Reading vs. Running

In case you haven't noticed from all the incessant whining about failed attempts at marathon training these past few weeks, running hasn't had much success at topping my list of priorities recently. What has been successful, however, is my reading habit.

It may surprise you that my reading comprehension is above an eighth grade level, but it's true. For the past couple of years, I've striven to read a book a month. (Like running, I'm not a fast reader either.) This year's reading list theme is the Civil War, including histories, biographies and fiction of and about the time period.

Until the last couple weeks, I'd been slogging through Uncle Tom's Cabin while also reading Battle Cry of Freedom. You may recall my recent return to the world of comic books; that development seems to have bolstered my enthusiasm for reading, and I'm now within striking distance of the end of Harriet Beecher Stowe's signature novel.

Comic books are what turned me into a reader in the first place, and now they're stoking the fire to consume more and more books, both illustrated and big-boy wordy ones.

Next on my list is Red Badge of Courage, which I was supposed to read in high school but instead probably chose to read the latest issues of The Maxx or Madman. The same thing happened with last week's planned run for Thursday. Rather than heading to the trails, I went back to the comic book shop to pick up the latest issue of Batman and some other titles. I still managed to get that run in Friday evening, but it's clear where my priorities lay.

Northeast Ohio got a nice dose of cool weather the last couple days, which were perfect for running. Too bad I only ran once during this reprieve. Today's temperature is supposed to climb back into the mid-90s -- just in time for my post-work run at the Sand Run par course.

The par course has been my favorite workout recently. Not only does it have 16 exercise stations, ranging in difficulty from circling arms and touching toes to walking of your hands across parallel bars and pull-ups/chin-ups (I try both), but also the course is on a rather steep hill for a solid running challenge.

The heat will surely kick my caboose, but thank goodness for central air and a collection of good books to read while I cool down at home.

Gentleman, Restart Your Engine

The pre-training plan was working like gangbusters until a dozen days ago. The schedule said run this far, so that was that. Three miles, done. Three miles again, done. Eight miles, done. Another three miles, done. Done, done, done and done.

We all know what happened then to this April fool. And if you don't, seriously, get with the program. I haven't shut up about it for the last week and a half. The persistence of nausea has kept me sidelined for all but one ill-advised run last week, which left me feeling as if I'd just run a half marathon rather than for a half-hour.

This week, I've finally started feeling better, which coincided with a cold snap and late season snow. Not my ideal weather for a return to running, and so I've remained sidelined despite the growing urge to get out there.

But all my intentions are defused with a lack of get-out-the-door motivation.

Today must be the day. Warmer temperatures and blue skies, how can I say no? Well, I'm sure I could find a few lame excuses if you give me a few moments. Inertia is a bad habit.

And so are garlic-flavored french fried onions, which I've devoured by the handful the last two days. They're meant as a salad topper, which I tried as such Tuesday after work, before gobbling a bunch more and then sprinkling them on my chicken and pasta dinner. The bag was empty after last night's munching. Had I just gone for a run, my snacking would have been averted.

Bad habits must be eradicated. Or at least curbed.

My running needs a good kickstart. Enter Chris McDougall. In response to the death of Micah True (aka Caballo Blanco, White Horse and apparently Michael Randall Hickman), he wrote a piece for BBC Magazine memorializing his running mentor. In it, he recalled one of his conversations with the mysterious Caballo, which also appears in his book Born to Run.

Learn the fine art of running, Caballo told me, and you can change your life. 
   "Don't fight the trail. Take what it gives you," he began. "Lesson two -- think easy, light, smooth and fast. You start with easy, because if that's all you get, that's not so bad. Then work on light. Make it effortless, like you don't [care] how high the hill is or how far you've got to go. 
   "When you've practised that so long that you forget you're practising, you work on making it smooooooth. You won't have to worry about the last one -- you get those three, and you'll be fast."

Easy is exactly what I need right now. Remembering these lessons from someone who clearly understood the true benefits of running, that is my mission this year.

Nearing Panic Mode: Introspective Dump

The feeling is similar to the one I'd get in college when an essay was due the next day and I hadn't started writing yet. Here we are, 14 weeks from the Akron Marathon without a run over eight miles or a week with more than 17 miles, and all efforts to kickstart my running have misfired. The days pass by.

All aboard the panic train!

I'm one of those people who says he works better under pressure. The truth is that pressure only gives me a better ability to shut out distractions when I work. The actual quality of the work is subject to debate.

Yesterday, I went through and tried to revise my training plan to something more reasonable, and probably devised something more ludicrous.

It's time to deactivate the early morning alarm because there's no chance in hell that I'm getting up to run before work any time soon.

I promised myself I wouldn't buy any shoes this year, but I keep thinking, "Maybe a new pair of shoes will make me want to run more!" Thankfully, the cheapskate in me reminds me that the maximum price for minimal shoes is fucking absurd.

It's time for something drastic, something that works. It's time for a paradigm shift.

Why am I doing this? Nobody wants to read a mope-fest. You want entertainment. You want action and humor. You want flash and sizzle. You want unnecessary exclamation points to show just how excited I am to be on this journey and sharing it with you on the World Wide Web! You want long sentences. You want me to finish this paragraph and get to the point. That's why I'm getting off the panic train right here.

We all know that the panic train makes a lot of noise, but never actually leaves the station. I'm going to take some advice from Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series: "Don't Panic."

What happens if I don't train enough? I spend $110 for two races that I don't do as well as have done in the past. However, the amount I'm running now is making me unhappy.

So what's the happy medium? Pretty simple. Let go of expectations and run more.

This is big year in my life. I don't need to add the stress of training for a PR on top of preparing for the wedding, increased responsibilities at work, paying down debt, saving money, playing the banjo and still trying to have an active social life.

I want to run the Akron Marathon because I love the atmosphere and it will be my fifth year in a row, which gives me some special perks in future races. I want to run the Buckeye Half because it's my favorite race and I want the sweatshirt. Plus, there's a discount for registering for both races.

Yes, I really want to PR both races, but I have to accept that my dedication isn't where it needs to be for that to be a reasonable goal this year. Besides, no matter what, I can call my marathon result a "Married PR."

Flashback Friday: Losing Ground, Gaining Weight

I've been stuck in neutral. While the needle on my running log hasn't moved in more than a week, the needle on the scale has been creeping upward. It's not that I ever had much hope for my goal of averaging 20 miles per week, but my mileage tracker has just crossed 200 miles ... in the negative. I no longer have the cold to complain about as the weather has finally started to resemble Spring. However, my motivation has been in such a constant state of "meh" that I have barely thought about running other than to posit that I should be when I'm not. This weekend would be ideal to squeeze in some miles, but a busy schedule looms. The happy news is that patio drinking is just around the corner. In fact, if it's dry this evening, we'll give it a try for Happy Hour.

Back Talk
Wherein we remember small beer. 

Ironman By Thirty comes to the realization that the end of Prohibition was the start of mass-produced shitty beer:  "3.2%? So only PBR?"

Answer: And Rolling Rock.

Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates! Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!

Don't Bet on Me

On Saturday, at a race that wasn't delayed for a possible bomb (but I hear the pasta was defused), there was a certain racer whose name resonated with certain readers like Ms. V.

Backtalk, obviously named for my weekly Flashback Friday section, had 50-1 odds of winning the Kentucky Derby. "I bet on him," Ms. V. said.

Poor choice.

Backtalk finished dead last. The thoroughbred's best finish was third, which is where I finished in the recently rigged Last Mile Brewing Popularity Contest Virtual Halfathon. We share a similar racing pedigree.

Boy, April didn't offer much to be proud of in terms of running. Here is last month's statistical rundown:

• Total Miles: 40 miles (10 runs)
• Highest Weekly: 21 miles
  
• Average Weekly: 9.3 miles
  
• Average Pace: 10:42.84 per mile
  
• Longest/Fastest Run: 6 miles, 10:09 pace
  
• The Monthly Dif: -17 miles (57 miles in March)

Fewer miles, slower miles. But the last week was much better than the middle weeks of the month when I fell into a funk.

We Got the Funk

The first step is admitting you have a problem, and I've got one. I'm in the middle of running malaise -- a funk.

I went from 21 miles, to seven miles, to three miles, to no miles so far this week. I've logged back-to-back 20-mile weeks only once this year, and that was back in January. (Though I came close in March with a 19-mile week followed by 20 the next, but we all know close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.)

I have yet to run a race. The most involved post I've written about running this year (or maybe ever) was completely fabricated by my inner Jayson Blair.

I get home from work and usually prefer to snack than run. My only exercise of late has been two to three walks with Dobson. I no longer have the convenient excuse of bad weather.

I know this happens to us all. But it still sucks.

I need a shot ...

In the arm, not of whiskey.

Sluggish Weekend Hangover

Team Booze Hounds just wasn't feeling it this weekend. Poor sleep and rainy weather doused all activity plans, save for my daily walks with Dobson.

The weekend kicked off with a Happy Hour spent with a child that someone actually entrusted me to watch while the parents went to a party. Said child went to bed early, but the parents took advantage of the free night and came home late and well-imbibed.

The late evening threw off my sleep, and I let a nice day on Saturday go without a run while a nap took over the spare time.

The bad weather came Sunday, and tickets to the Cleveland Cavaliers game took up most of the day anyway.

Only three miles last week. Pathetic. Let's call it a rest week.

Today doesn't look too promising, as yesterday's rain has carried over for a demotivating morning. However, the rest of the week looks promising. Let's get our heads out of the puke bucket and hold them high in hopes of better running ahead. Cheers!

The Stench of Spring

Since I've already had almost a full week of Spring-like weather, I figure it's about time I complained about it.

Although there are still some small patches of snow here and there, there is a lot more green to be seen. The temperatures have been in the high 40s to low 60s. The thaw has brought back the smell of vegetation, but along with it has come the stink of fresh roadkill.

Yes, it seems the skunks and raccoons have Spring Fever. They're double-dog daring each other to scramble across the road to see who can be the first to prove Charles Darwin was correct. It appears that none of these local critters are fit enough to survive.

Aw, Spring. Blue skies, temperate weather, and the distinct odor of decomposition.

Just So You Know I'm Not Making this Shit Up

I know I've been hemming and hawing about this endless winter, but a national media outlet has my back. Forbes has ranked Cleveland as America's Worst Winter Weather City. With an average temperature of 49.6 degrees, average rainfall of 38.7 inches and average snowfall of 58.9 inches, Cleveland finally ranks No. 1 in something. Hip-hip-hooray!

As for this past weekend's snowstorm, no, it was not the final blow. It's been snowing all day. And it will continue snowing for the next couple days. The Weather Channel predicts another six to 12 inches of snow accumulation for northern Ohio.

Running may be sporadic, if evident at all.

Boozing is more likely.

Remember Why I Started Running

Not that I should be surprised about that ugly little rodent predicting six more weeks of winter. We don't really have much of a choice, considering it is literally six more weeks until the spring equinox.

No, it wasn't a surprise, but the beginning of February is always a harsh reminder of how much longer we have to wait until going outside isn't such a chore. To top it off, this month typically hits us with at least one final wicked wintry blow. February is the most dreadful of months. And the first half of March isn't so great either.

This is why I started running back in 2006. Cabin fever had left me ravaged, and there was no end in sight. My apartment felt cramped. I felt sluggish. It seemed like I hadn't been outside in eons.

And fuck! Why was it so cold?

My plan was combat the S.A.D. with outside activity -- namely, running. I breathed out a cloud that was thicker than those smoke-filled exhalations I had given up for good a couple months prior. The dense cloud of breath hung in the air and joined the morning fog. (Yes, I even went out in the morning for my first run.)

I wore a pair of charcoal gray sweatpants, a T-shirt under a heavy sweatshirt, a skull cap, scarf, gloves and a pair of Etonic tennis shoes (as in, court shoes) that were too small. I ran for what I thought was two miles, but I think I was way off when I measured it later.

I returned home, having created a trail of fog as I panted from the effort. Little spots flashed before my eyes like I had just murdered a small colony of brain cells. I was lightheaded like whoa. My friend Martini talked about running like it was an addiction, and I suddenly knew why.

A couple weeks later, I started training for my first 10-K. A year later I was in the middle of training for my first half marathon. Four months after that, I would run my first marathon. Now, almost four years after that first run, I look back in search of motivation.

On Your Left

Is it that hard to say?

After reading Vanilla's recent post on cyclists, I decided I'd pile on the anti-cyclist rhetoric. It's not like I haven't done it before.

My main issue with cyclists is when they don't warn you that they are approaching from behind. Granted, cyclists are not the only guilty culprits of this anti-notification trend. I've had runners spook me on the path when they suddenly appeared in my peripheral to pass -- not very often, mind you, but it's happened. However, it seems cyclists are a large percentage of the pass-but-don't-tell population. I'm guessing it's because they don't get passed as often and don't realize just how quiet they are.

Even if you're not a lead-footed runner like me, it's hard to hear anything coming from behind you. And that's true whether you are walking, running, biking or hula-hooping.

Have you ever noticed how the human ear is oriented to hear things in front of and to the side of the body and not so much to the rear? The pinna, for most people, is angled away from our backs. Furthermore, if an object is approaching at a high rate of speed, the Doppler Effect reduces our ability to hear it and react in a timely manner.

Physically and physics-ally, we runners can't hear you ass-hat cyclists (or you jerkface faster runners) zipping up on our backs. We'd get out of your way if we could hear you. Just remember that when you have to swerve off the path and end up flying over your handlebars because I didn't move when you didn't say "on your left." Stop being such a douche bucket and let me know when you're passing. And do it before I can see you out of the corner of my eye.

Bad News and the Bears

I think I'm already sweating in anticipation of my evening.

Bad News Instance No. 1
Tonight's weather forecast:

• Temperature: 86 degrees
• Conditions: Party cloudy
• Chance of rain: 10 percent
• Humidity: 54 percent
• Wind: 9 mph from the west

Bad News Instance No. 2
Tonight's running schedule:

• Distance: 5.2 miles
• Location: Track
• Intervals: 7 x 400 meters
• Pace: Sub-1:40 (6:42 per mile)
• Chance of FAIL: π

Poop.

Flashback Friday: For I Am a Rain Dog, Too

Stupid Rain
+
Stupid Slippery Watch Buttons
=
Operator Error

Quick, what's another word for donkey?

As promised, I return from the Circle of Doom with not one, but two -- count 'em 1-2 -- failures. However, one of those should have been a win.

It started raining last night during my drive home from work. I fret not the rain. I suited up and strode out the door. A warm up lap exposed a strong headwind at the fourth turn. Two satisfactory intervals in light rain got me prepared. On the third, I kicked through the blustery, final curve and beat my legs toward the line. I reached across my chest to press the lap button on my watch. I looked down and saw 1:40. Dang. Then I saw 1:41. Ohfuck.

And now the statistical rundown:

• Intervals: 6 x 400 meters
  
• Goal pace: 6:26-6:42 per mile
• Lap 1: 1:38.31 (6:34 per mile)
• Lap 2: 1:39.55 (6:38 per mile)
• Lap 3: 1:41.55 (6:46 per mile) FAIL
• Lap 4: 1:41.74 (6:46 per mile) FAIL
• Lap 5: 1:38.27 (6:34 per mile)
• Lap 6: 1:37.88 (6:30 per mile)
• Average pace: 6:38 per mile
  
• Total distance: 4.7 miles

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

The rain picked up in the middle of my track visit. The puddles swelled. I was soaked, and my shoes squashed with each step. Good times.

Just a Number
This Sunday is Flag Day. And if you haven't figured it out, Flag Day is my birthday. I'll be 30. Some people worry about this number, and getting older in general. I just figure I'm growing into my personality. I was born to sit on front porches and shout at young vagrants from my rocking chair.

Here are some things that will change on Sunday.

I will be in a new age group for racing, and I hope you bastards are slow. All my younger friends and loved ones will say I'm old, but I will remind them that they're next. I will be in the same decade as my siblings, which only happens once a decade. I can fondly reminisce about my 20s. And I will be that much closer to routine colonoscopies and prostate exams.

That's it.

I enjoy my life. It's not as if I'm going to stop enjoying it because of my birthday. Besides, I plan on living until I'm 120. I'm only a quarter of the way there. I've got many more miles to run and kegs to tap before I ride this donkey into the sunset.



My birthday present to myself will be a five-mile hangover run at race pace tomorrow morning and a 10-mile long run on Sunday. And of course, I will be imbibing of the spirits for the majority of the weekend. Cheers to me, bitches.

Back Talk
Wherein I keep the entries to a minimum because I've already given you as much entertainment as you can take.

Pregnant Jess gets all motherly on my getting sunburned: "How come men seem to believe that sunscreen is voodoo? If it weren't for me, I'm certain my husband would have melanoma by now."

Answer: I did put on sunscreen. After I'd been out in the sun for hours.

Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Good luck to those of you who are racing. And to all, run well and drink well. The boat to Blackout Isle leaves shortly. All aboard!

On Pace and on Target? WT-the f#ck-F?

The well is dry. I have nothing to bitch about. This sucks.

I'm in the middle of my second week of marathon training, and there has been little drama beyond a slight hip tweak that has gone away and a sunburn that has not impeded my progress whatsoever. My mileage and pacing has been right in my target zone, as I prepare for my first pre-Akron Marathon tuneup, the Davey Tree/United Way of Portage County 10-K.

Beyond getting dragged into some half-assed vs. idiot slapfight, everything has been jake. Of course if you look to the right side of this blog, you'll notice I've only logged five miles so far this week. There is plenty of opportunity yet for some big fat, red FAILs or some other minor injury to crop up.

Tonight, for instance.

I'll be back tomorrow with a report from the Circle of Doom and a preview of the potential destruction headed my way this weekend. Meanwhile, gentle readers, you can continue planning your big to-do for Flag Day.

Amnesty International Letter Writing Campaign from Oppressed Runners in Ohio

Dear Snow,

Don't you know it's Spring now? Leave us alone, you jerk.

Yours with hearts and bubbles,
Viper

P.S., I ran intervals on Sunday. They went like this:

• Intervals: 5 x 800 meters
• Goal pace: 7:19-7:39 per mile
• Lap 1: 3:43.42 (7:29 per mile)
  
• Lap 2: 3:44.03 (7:31 per mile)
  
• Lap 3: 3:46.91 (7:35 per mile)
  
• Lap 4: 3:54.91 (7:51 per mile) FAIL
  
• Lap 5: 3:42.81 (7:27 per mile)
  
• Average pace: 7:35 per mile
  
• Total distance: 5.2 miles

My Winded Wheel

The flock milled about the infield, chewing the grass. Their honks and squawks sounded like cheers as my feet carried me around the third turn toward my first and fastest 800 meters.

When they mounted their wings and took flight during my second interval, I hoped the Canada geese would be faster than I and would not shit on me.

All did go as planned last night, but my triumphant return to the track was choked by a lack of lung capacity rather than a lack of speed.

This was my first time back to the track in more than a month. I kept my pacing the same as when I was training to break an hour and 50 minutes for the half marathon -- at 3:38 to 3:48 per 800-meter repeat.

I had high hopes of six repeats, but my lungs were winded and my wheels were gone after just two. I forced one more because I'd be damned if I was going to go through all the trouble of going to the track for two measly intervals.

The numbers:

1. 3:35
2. 3:45
3. 3:47

Totals: 3:42.33 average per 800 meters (7:27 per mile); 4.4 miles at 39:50 (9:03 per mile)

The pacing was suitable for this track session, but if I'm going to beat my current 5-K PR (look right), I'm going to have to stop all this squawking and step it up.

The Big Slow Down

Deep inside I knew it was happening. But I had to go and confirm my suspicions anyway. I got slow again.

Not that I was ever actually fast, but I was faster.

After months of speed work to get myself in shape to hit my half marathon goal, while setting new PRs at the 10-K and marathon, I have since gone the way of the tortoise.

My running log shows a nice descending curve in my pacing from June to August, but then, starting in September, it reports a steady increase. I know the marathons and my subsequent recovery are to blame, but it feels like all those Yasso 800s have been erased.

The last run with an overall pace under 9:00 per mile was more than a month ago, a two-mile fartlek session right before the Akron Marathon.

My legs have felt like iron, heavy and pocked with rust (I live in the Rust Belt, after all). Perhaps it is time for a new recruiting mission. Tonight, if all goes as planned, I will make my triumphant return to the track, where I'll be seeking some long lost fast-twitch muscle fibers as I prepare for one last crack at a 5-K -- and perhaps a six-minute mile.

Race Report: Damn You, Akron!

Akron Marathon goals redux:

• 3:50 finish -- FAIL!
• Sub-4:00 finish -- FAIL!
• PR finish -- FAIL!
• Finish -- Success!

It was not my day. But it could have been worse, as my friend reminded me when she sent me this kind salutation from someecards.com.


Things I learned Saturday:

• I'm always right
• Cramps suck
• I can still have fun in the face of failure

I still have not solved the Howard Street downhill or the second half uphill. Up until the turn onto Howard (Mile 11), I was keeping stride with the 3:50 pace group and feeling good. I slowed down and tried to take it easy down the steep hill so I wouldn't destroy myself. I watched the pace group pull away and leave me alone as I entered the Towpath, where the spectator support drops off to almost nil for the next four miles.

No worries. I was still going strong, clocking some good miles through the park. My 25K split was 2:19:46, an 8:59 pace with a predicted finish of 3:55:32. However, that was at the entrance of the second park, Sand Run, which is where the second-half uphills get serious. And for the next three miles, the support was minimal.

I knew I was slowing down. But in the space of two seconds, the 4:00 and 4:15 pacers surged by me. My spirit was beginning to falter. And then the stabbing pain in my legs began.

I've never had muscle cramps before during a race. Stomach cramps, yes, but never muscle cramps. At first I had to walk. No big deal. I exited Sand Run to the chorus of raucous fans along Revere Road.

The crowd boost got me running again, but shortly afterward I had to stop fast as my legs jerked and jiggled, stiffened and spasmed. I must have looked like I was performing an interpretive dance to illustrate the mating habits of the red-crowned crane.

I stopped to rub it out, the cramp, but the pain returned every couple of miles for the rest of the race. My quads, hamstrings, calves and even my toes got into the act. Sometimes I'd stop. Sometimes I'd run through it. Nothing seemed to cure it.

It was devastating and frustrating and aggravating and I wanted to punch babies and trip runners who passed me and I felt like all my training was wasted and for nothing and that I was an utter failure to myself and everyone I know and everyone who reads this blog.

And then I took a deep breath and let my goals go.

And I remembered something I read a long time ago in Runner's World by Kristin Armstrong. She had asked an old man at a race if he had a good run. The man replied, "Any day I can run is a good day."

You know what? It was a good day. The weather forecast had called for rain, but it was clear the whole day. Maybe a little warmer than ideal for a marathon, but it was a good day. I may not have been running my fastest, but I was running the best I could muster. And I still had my loved ones rooting for me at the race and in spirit. I rubbed the charm pinned to my shorts and decided to just have fun. Or at least try.

My friends were camped out just past Mile 23. Friday night, I had dropped off some supplies for post-race drinking and had asked the erratic epicurean to hand me some beer when I passed. The cramps got me just as their party was in sight. I stopped to regroup so that I could run when I passed them.

They all stood up at once to cheer and there was no pain. Then ee trotted onto the race course with a Styrofoam cup, on which she had written "don't shit your pants." Inside was the Flying Dog Gonzo Imperial Porter, which I sloshed into my mouth and splashed onto my front.

Sadly, it was a bit more than I could take down mid-race, and I felt wasteful for throwing the rest away. But it was good and much appreciated.

A few hundred feet down, I saw my young neighbor riding her pink bicycle up and down the sidewalk, shaking maracas for the runners. I made my way to the curb to grab her attention. I gave her a big grin and waved. In her singsong voice, she said, "Hi?" She paused a second and then, recognizing me, she was like, "Oh, hey!"

On Market Street -- the part of the marathon where people like to tell you it's all downhill but it's not -- I passed the most amusing traffic cop of the whole course, somewhere before Mile 25. He was loud and animated.

He screamed at a motorist who was trying to cross the road, "Are you ready? When I signal you, jump on it! Do not slow down these runners!"

To the runners, he yelled, "It's all downhill from here! Any hills you see are an illusion of your deluuushional mind!" And of course, just up ahead, there was a hill -- perhaps the last real daunting one of the race.

Around that time, the 4:30 pacers had caught up to me. The pace leader was good. He kept nagging me to keep up with them. His prodding and knowing my family was up ahead helped me keep running despite some more cramping and the overall exhaustion.

My family was at the last turn before we headed into Canal Park for the finish. I didn't see them, but I heard their encouraging shouts. I managed to push a little, passing a few runners for a moral victory. I finished right around 4:30. The sub-4:00 remains my white whale.

Post-Race Revelry
Aside from the water ... erm ... I mean, Michelob Ultra, I had some tasty post-race beers. My thirst-quencher was Ommegang Hennepin with the Gonzo Imperial Porter as my carb replacement. I joined my friends with the party already in progress. I slipped into the cushy comforts of a wide chair and set sail for the safe harbor of Blackout Island. Later, I was nudged awake and sent home with a boxful of fried chicken and sore legs.

Recent Whereabouts of the Viper
As you may have noticed, my last post was Thursday. I took Friday and Monday off, which means I had no access to the innernetz unless I went to the library and, seriously, who goes to the library? Nerds. Not me.

So, the point is, I didn't get all your great comments and good wishes until today. Thank you, very much to all of you, who stopped by in the last few days. And I appreciate the concern for my extended absense. I'm OK, just a little pain in the pride.

As for meeting up with Laura? That didn't happen. However, I was given notice that she would be wearing a peach-colored running skirt. That peach running skirt passed me somewhere between Mile 21 and the Garman Hill. I had high hopes of catching up to her and introducing myself, but that was a pipe dream. She finished 10 minutes ahead of me. Great job, Laura! Sorry I missed you. Don't worry though, I drank your beer.

Filling the Void

My mind just fizzled yesterday afternoon as I contemplated my scheduled track session after work.

For the first time in several weeks I had no desire to run. My little distracting track team wouldn't be there. And Martini bailed on account of some knee pain. The prospect of nine 800-meter repeats just didn't sound appealing. How would I motivate myself?

I mean really! Who wants to run when it's 73 degrees, low humidity, minimal heat index with blue skies and the prospect of complete solitude?

Wait a minute ... who am I?

I snapped out of my doldrums when I got home and slipped into my evening wear. The focus slowly started to return as I pulled my shorts up, reached into my shirt, slid my socks on, and tightened the laces to my Brooks.

Ironically, the track was the busiest I've seen it all summer. Families galore, many walkers and a few runners. I felt like I was back at the race, hemmed in on all sides. Of course, I outlasted them all. By the fifth repeat I was almost all alone. But then the most annoying thing happened.

More annoying than a toddler trying to snap my knee ligaments. More annoying than a track coach being a dipshit. More annoying than the sun being sunny. Even more annoying than a blogger linking to the same stories over and over again.

I saw a teenager on a bicycle on the track as I rounded the third corner. Get the fuck off the track you twerp, I thought. And then I heard a strange whirring from behind me as two more bicycle bandits blew by me. Then they did it again my next repeat, only this time sandwiching me between their spinning pedals. Innocently, I wondered how difficult it would be to use a shovel on this surface.

Regardless of the trials and tribulations of a curmudgeonly booze runner, the intervals were all but perfect.

9x800 meters (goal pace: 3:38.3 - 3:48.5)

1. 3:34 -- Whoa there! And I coasted the final 200 m!
2. 3:41
3. 3:38.1
4. 3:46
5. 3:38.3
6. 3:47 -- Fooled! That kid wasn't as fast as I thought; had to go all out to hit my pace.
   
7. 3:50 -- FAIL! Did someone say something about all out?
   
8. 3:45
9. 3:35 -- Leaving nothing in the tank!

Overall, I averaged 3:41.5 (7:25 mile pace). I have only one more repeat to add to complete the Yasso 800s workout. After that I'll back off to taper for the Buckeye Half Marathon on Sept. 7, but I'll do another 10 repeats the week after the race and then back off again for the Akron Marathon.

I have not noticed an overwhelming drop in my other training paces. However, in the span of a month, I shaved 2:22 from my 10K pace. I'm anxious to see how the workout translates to the marathon.

Finding New Motivators

You just can't count on the youth of today. Sure, for a few weeks they might come through for you, but then one day they'll just flake out. No show. No warning. And that's it, you're left floundering.

Dark clouds were circling last night as Martini and I went to the track, but I had faith that the weather would hold. I eagerly anticipated the return of the youth track team to help motivate me.

I looked forward to watching the older kids run by me with their long, quick strides. (Two of them are really quite talented.) I couldn't wait to trample the little ones, who like to congregate in whichever lane I choose to run in, no matter what. I savored the thought clotheslining that one coach, who is even worse about being in my way but should know better. I craved the anger-induced push to finish each 800-meter interval.

But alas, the track was abandoned.

Where would my motivation come from? Occasionally, I could relish in blowing past Martini, but that wasn't enough. Thankfully, I had dinner plans and visions of cold draft beer, pickle martinis, fancy food, Laphroaig and cheese cake danced in my head while I knocked out my 800s.

[Drunkard's note: If you haven't learned the merits of Scotch and dessert, I beseech you to try it. Like right now.]

8x800 meters (3:38 - 3:48 pace goal)

1. 3:46
2. 3:45
3. 3:41
4. 3:48
5. 3:45
6. 3:43
7. 3:45
8. 3:45

My legs still felt sluggish from Sunday's 20-miler, but I managed to stay within my pace range for an average of 7:31 per mile. Booyah! Vanilla's 10K PR is in trouble. (Though, he actually seems serious about this half marathon PR.)

In celebration of sufficiently trouncing the best that Vanilla has to offer, I will raise many taste glasses on Saturday in triumph at the annual Blues & Brews. It'll be my very own little biathlon. Glory, here I come.