Mile 6: 8:35
Mile 7: 8:29
Mile 8: 8:37
Mile 9&10: 17:32 (8:44 pace)
Mile 11: 8:38
Mile 12: 8:33
Mile 13: 8:36
Mile 14: 8:28

The view from the Verrazano, as promised, was unforgettable. Two-hundred feet above New York harbor, Brooklyn ahead, the Manhattan skyline washed out in gray due to the overcast, all set to the tune of roughly 30,000 feet slamming the roadbed. I tried to pick out the Time Warner Center (the most visible landmark near the finish line of the Marathon) and quickly decided that I shouldn’t be doing that one mile into the race.

The stitches came on quick, within the first mile. But this, as I said all through training, was good. If the stitches had to come at all, I would prefer they come as early as possible so that I could deal with them properly. They never became full-fledged, race stopping stitches, but they were enough to keep me in check for the first couple miles.

The crowds came on quick too. The second you hit Brooklyn there are people to greet you—and except for the Queensboro Bridge, there is essentially no break in the crowds for the next 22.2 miles.

As I promised myself I trusted my training and did not start pushing hard from the get go. I avoided bobbing and weaving around runners. I basically found the blue line and stuck to it. But there was a problem with this strategy that became apparent once we merged with the green starters at Mile 3. The amount of runners on the road prevented anyone from running a fast race.

I checked my watch during those early splits and thought that there was no way for me to hit my goal pace unless I starting swerving around people. I told myself to calm down, have faith that the pack would thin out in the next couple of miles, and to not do anything crazy.
Meanwhile, the spectator crowds were fantastic. Flags were waving everywhere, boom boxes played out from apartment windows, there were more bands than I could remember. It was a gigantic spectacle—and a gigantic distraction that I had to keep on ignoring in order to stay in good shape.

Staying on the blue line meant that I kept toward the center of Fourth Avenue those first several miles. Only once or twice did I wander to the edge to slap a few hands or feel the roar of the crowd.

I was doing a great job of staying focused and breathing correctly and keeping my form in check. But even with all that I gave up my hopes for a 3:40 finish at Mile 8.

This Mile marker was the first sharp turn after getting off the Verrazano and where all three starts converged. I got stuck on the inside of this turn and slowed down to a jog—and that’s only because I refused to walk. Yes, Mile 8 of a Marathon and the runners were so dense that it could slow you down to a walk. After that the street got very narrow, adding to the difficulty.

I looked at Fenny and knew I had to pick up the pace. But then I looked forward and knew there was no way to do that. I stuck to sides where runners were able to circumvent the mass in the middle, but every split proved that I had met the speed limit for this race. Now I just concentrated on getting to the finish line in one piece, without flaring up the stitches that were still coming and going (yet never getting to full strength).

The rest of Brooklyn went by in a blur. I didn’t recognize any bit of Williamsburg although I had run Bedford Ave about two dozen times over the past years. As I approached the Pulaski Bridge I was happy, not just because it was the halfway point, but because it meant the departure from Brooklyn and the start of my home borough of Queens—and knowing the streets in this neighborhood, they would be much wider and much easier to maneuver. The Pulaski Bridge also meant that I’d be seeing Wifey, Mom, and MBF in a little more than a mile.

Sure enough, a couple blocks into Long Island City and streets were wide open. Forty-Fourth Drive looked like the Champs-Élysées compared to what the course went along in Brooklyn. When I rounded the corner onto Crescent Street I looked immediately for the Comfort Inn—the landmark that my cheer squad would be waiting across the street from. Uncontrollably I felt my pace quicken as I was excited to see them and get in one last rush before the Queensboro.

I hurried through the water station, opting for my water bottle instead. And a few seconds later saw the yellow posters saying: “Left, right, repeat!” and “See sRod Run” (Mom took this opportunity to advertise my blog. If I’ve gained any new readers because of this, please let me know. Mom would be happy that her work wasn’t in vain.)

I started waving my arms in the air and hooting and hollering—I’ve been accused of missing people too many times to screw this up. Once I saw their faces and realized they saw me I got louder and even started skipping/hopping in the air. (Maybe not the best idea before facing the hardest climb of the race, but hey, I was excited.) They returned the shouts…and so did the fifty people around them, which totally caught me by surprise, as if I momentarily forgot there was a crowd three people deep surrounding them.

Coming off that little burst of energy I turned the corner and faced the Queensboro Bridge—what I had prepared for as the hardest climb of the race.

The Race of Races, Part II of V

Encampment

At 9:20 J returned from her coffee hunt. They had just started calling the wave two runners, and like pulling out the plug from a full bathtub, the whole crowd emptied out the field and began moving toward the corrals. I took a couple sheets of paper towel from J—who was brilliant and packed a whole stack of paper towels (this is now on my packing list for race starts)—and ran off to bag check and the port-o-potty for one last nature break. Fortunately, the weather was warmer than I had prepared for (low 50s, light wind, heavy overcast) so I shoved my track pants and gloves into my check-in bag and stayed with just my too big sweater.

J had warned me that the corrals were further away than we thought, so after the port-o-potty I headed straight for the back of the start area. Indeed, these corrals were far. I started eating an apple after the going to the bathroom and managed to finish it by the time I got to my corral—perfectly timed, because I was one of the last to get in before they closed wave two.

Once inside the corrals the atmosphere completely changed. Outside the corral was a restrained patience—a sense of preparation. Inside the corrals there was no more preparation (because if you weren’t prepared by now, you would never be prepared). Here, people were ready to race; they were jumping in place, stripping off clothing, eagerly looking for any sign of the herd moving toward the starting line.

I ducked into a port-o-potty just in case there was anything left (this was the third visit of the morning--yeah, I was cleaned out) and hopped back into the mob. The fences of the corrals were six feet tall and covered in green mesh so that you couldn’t see in or out. But you could certainly hear the growing crowd of wave three runners outside eager to get started themselves.

Then I heard the cannon.

It was an explosion akin to distant thunder: deep, ominous, powerful. The crowd shifted forward in response. At the head of the corrals was a sharp right turn through where normally a fence is 364 other days of the year. I could see the buses—the crude, but ultra-effective barricades outlining the last couple hundred feet to the start. I could hear Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York pumping over the speakers. I rounded the corner of the buses, with the expressway tolls to my back, helicopters hovering overhead, the roar of runners filling every inch of space. I was square on facing the Verrazano—tall and imposing, with a mass of runners like no other covering it from end to end.

A rush of emotions grabbed in those last final feet before the start. This was it, the race of races--everything from the past four months, from the past twenty-six years, had led me to this very moment.

The NYRR announcer was on the speakers as I crossed the starting line. He said something I will never forget: “New York is the sports capital of the world! The Yankees are in the World Series. The Giants are playing the Eagles tonight. The Jets are playing the Dolphins today. But right now the whole city—the whole world is watching you!”

The Race of Races, Part I of V

This is a long one; so long that I had to break it into five parts. Granted, only two parts are actually about running the race, but there is so much involved in the before and after of the NYCM that I couldn’t just skip it. As always, this report is more a reference for myself--a rehashing of the 1,000 fragment memories I collected that day--than a critque of the race.

Fantastic Voyage

The journey of four and a half months had led me to a stranger’s garbage bag in the middle of a muddy field at the base of the Verrazano Bridge. I laid there in old track pants and a sweater two sizes too large keeping my eyes closed trying to make up for the lack of sleep the previous night.

I could hear the couple next to me speaking some language I didn’t recognize. The group on my other side was American, but their conversations were hushed by the covers of their sleeping bags. The lone man off to my left was quietly getting ready applying generous amounts of Vaseline to all parts of his body.

I opened my eyes and saw a helicopter flying low, hovering under the overcast like sting ray in a shallow pool. The field, still damp from the rain the night before, had become a muddy mess thanks to the flood of 43,000 runners, untold numbers of volunteers, UPS trucks, food and water stations, and perhaps the largest collection of port-o-potties ever. The announcements cycling over the PA system in six different languages had just notified the close of the first wave corrals and the quickly approaching opening of the second wave corrals.

I had woken up at 5:10 that morning. After taking care of business in the bathroom, drinking water, and getting into my race clothes, I woke up Wifey to pin on my race number. Then I quickly slipped into my track pants and sweater, grabbed my bags (one bag to check-in, one bag filled with breakfast), and kissed Wifey, Mom, and Mom’s Best Friend (MBF) goodbye—it would be about seven hours before I would see them again at the half-way point.

On the stoop of my building I was happy to find that the rain had subsided overnight and it wasn’t too hot or too cold. Once the door behind me closed and locked I realized that was it, I had no key to the building and there was no turning back: I was going to run the NYC Marathon. I put on a goofy smile, let out an eager “hello” to my deserted block, and headed off to the subway.

I got to the subway at 5:40 for the 5:50 departure out of my station—I didn’t even think the subway ran on a schedule until I had to plan this early morning trip. I saw a couple of stragglers from Halloween just coming home, one of them too drunk to avoid bumping into the poles on subway platform. I settled into my seat, fruitlessly trying to recoup some sleep, but at each new station I would open my eyes looking for Marathoners boarding the subway.

While on the subway I made my only mistake of the whole trip to Staten Island. Instead of transferring trains where I was going to I stayed on the subway and kept going south on the N. Little did I know that the N was under construction that weekend and was being rerouted into Brooklyn before reaching South Ferry. Fantastic. At Canal Street I had to wait 20 minutes with a growing group of runners waiting at the platform for the train that seemed to never come.
Finally, the train did come--and it was filled with other runners, which must have really thrown off the people in Halloween costumes just wrapping up their night out.

Even though I had lost time waiting for the subway I still managed to get to South Ferry as they opened the doors for the 7am ferry—so I was still on schedule. I made my way onboard and found a good spot away from the cold breeze toward the far end of the boat, not too far from the Jamaican contingency which seemed to be having a party all the way to the starting line.

I struck up a conversation with the pair of runners who sat next to me. We shared notes on this race and others and a happiness that the weather was turning for the best. At one point, the whole boat broke out into “Happy Birthday” for one runner—the amazing part was that the song instantly spanned countless cultures and languages in the matter of a couple of bars of music.
Once docked at Staten Island I shuffled along with the crowd to get to the shuttle buses and suddenly found myself right next to The Laminator! We knew we were both shooting for the 7am ferry, but without cell phones we had no way of meeting up. It was a relief to bump into someone I knew to share this surreal experience.

On the shuttle I talked with The Laminator and his friends, some of which were seasoned Marathoners, some were doing this for the first time (how spoiled to have NYCM be your first Marathon!). We arrived at the village at roughly 7:45am and faced yet another mob of runners (this one about a quarter mile long) waiting to be checked into the starting area at Ft. Wadsworth.

Once inside the security checkpoint we disbanded into our respective bib colors to parted ways to find our start areas. I went off with The Laminator and his friend J to the blue start, which was adjacent to the checkpoint we had just cleared. We found a patch of dry grass and spread out J’s garbage bag to cover the area.

After a quick bathroom break (during which I learned most of the port-o-potties were out of TP) I sat down on the garbage bag and took in a deep breath and began to wait. J soon went on a long mission to find coffee and then The Laminator hurried off to his wave one start, leaving me alone on the garbage bag eating the peanut butter sandwiches Wifey had prepared.It was amazing to just sit there and watch the swelling crowds—it really was a non-stop flow of people entering the fort. Eventually, I laid back and tried to calm myself down. I would need my energy for all the challenges in getting to Central Park. But, fortunately, I already had successfully cleared the first challenge of the NYCM: getting to the start.

A surprisingly long recovery

Today is the first day that I'm back at 100% post-Marathon, which, for me, is crazy. I don't remember ever taking this long to fully recover after a race. Yesterday I went to Chipotle for lunch. It's about a 5-6 block walk each way. By the time I got back to the office, I was pooped--yes, tired from about a mile long round trip.

It's therefore almost needless to say that I've been pooped every night this week. I started to write a race report but only got two paragraphs in before calling it a night. Let's hope tonight is more productive.

New York, we have a problem

Oh New York, how I underestimated you. Deep inside I really thought all the hype about the race was just that: hype. I was so very wrong. The moment I turned the corner to face the starting line--the Verrazzano standing tall in the background and Frank Sinatra singing "New York, New York"--I was done.

However, there appears to be a problem, a big one: my timing chip did not work. I don't understand what happened because it worked when I picked it up at Expo and I've successfully used D-Tags a couple times now. But no one received updates while I was on the course and I'm not listed on the results page (name or number). I've already emailed NYRR to see WTF is up with this, but as you can imagine, things are a bit hectic over there.

So for now I'll have to use Fenny's time: 3:50:26.

Honor

Honor.

That is the word that will carry me through the race. Not passion, not resilience, not determination. It's honor that will pace me along Fourth Ave. It's honor that will carry me over the Queensboro Bridge. It's honor that will push me through Central Park.

I have taken some time during each of my runs over the past four months to prepare for the NYCM. Fleeting thoughts gave way to mile-by-mile mental run throughs of the course. All the time visualizing what my ideal race will be. During those unintentional yet vital preparations I realized the kernal of my race strategy: I have to honor my training. I can't ignore the months of work I have put specifically into this race. I can't ignore the wisdom I've gained, both mental and physical, from years of distance running. My body knows how to do this. I have to honor that. My brain is just along for the ride--and quite frankly if I could leave it home on race day, I would.

This means that I am not running this race for a 3:40 finish time. It means I am running the race that my body is prepared to run, and I have tried my best to prepare it to finish in 3:40. But I can't force that finishing time upon myself. Too many times I've tried to force my body into running the race my mind has wanted to run and each time it has backfired (see: MY FIRST MARATHON EVER, The Flying Pig, Grete's Great Gallop). I have to trust that my body knows what it's doing and understand that the finishing time is an output of that trust.

So my race day strategy will be to start off with the 3:40 pace group. I won't bind myself to the pacer, it'll just be a a way to keep myself in check during the first mile or two. After that I plan on running the first 10 miles between an 8:30 and 8:40 pace. The second ten miles I'll run between an 8:20 and 8:30 pace. The last six miles will be whatever I've got left.

While out there I will have to constantly remind myself to slow down to avoid fatigue and stitches. I have to keep my shoulders loose and my hands low. I have to check my breathing as often as possible. I will have Liam with me, but I don't plan on listening much to him--he'll just be there if I need a musical distraction or power boost. I will have my water bottle with me, but I'm seriously thinking that I won't need it--it will be cold and there are ample water stations, so I'm thinking I won't need the water bottle, but I haven't run a race without a water bottle in years and it's a bit late in training to be trying something new.

So that is my game plan: honor what I have trained myself to do by letting me do it. It's simple really, but it takes lots of discipline to execute. Game on.

Track me

For the thousands (well, really just one) of you who have asked for tracking info for the NYCM my bib number is 27707. Just go here and use my bib number to not only follow me through the five boroughs but also to find out what my real name is. That is, of course, if you didn't catch it the one time I let it slip here. Given my handle it shouldn't be much of a surprise.

Taperitis relapse

I'm going to come out and say this: for the first time ever I am failing to taper. Usually I can begrudingly get myself to slow down, get used to the reduced mileage, and properly prepare for a big race. Not so this time around. I had to stretch out my peak long runs an extra week do to our anniversary weekend (like hell I was going to run 20 miles while on an anniversary getaway) and that has played a big part of it. But here we are only six days (!!) from the NYCM and I am exhausted. I went a little too rough on my long run yesterday afternoon (an 8:23 pace vs. an intended 9:00+ pace) and the early morning three miles this morning were easy, but still an unwelcomed wake up call.

So I'm going to try going to bed at 10pm on the dot tonight and get a full eight hours before tomorrow's tempo run. Also, I'm going to tell my nerves to settle down: race day isn't until Sunday, so save some of the nervous jitters for then.

Marathon Fever

Normally, I start getting Marathon Fever around the two-weeks-to-go mark. I check the weather religiously, I create my playlist, I check the race website daily for information, I start planning out race day down to the second. It is a magical time that only comes once or twice a year--kinda like daylight savings (which happens to coincide with the NYCM). However, this time around the Fever has set on about two weeks early. Why? Well, I saw this in the Times Square subway station:



At first I thought "whoa, this is really early for the Marathon." But then I realized that it was October 1 and new subway ads go up around the first of each month and will stay up for a month (well, you could buy more time, but in most cases you're only up for a month at a time). So ads that are date-sensitive to November 1 would be going up that day. If my internal cues weren't enough, now I would have daily external reminders that the race is less than a month away.

Over the next couple of weeks I saw more and more ads:





There's even a creepy one for the NBC broadcast of the race, featuring a baby-faced Ryan Hall in his best "give me your effing wallet or I will cut you" pose:



There was also an ad for the Poland Springs Kick-off run (held the weekend before the race), you know, for those five runners in New York who didn't know about it:



And yesterday, while walking around Brooklyn, we even saw street light banners lining the course:

As someone who has worked in advertising longer than he cares to admit I find it really cool how the NYRR uses advertising to provide a backdrop for the race. They don't need to advertise that the race is going to happen: the bib numbers were given out long ago and, in general, spectators know the race date well in advance. NYRR uses its advertising budget to really help build buzz and excitement for the approaching race--essentially the experience I've written about here. Imagine if there were no posters, no banners, no signs. How boring would that be? There would be no anticipation, no tease, just a race on Nov 1.

Well done NYRR. Well done.

Peak training ends with a celeb sighting

My 18 mile long run yesterday was the end of peak training for the NYCM! I'm taking in the relief this morning that it's all taper for the next two weeks. Oh sleep, how we need to be reacquainted over the next 14 days.

The long run itself went really well. It was cold with sporadic winds and growing overcast--your typical autumn day around here. I started off from home and went south to go over the Queensboro Bridge. Usually, I'm pretty alone on the bridge, even on the weekends. But now that it's prime Marathon season, there were tons of lone runners and running groups training over the bridge.

Of course part of me--the same part of me that likes to torment puppies and step on flowers--was devilishly thinking that these people waited until now to do their training runs over the bridge. Meanwhile, I've been training over this bridge for years. Their one-off long run two weeks before the race would do essentially nothing to prepare them for the Marathon. ::insert evil laugh here::

When I reached Central Park it was no different. There were runners everywhere. At times it was so dense I felt like I was in a race. Even when I crossed over to the Hudson River path there were more runners than I've ever seen there. It's like everyone was out there training for a race.

The high point of the run was when I returned to Central Park for the last five miles of the run. Somewhere near the Marionette Theatre I saw a pair of men running barefoot. I saw their feet first and then looked at their faces. The taller one I didn't recognize, but the other one I immediately recognized as Eddie Izzard! If you don't recognize the name take a look at his IMDb page--he's one of those "oh, he's that guy?" guys. I've been a fan of his for years and saw him last time he performed at Radio City. I knew he ran Marathons, but never expected to run into him. After the run I texted Wifey that I had seen Eddie Izzard and she confirmed (via Eddie's Twitter) that he was indeed running in Central Park barefoot. After all this time finally a confirmed celebrity sighting! (Even if a minor one.)

The only thing that went "bad" on the run was that in the last mile I got a stitch. I was doing great the whole time and then I past the 17.5 mile mark and BAM, full-on stitch. WTH? I'm trying desperately to figure out what triggers the stitches, but I can't quite get it. I suspect it has something to do with my breathing (breaths are too shallow, which cause cramps in the diaphram?) and maybe my arms (I keep them high, which might increase the overall tension in my upper body?).

The only good news from the stitch is that I didn't stop for it, meaning that I have successfully completed all my high distance long runs for this trianign cycle without having to take walking breaks. And that's an accomplishment I'll take...even if I still have to work on the stitches.

Cute--painful--but cute

Did you guys hear about the marriage proposal during last weekend's Chicago Marathon? I just read the story here: http://www.nbcchicago.com/news/local-beat/chicago-marathon-proposal-64016052.html?yhp=1.

As a runner, that's absolutely how I would have proposed--if Wifey ran Marathons too. But really, right before the finish line? You can't jeopardize a BQ like that!