Race Report: 'That's All I Got'

We zipped past the ninth mile marker shoulder to shoulder. I had been drafting the man in the sleeveless windbreaker for the past mile after he made a weak move to pass me on Steels Corners Road. He never got more than 20 strides ahead of me, and with three-tenths of a mile to go I wouldn't let him win.

I arrived at the Shamrock 15-K with no expectations. I didn't feel trained, and I'd never raced the course or the distance. And on this day, a hard rain fell and never let up. It was the kind of miserable weather that makes you really appreciate your cheering section.

The race starts at Woodridge High School, descends into the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, and then loops back. From the fourth mile to the sixth, you are running a steep uphill.

Click on the map to view the elevation.
As you can see, I didn't get the exact distance.

Before the race started, I realized I didn't strap on my watch. It was sitting in the car, but I decided to run without it. I know all you techno nerds are probably pooping your tech shorts, but unlike you I can run on feel.

I was worried that I'd look at my early splits and disregard the need to save energy for the climb up from the valley. Instead I kept an even pace with Martini until after the third mile before I let him go to regroup. I attacked the two-mile uphill stretch methodically, following the rhythm of my breath to power me upward: in-in-in, out-out.

A man and woman yo-yo'd me for about a mile, speeding past me and then slowing to a walk. Finally I got past them for good before the turn onto Steels Corners where the course flattened. Then I began to pick up the pace for the final stretch.

I heard the man's footsteps behind me when the eighth mile marker was in view. He crept upon me and stayed just off my right shoulder for about a quarter mile and then he slowly surged to my side and then finally ahead of me.

The man in the sleeveless windbreaker continued to ebb farther ahead of me for the next quarter mile and I almost decided to let him go, but then he slowed and I knew I had him beat. I would not make his mistake.

We turned off Steels Corners and I reeled him in. I settled in behind him. He seemed to falter at times and I got shoulder to shoulder with him, but then he'd recover and I'd get behind him again.

Before the final turn onto Quick Road the man made a move that I perceived was meant to break me. He surged ahead, but I did not follow and before long his pace slackened. I took the final turn with a tight arc and was back at his shoulder and we passed the ninth mile dead even.

The finish was just beyond a bend in the road. I crashed ahead. I wasn't sure I had a finishing kick worth three-tenths of a mile. I could feel myself slipping. The finish was in view. Then I heard the footsteps just off my right shoulder.

I could see the sleeveless windbreaker in my peripheral. I needed to approach the puke threshold. Go legs, go, I begged to myself. I ebbed ahead and kept the footsteps behind me. Then he spoke.

"That's all I got. It's yours," the man panted.

I let out a barking laugh and finished him off.

In the finishing chute the people ahead of me as usual were taking too long. I handed over my bib tag and slipped under the ropes so as to bend over double in case of projectile. There was none. I turned around and saw the man in the sleeveless windbreaker.

"Nice finish," I said. Not as nice as mine, I thought. We shook hands and parted. He beat me inside the school for shelter.

Sir, We've Never Gone That Fast Before

Do not press go.

Team BHI officials have been mum on the subject of a peculiar feeling in the right thigh of a certain teammate after a particularly intense finish to a track session last Thursday. This feeling has been described as moments of intermittent pain interspersed with a thereness, which led to stride hesitation during a long run Sunday. This feeling has also led to an annoying use of passive voice by the author.

In an effort not to Barbaro himself, that same author went slow and then cut short Sunday's run, a planned 16-miler that instead became a 12-miler. Reasons included: "I've already done the training," "I need to stay healthy," "better safe than sorry," and the classic "it's better to be undertrained than broken." But still, those reasons didn't mitigate the emotions that have resulted from falling off what has been so far a successful training schedule.

And now, the paranoid anxieties have gained control of the ship's helm. Thoughts include: "Can I run through this?" "Does this wreck my goals?" "Why oh why did I do this to myself?" and "Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits," all thoughts including some measure of uncontrollable sobbing.

Luckily for this runner, there is a cure. As all teammates know, booze reduces pain and improves confidence.

The Buckeye Half Marathon is this Sunday, and the Akron Marathon is just three weeks after that. Will the leg be ready? Stay tuned!

An August to Remember
Some stats to keep you quiet. A breakdown by the runs. Feel free to compare yourself to a summer's Viper.

Intervals: 17.4 miles at 7:25 pace
Tempo: 26.6 miles at 8:55 pace
LSD: 72 miles at 10:39 pace
Total miles: 133
Zero-to-1,000 miles differential: -21.7 miles

Running Lexicon
Bar-ba-ro (bar'ba'ro) vt., vi. -roed, -roing 1. to resemble the heroic dead racehorse, Barbaro, in looks or performance, 2. to incur a devastating injury, which ends your chances of achieving the Triple Crown, 3. to continue to limp around when really you should have been put out of your (and our) misery months ago, 4. to be the closest thing to walking on water since Jesus Christ, 5. to avoid being turned into dog food--or glue

Flashback Friday: Hitting My Stride, No Updates

[Drunkard's note: image courtesy of Despair Inc.]

I've hit my stride in terms of training, but I've hit the wall re: blogging. Each run has been focused toward the goal of getting stronger, faster and going longer to the point that I quickly reach the Running No Mind state. Time and distance seem to disappear. It's akin to the sensation I get when I look down and wonder where that last pitcher went. I've been so mindless that I didn't even flashback last week. I'm sure you were all aghast at my negligence.

Perhaps I'm just too accustomed to consistently writing about my latest screw-ups that I don't know what to say when things are going good. So, perhaps some bragging is in order.

Being That Guy
Last night's six mile tempo run may have turned me into No. 12. Martini and I set a strong pace early and managed to keep it up despite the hilliness of our usual park path. Usually, the only runners we pass are going the opposite direction. However, we overtook a grand total of five runners, two on the steepest hill. One we passed on the upslope and another on the down, whom we had passed going the other way before we chased down the first guy.

Initiate chest bump! Arm flex! Grunt!

And then I went out and pounded some beer and watched sports.

Go Bother Someone Else
All right, that's all I have. Go elsewhere, young reader, and grow up with the Innernets:

• Vanilla has the cure for the loneliness of the long distance runner.
  
• But sometimes you can't avoid such solipsism.

• Nitmos has returned from Boston with a dramatic race report. Part 1 and Part 2 are filled with tension and strife. UPDATE: Part 3 is presumably on the way once he stops being so lazy finally here.
• Sarah reminds us that even though the weather is nice, we can still complain about it, repeatedly.
  
• And since it's Friday and Happy Hour looms, here are some tips from the United Booze Federation in case you find yourself in a situation where you have to act sober.
  

And if you don't like those links, go find your own distractions. Do I have to spoon-feed you ways to slack off? Or, I don't know, you could do your job.

[Drunkard's note: Thanks Kissing Suzy Kolber.]

Return of the Newbi

Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb-duh-dumb, dumb-duh-dumb ...

Forgive me, for I wasn't even drunk when I made the decision. I hadn't run since my bungled fake race attempt last weekend, and more than a week before that I had managed only four miles while I was sick. The point is I was feeling a bit anxious to get back out there.

But there was no easing back for this -- what's the word I'm searching for? -- nincompoop.

After spending my Friday off gift shopping for those brats my nieces and nephews, I sprung out of bed Saturday morning with the runner's itch. I had to go long. No other choice. I managed a challenging and uplifting seven miles. My pace was somewhere between geriatric driving an automobile and escargot on sandpaper, but it felt great. It was a Parade Wave Run. The whole time, no matter how tough some of the uphill stretches were, I felt like giving everyone the Queen's wave.

Sunday morning, I felt like a new runner who had just broken a new mileage barrier. I barely moved all day. Luckily, the Cleveland Browns were on TV, beating the Buffalo Bills and tying Pittspuke for first in the AFC North Division, and I had beer in the fridge. Unfortunately, I am not a Jedi yet, and instead of using mind tricks I had to get off the couch every time I wanted another bottle.