Mission Accomplished: I Am Ahab

The holiday weekend contained too much to blog about, so I'll save you from an overindulgent race report of the Davey Tree 10-K and give you just the facts, ma'am.

If you really need a detailed report of the race, read this and this. Just know I did it.

Flashback to last week's flashforward, and here is how this weekend's events unfolded ...

Track Attack
Thursday evening, I visited the track -- a different track than I have been using of late. A better marked track too. This time, I could clearly understand the hitherto cryptic lines telling me where to start my 800-meter intervals when Lane 1 was occupied.

And now the statistical rundown:

• Intervals: 5 x 800 meters
  
• Goal pace: 3:25 or less per interval (6:52 per mile)
  
• Lap 1: 3:15.04 (6:32 per mile)
• Lap 2: 3:24.07 (6:50 per mile)
• Lap 3: 3:22.03 (6:46 per mile)
• Lap 4: 3:20.34 (6:42 per mile)
• Lap 5: 3:21.79 (6:44 per mile)
• Average pace: 3:20.65 (6:42 per mile)
  
• Total distance: 5.5 miles

[Drunkard's note: Total distance includes one mile warm up, 400-meter recovery laps and one mile cool down.]

Maybe I should have kept my goal at 3:20 after all.

Seeking the White Whale
Mission accomplished. I ran the Davey Tree 10-K in less than 50 minutes. Results were not posted as off press time. My watch said 49:01, and the timer called out 49 flat. Of course, I'm not satisfied. I could have done better.

Like an idiot, I ran too close to Martini for the first mile and started too fast (7:19). Luckily, I recovered during the second mile. I kicked hard to the finish and approached the Puke Threshold, but my fast recovery after the race tells me I left too much out on the road.

What really irks me is the guy I didn't pass. Nearing the halfway mark, I heard this guy counting all the runners passing in the other direction. The Counter comes from behind to pass me just before the turnaround cone. I hear him pant, "37." I'm on the inside and re-pass him going around the cone, and he says, "38."

The guy was counting his place. I stayed ahead of him for about a quarter-mile, but it was forcing me out of my strategy. So I let him go ahead, to which he replied, "37." He was within view for the rest of the race, but I let him stray too far ahead and couldn't catch him with my kick, which I believe I could have started sooner.

For now, I am happy to have speared my 50-minute 10-K White Whale, but the beast has escaped to the Akron Marathon, where I must run a four-hour race to catch him. Now, the real battle begins.

And then 14 Miles
Yes, and then I ran 14 miles the morning after my 10-K PR. A group of three women had the pleasure of my company after they passed me at a road crossing. They couldn't get more than 100 feet ahead of me, but they kept looking back at me as if I were some kind of park-lurking creeper. I didn't have the legs to pass them, but I kept up with them for about five miles before they stopped. Their backward looks seemed to indicate that I was bothering them by being on their tails. I say, if you pass me, it's your job to separate. I'm not slowing down. Thanks for the even pacing, ladies.

Stockpiling Yuengling
I still had about half a six-pack of Yuengling Porter left from my birthday, but I got another case of it this weekend to bolster supplies. I was on a road trip to Pittspuke to check out furniture and banjos, but I can't cross into Pennsylvania without making a stop for some good, cheap beer. As a side note, I was drinking Yuengling Porter when I decided to run a marathon.

Crawling to the Next Race
Speaking of beer and running, the AkRun 5-K & Pub Crawl has been announced for Aug. 29, and for the first time since it started (maybe just last year) I'll be able to run it. I have a 16-miler planned the day after, but I can't pass up the shirt -- or the beer.

Cheers!

Race Report: 11:10 and the Last Mile

Ever since I started racing, I've believed that the last mile is the most important. If you screw up there, you're done. Those mistakes in the early miles hurt, but you usually have time to regroup. But not that last mile.

Oh, that wicked, wicked last mile.

Saturday was the Davey Tree/United Way of Portage County 10K in Kent, Ohio.

A Brief History
This race was the first race I ever entered, and I have now run it three times, each faster than the last. The course is a deceptively hilly loop course. You run the event's 5K course twice. It is a race that if I knew anything at all about being a race director, I would take it over and redesign the route. Because it sucks. I run the race solely for sentimental reasons, and until recently it was the only 10K around that I knew about. This year I was aiming to break 50 minutes.

Race Day
A clear morning in the low 70s with very low humidity. You can't ask for better racing weather in July. It was by far the best conditions I've ever had for this race. My dad and Martini were also running. However, participation seems to be dwindling for the 10K, which doesn't bode well for the event, but it's a good thing for slow-pokes like me, aiming to place in their age groups. I felt ready.

7:16
I broke one of my own lessons. I forgot that I'm not fast. I went out with the quickness, which was easy because the first mile is mostly downhill. When I heard the woman calling out the first mile splits, all I could think was, Shit!

But I tried to stay positive. A sub-50:00 10K requires that I average at least an 8:03 mile pace. I had 47 seconds in the bank. I ratcheted back. Though perhaps too much.

8:24
The second (also the fifth) mile has a short steep hill that you catch both ways, as this mile also is where you turn around. I still had 26 seconds banked, but I needed to get my pace back up.

25:16 - 5K
My 5K split showed a steady drop in pace. I had lost all my banked time, but it wasn't the end of the world. The race volunteer tried to pump me up as I made the turn at the cone. "If you hurry up, you can beat 50 minutes," he shouted. The encouragement helped.

7:56
Now, only 10 seconds off my overall goal pace. But again, this was that long downhill of the first mile.

8:47
Clearly, I was fading. It would be tough to make up 54 seconds in the final mile, but I was still in good shape to crush my PR of 53:21.

Coup de Grace
The last mile has the worst uphill, a steady burn for close to a half-mile as you approach the finish. I crested the hill not in my happy place, but the end was now in sight. I asked my legs for a little more. I knew I would puke with the effort, but I've always been able to hold it together until after the finish line. Not this day.

About a quarter-mile out, my guts heaved, dry and painfully. I tried to run through it, clutching my side. Another dry heave helped me see the error of my ways. I slowed to a walk. And then one more heave with the slightest bit of bile. I took two more walking steps and started to run again. A strong kick seemed futile at that point, but it was enough for a new PR. Though just barely.

Vanilla, your 10K time is safe. For now.

My final split (1.1 miles) was 11:10 for a 53:10 finish, 11 seconds faster than last year but a far cry from my goal.

WTF?
After voicing my frustration, my dad, who knows my habits well, said, "Maybe it's what you did last night, all the beer you drank."

But that wasn't it. In fact, I thought I had done everything right for once. I drank water throughout the day, Friday. I ate pretty well. I went to bed early. I drank only one beer that day, and that was during lunch (a delicious half-slab of ribs). One beer on the Fourth? Sacrilege, I know.

"Well, see, there you have it. It was what you didn't do last night," my dad said. Father knows best.

So what happened? Did going out too fast in the first mile spell my doom? Did I push too hard trying to make up time during the last mile? Did I drink too little water during the race? Did Xenia put some vicious Greek hex on me for my comments last week? Was it the lack of boozing the night before?

Maybe it just wasn't my day. My sub-50 White Whale is still out there. I would be more pissed about this race had I not recently found a new (to me) 10K on August 9. Mark it, dude! It will be mine.

Post Race
My dad, Martini and I went to the closest local pub for breakfast and brews. This was much more difficult than anticipated, as our first two choices decided to be closed on Friday and Saturday. Finally, we found our savior at the good ol' Stowaway.

Labatt Blue goes well with a sausage, tomato and hot pepper cheese omelet. That afternoon, there was also a July 4th festival in Kent, so I met up with another friend and grabbed a couple more Labatts before heading to a cousin's high school graduation party, where I drank the Colorado Kool-Aid and then lived the High Life several times over.

I capped the evening with some Johnnie Walker, falling asleep with the glass of Scotch to end all glasses of Scotch. It ended me first. I added the remnants to my coffee the next morning. Sunday, I also ran 8 miles as punishment for my poor showing at the race.

And finally, on last Wednesday's post, Laura asked to see pictures of the race shirts. Apparently, she actually reads my sidebar, which chastises this race for its ridiculously long name -- with a report of equally ridiculous length -- and history of putrid shirts. Of course, this year it looks like the race organizers decided not to leave the design up to a 3-year-old. The top photo is the front of this year's shirt. Here's the back:


Can we all capitalize on the LiveStrong slogan? Yes, we can! I know it's a fact that small races need to recognize their sponsors, but I hate the walking billboard effect. But these are a vast improvement. Sadly, I threw out the shirts from the previous two years, which were just atrocious. Last year, it was this awful, running stick figure on the front and the usual logo attack on the back.

OK, enough is enough, already. Cheers.

Lessons from the Street

Sometimes budget constraints lead us drunks toward less savory adventures in boozing. Often, cheap beer is the first choice. But what are we missing when we decide an 18-pack of Miller High Life cans is just what Dr. Penny Pincher ordered? For the answer, we should consult our greatest yet overlooked resource in alcoholism on the cheap: winos.

These degenerates embrace the fact that they can't afford that sixer of high-octane indie brew. While we so-called sophisticated booze hounds would look for the option that saves face, the wino chooses the option that gets them shit-faced.

Often, their choice is malt liquor or fortified wine. One of my favorite inventions is the energy drink cum malt liquor, such as Sparks. This 6 percent ABV beverage combines the effects of caffeine and alcohol with all the flavor of cherry battery acid. A perfect companion for the drunkard who has some late night romping to do.

However, a new beverage mixture has just come through on the booze wires. My colleagues, I introduce you to Fhrampagne. Thank you, J.J. Maher, this recipe sounds delightful: a combo that brings malt liquor and fortified wine together. In this example is MD 20/20 and Steel Reserve. The ideas just spring to my head. Boone's Farm and St. Ides. Ripple and Colt .45. But wait! Let's take it one step further: Night Train and Sparks. I shall call it, the Red Line Express.

You're welcome.

Beer Run
Last weekend, I ran a 10K the morning after a happy hour gathering. My tab showed six beers, plus all the delicious Coors Light I had at the post-happy hour festivities. In past races, I've abstained from drinking the night before to improve my speed. This time, I didn't' and placed second in my age group with a 53:21 finish. Perhaps I'm on to something.

Tab: It's been too long since the last post to calculate.
Mileage: See above.