Finally, the temperature dropped this weekend. We turned off the air conditioning and opened the windows to let in some fresh air.
A run would have been quite pleasant in this weather, but alas better fish were fried.
Saturday, the wife and I ventured to my hometown for a beer festival at a local beer and wine shop. They had several exclusive beers on tap and a trendy food truck parked outside so we had something to soak up the alcohol instead of us getting too snookered.
We opted for full pints, so we didn't try as many of the beers as we could have if we had done taster flights. Instead, we stuck to the more exclusive offerings.
They had two special beers from Great Lakes Brewing: a cask-aged Edmund Fitzgerald (Porter) and a dry-hopped onsite Lake Erie Monster (IPA). They were delicious.
We also got a bourbon barrel-aged Gonzo (Imperial Stout) from Flying Dog and the maple-flavored Curmudgeon Old Ale from Founder's.
Quite frankly, those last two were a bit much. Both were 9 percent ABV or higher. The bourbon flavor of the Gonzo was a little too prevalent for me, and I think my palate was all used up by the time we got the Curmudgeon. We ended up giving the majority of our glass to the couple sitting next to us who contemplated ordering it.
We walked off the effects of our beer tasting by strolling to a local coffee roaster, Bent Tree. Highly recommended.
Sunday, the wife worked and originally I had ideas of running. Instead, I chose to see The Dark Knight Rises. In light of recent events (this and this), I entered the theater with a sense of anxiety.
Is it wrong that I feel this bit of fear heightened my movie-going experience? In one scene, I jumped out of my seat at the sound of gunfire. The terrorism in the movie seemed much more heinous.
The movie was more of action movie than its more cerebral predecessors, but it was a satisfying end to a great trilogy. While Tim Burton's Batman will always hold a special place in my heart, the Christopher Nolan Dark Knight run is now the standard for the character on film.
Showing posts with label way too many tags for one post. Show all posts
Showing posts with label way too many tags for one post. Show all posts
Monday, August 13, 2012
Monday, November 21, 2011
Something to Talk About
Since we're dealing with the Mondaze, I'm a bit short on creativity. And since I failed to run this weekend, I need something to write about. Let's deal with the hangover from Flashback Friday and answer some more questions from the comments, all of which dealt with holy holey "sockemetrics."
From Xenia: "Since you're the King of Thrift, are you going to sew up the hole and keep running in that pair of socks? You know you want to, you cheap bastard."
Answer: I actually already answered this question in the comments, but I'm trying to get content here, teammates. I will keep running in my holey socks, but I'm not going to sew a darned thing.
From Kelly: "Are you seeing a similar heel wear pattern on your Altras? A work mate is concerned about heel wear on his VFFs, but doesn't seem to have a problem with it otherwise."
Answer: So far, I have not experienced abnormal heel wear on my Altras or my VFFs. Since both are zero-drop soles, they help foster a more mid- or forefoot strike. So if anything, these shoes have shown less heel wear than traditional running shoes I've worn.
From Barefoot Josh: "I wouldn't worry too much about the holy heel. That's where the sock is stretched the tightest, compromising structural integrity and stuff. The holy development pattern changes with each sock for me. I think there are too many other factors to learn any valuable info re: one's gait from holy observations."
Answer: This wasn't a question, was it? No, it wasn't.
My lovely wife and I started the packing process over the weekend by starting to purge unnecessary items. We already have three big trash bags and three boxes of donation items.
I finally parted with my extensive VHS collection in the name of technological progress. After all, we haven't used the VCR -- as it has been stored in the same closet as the VHS tapes -- since we moved to the apartment.
This morning, I noticed all the shoes I'll have to part with. My old Brooks T6 Racers will be among the trashed. I'm also considering what to do with the KSOs (eBay, perhaps?), as I haven't worn them much.
When we move to the house, I intend to only have my Altras, New Balance MT101s (which I want to take to the cobbler to have zero-dropped), Invisible Shoes and socks as my arsenal of running footwear.
From Xenia: "Since you're the King of Thrift, are you going to sew up the hole and keep running in that pair of socks? You know you want to, you cheap bastard."
Answer: I actually already answered this question in the comments, but I'm trying to get content here, teammates. I will keep running in my holey socks, but I'm not going to sew a darned thing.
From Kelly: "Are you seeing a similar heel wear pattern on your Altras? A work mate is concerned about heel wear on his VFFs, but doesn't seem to have a problem with it otherwise."
Answer: So far, I have not experienced abnormal heel wear on my Altras or my VFFs. Since both are zero-drop soles, they help foster a more mid- or forefoot strike. So if anything, these shoes have shown less heel wear than traditional running shoes I've worn.
From Barefoot Josh: "I wouldn't worry too much about the holy heel. That's where the sock is stretched the tightest, compromising structural integrity and stuff. The holy development pattern changes with each sock for me. I think there are too many other factors to learn any valuable info re: one's gait from holy observations."
Answer: This wasn't a question, was it? No, it wasn't.
My lovely wife and I started the packing process over the weekend by starting to purge unnecessary items. We already have three big trash bags and three boxes of donation items.
I finally parted with my extensive VHS collection in the name of technological progress. After all, we haven't used the VCR -- as it has been stored in the same closet as the VHS tapes -- since we moved to the apartment.
This morning, I noticed all the shoes I'll have to part with. My old Brooks T6 Racers will be among the trashed. I'm also considering what to do with the KSOs (eBay, perhaps?), as I haven't worn them much.
When we move to the house, I intend to only have my Altras, New Balance MT101s (which I want to take to the cobbler to have zero-dropped), Invisible Shoes and socks as my arsenal of running footwear.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Race Report: Devoured Whole
at the Last Mile Virtual Halfathon
Today, I participated in the First Annual Last Mile Brewing Virtual Halfathon. When I saw that Jamoosh was hosting the event, I knew at the very least there would be good beer at the finish. Not that shitty Michelob Ultra or some such similar piss water.
Walking around the starting area before the race, I noticed a few familiar faces. I saw MCM Mama and Razz and Jess and Adam and Josh were all ready to have a special day today.
Since this was a virtual race, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to try something new by wearing my hippie shoes for the 13.1-mile trek. I was already facing a bastard behind the eyes after a late night at the pub. So what was the harm of adding another wrinkle?
According to the race literature, the race would follow an emerald line painted on the ground, otherwise the course was a mystery.
The race started at the top of Akron's legendary Derby Downs, the site of the All-American Soap Box Derby and where Corbin Bernsen is currently filming the movie 25 Hill. As racers were lining up, our benevolent race director asked for quiet as he introduced the performers of the national anthem.
Wearing their traditional red "flower pot" hats and jump suits, Mark Mothersbaugh, Gerry Casale and the two Bobs strolled up to the dais and launched into a perverted rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner" as only Devo could do it.
When they reached the line, "land of the free," the band transitioned into their song "Freedom of Choice," for an awkwardly long pre-race musical interlude before returning to the anthem's concluding line, "and the home of the brave." I could already tell this was going to be a long day.
The runners were all starting to get antsy in the corral, thinking that we were just about to start the race. However, after the anthem, up comes Chrissie Hynde to give a motivational speech before the gun.
Hynde's speech quickly turned into a diatribe against the meat eaters in the audience (guilty). "Eating meat is barbaric," she shouted, as she spoke about saving Akron and Northeast Ohio from a life without vegan restaurants by opening Vegiterranean (an overblown pasta eatery). She railed against all the pollution we runners were creating by wearing shoes that need replaced every three months. She damned us for all the damage we were causing by running in the natural habitats of all wild creatures.
Jamoosh suddenly realized his grave mistake for inviting the Pretender front-woman to speak. Thankfully, his Hanwei Folded Tiger Wakizashi Sword is never far from hand. In a blink, Jamoosh unsheathed the weapon, swiped it through Hynde's neck and returned the sword to his belt. Hynde's voice choked to silence as her head rolled off its haughty perch once upon her shoulders.
"Um, go?" Jamoosh announced, and we were off!
Being the only runner familiar with the terrain, I glided down the steep hill of Derby Downs with ease toward the gaping black hole that is the Goodyear Airdock. The rest of the field started tumbling over each other. Bodies rolled into a giant seething mass of arms akimbo and outstretched shins, forming a human boulder that was hot on my trail.
Ahead, the hangar doors of the airdock began to close, even though the emerald line appeared to show the race course going into the building. The Goodyear Blimp had just exited the dock, and its low, caterwauling engines could be heard straining to push the dirigible skyward. This was going to be close.
I strained to keep my feet churning in tiny girlie steps to reach the airdock and outrun the barreling pile of runners behind me. A hundred meters away, just a sliver of an opening remained. I knew it was a bad idea to give it my all this early in a race, but I had no choice. I launched in a dead sprint, then dove to slip through the crack a hair before the 600-ton door slammed shut.
I heard the clatter of human anatomy against the outside of the hangar. Inside was only blackness. There was no way to tell where the emerald line went or how to get out of the gigantic structure. I tried to relax and catch my breath from sprinting. As my breathing calmed, I could hear a light pitter-patter of thuds. Was it the sound of my hangover or was something there in the darkness?
"Hello?" I called out. My voice echoed an endless refrain. I heard the noise again, tackatubba-tackatubba. What was that? I started tojog run slowly toward the sound. I strained my eyes against the unforgivable blackness as the noise got louder.
As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I could see the faintest bit of white bobbing along a few hundred feet ahead of me. Soon, I could hear something else. It sounded like heavy breathing, huf-huh-huf-huh. Whatever was there was making a lot of noise.
Within seconds I was upon the beast. The white I had seen was only a small patch of long fur belonging to none other than Dobson.
"Hey, boy, am I glad to see you!" I cried. The dog looked at me blankly.
"Uh, sit?" I said. Dobson still looked at me blankly.
After several more attempts and then just pushing his butt down, I finally got the dog to sit.
"Shake?" I said, reaching my hand out. "Shake. Shake! Shake?" Nothing.
"Dobson, shake," I said. Finally, he complied, lifting his giant paw into my hand. However, his paw was wet with something thick. I squinted in the darkness to see what the liquid could be, as Dobson sniffed at my hand looking for a treat for being such a good dog.
"Sorry, pal, all I have are Jolly Ranchers." I continued to inspect Dobson's paw without much luck. Then, I realized my Timex has a light on it that I could possibly use to better see the viscous fluid. The dim light of my watch gave everything a green hue, but I was pretty sure it was some kind of green paint. I looked down at the trail Dobson had created in his wake.
Was it? Could it be? It was. Dobson's painted paws were creating the emerald line of the race course. But Dobson is so slow, why would Jamoosh pick such a slow method of marking the course? Maybe he's not such a great race director after all. What if he screws up the beer too?
Well, it would be pretty hard to lose this race if nobody knows where the course goes and I'm directly behind the Dobson as he marks the course (in more ways than one).
"OK, boy, go!" I urged him. Nothing. I ran ahead of him a bit to get him going. "Come on!"
Finally, the Dobber began to trot, but he stayed just a little behind me. When I veered left, he followed. When I edged back right, he followed. Rumbling from deep behind us, cloaked in the shadows of the airdock, a herd of runners had found its way in and was closing the gap.
"Race route be damned! Let's go, boy," I shouted and bolted into the black abyss, hoping to find an end to this behemoth of a building. I already felt like I had beenwriting running forever. It was going to be a long one.
The rest of the race field was catching up. I could hear their chortling grunts and screeching breath. It was a hideous sound. I ran on.
As I approached still more blackness, I could sense a presence before me. A very large presence. Like, maybe a wall. I prayed to no one that I had reached the other side of the airdock at last. Almost as if on cue, a thunder of metal erupted and a blinding slice of light opened before me.
I reached up my arm to block the vicious sight and stumbled backward to the ground. Dobson yelped in pain behind me. A chorus of screaming runners emanated from farther back.
When my eyes adjusted to the light, we had stumbled upon the Ohio-Erie Canal Towpath Trail. I felt a whoosh of air as the Enthusiast rode past on her bike, rooting me onward, and Dobson bolted after her faster than I had ever seen him run. The emerald paint from his paw prints congealed into a perfect line, marking the path for me to follow.
Finally, I felt like I could settle into a consistent pace. I knew this terrain. No problem.
I logged some pretty fast miles, making up for the early part of the race. The Towpath is pretty flat, with just slight rolling hills. However, I could see the emerald line making a sharp turn into the woods up ahead.
My feet became bouncing springs as I cruised over tree roots and underbrush. I climbed a short, but steep hill and soon found myself on a mound of stones that poked painfully into the soles of my huaraches. It was the foundation of a railroad and the emerald line went on down the tracks.
I came upon a long rickety trestle that crossed Deep Gorge, a long gash in the earth created by the glaciers during the last Ice Age. The emerald line continued on over the treacherous bridge.
I settled into the cadence of the railroad ties and found some speed. I wondered how far back the rest of the pack was. It couldn't be far. But that was the least of my worries.
In the distance ahead, I saw a puff of black smoke rise from the trees and a low rumble filled the air. These tracks must be for the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad. Soon, the front of the red and yellow diesel engine appeared, as the train reached the opposite side of the bridge. There was no place to run. It was either get hit by a train or jump.
I jumped.
Thankfully, far below the bridge is Sandy Bottom Run, a tributary of the Cuyahoga River known for its soft water. I tucked into a cannonball and splashed into the deep stream. As I swam toward the bank, I spotted the emerald line. Dobson must have also had to jump to avoid a nasty collision. I was still on course!
After scraping a leech off my foot, I climbed out of the water and followed the emerald line into the tall grass, my feet slipping in my homemade shoes. I heard a terrible crash of water. The chase pack was close behind.
The tall grass gave way to a mowed lawn, and I could see Firestone High School in the distance. I crossed the football practice field and and turned onto Castle Boulevard. The emerald line intermingled with the blue line of the Akron Marathon. I had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
Just as I suspected, the emerald line turned left onto Garman Road, following the marathon course. Those of you who have been reading Team BHI for a while know about my battles with the Bastard Garman Hill. The hill is relatively short, but very steep. A rude end to the 21st mile of a marathon, and rude end to this bizarre race.
The rest of the racers were within sight now and I would need to pick up the pace if I was going to win this thing. I started to gather my strength for the finish. I spun my feet like a maniac toward the doomsday hill.
The steep incline halted my momentum, but I pressed on. Halfway up now, the chase pack was closing in and their faces looked ravenous. These racers were hungry.
Cresting the hill, I felt a sharp prick at my heels. I turned to see the gnashing teeth of a fellow runner. These racers were hungry, all right, hungry for me!
At the top of the hill, I saw the Enthusiast cheering me on with a decidedly terrified look about her as she saw the starving runners chasing me. Meanwhile, the course officials -- also decidedly terrified -- waved me leftward through the gates of Stan Hywet toward the finish. As I made the turn, my feet were sliding in my hippie shoes, and I realized they had never dried after my train dodge. (Dig it!)
In my arrogance, I had chosen to wear these huaraches for the first time during a race. The lacing chafed so badly that it had cut into my flesh and left a trail of blood, which had turned these once fierce competitors into blood thirsty cannibals. Very fast blood thirsty cannibals. And still fierce.
Ignoring the pain that finally registered in my brain, I found a new gear and dashed toward the finish in front of the House that Rubber Built.
Despite my best efforts though, the chase pack caught me and I was swallowed into a now-familiar darkness just as I crossed the finish line. Runners are full of electrolytes.
Sorry, I never got my official time. But I do know that the beer that washed me down was tasty.
Now, that I think about it, maybe Chrissie Hynde was right after all. Nah ...
Walking around the starting area before the race, I noticed a few familiar faces. I saw MCM Mama and Razz and Jess and Adam and Josh were all ready to have a special day today.
Since this was a virtual race, I decided it was the perfect opportunity to try something new by wearing my hippie shoes for the 13.1-mile trek. I was already facing a bastard behind the eyes after a late night at the pub. So what was the harm of adding another wrinkle?
According to the race literature, the race would follow an emerald line painted on the ground, otherwise the course was a mystery.
The race started at the top of Akron's legendary Derby Downs, the site of the All-American Soap Box Derby and where Corbin Bernsen is currently filming the movie 25 Hill. As racers were lining up, our benevolent race director asked for quiet as he introduced the performers of the national anthem.
Wearing their traditional red "flower pot" hats and jump suits, Mark Mothersbaugh, Gerry Casale and the two Bobs strolled up to the dais and launched into a perverted rendition of the "Star Spangled Banner" as only Devo could do it.
When they reached the line, "land of the free," the band transitioned into their song "Freedom of Choice," for an awkwardly long pre-race musical interlude before returning to the anthem's concluding line, "and the home of the brave." I could already tell this was going to be a long day.
The runners were all starting to get antsy in the corral, thinking that we were just about to start the race. However, after the anthem, up comes Chrissie Hynde to give a motivational speech before the gun.
Hynde's speech quickly turned into a diatribe against the meat eaters in the audience (guilty). "Eating meat is barbaric," she shouted, as she spoke about saving Akron and Northeast Ohio from a life without vegan restaurants by opening Vegiterranean (an overblown pasta eatery). She railed against all the pollution we runners were creating by wearing shoes that need replaced every three months. She damned us for all the damage we were causing by running in the natural habitats of all wild creatures.
Jamoosh suddenly realized his grave mistake for inviting the Pretender front-woman to speak. Thankfully, his Hanwei Folded Tiger Wakizashi Sword is never far from hand. In a blink, Jamoosh unsheathed the weapon, swiped it through Hynde's neck and returned the sword to his belt. Hynde's voice choked to silence as her head rolled off its haughty perch once upon her shoulders.
"Um, go?" Jamoosh announced, and we were off!
Being the only runner familiar with the terrain, I glided down the steep hill of Derby Downs with ease toward the gaping black hole that is the Goodyear Airdock. The rest of the field started tumbling over each other. Bodies rolled into a giant seething mass of arms akimbo and outstretched shins, forming a human boulder that was hot on my trail.
Ahead, the hangar doors of the airdock began to close, even though the emerald line appeared to show the race course going into the building. The Goodyear Blimp had just exited the dock, and its low, caterwauling engines could be heard straining to push the dirigible skyward. This was going to be close.
I strained to keep my feet churning in tiny girlie steps to reach the airdock and outrun the barreling pile of runners behind me. A hundred meters away, just a sliver of an opening remained. I knew it was a bad idea to give it my all this early in a race, but I had no choice. I launched in a dead sprint, then dove to slip through the crack a hair before the 600-ton door slammed shut.
I heard the clatter of human anatomy against the outside of the hangar. Inside was only blackness. There was no way to tell where the emerald line went or how to get out of the gigantic structure. I tried to relax and catch my breath from sprinting. As my breathing calmed, I could hear a light pitter-patter of thuds. Was it the sound of my hangover or was something there in the darkness?
"Hello?" I called out. My voice echoed an endless refrain. I heard the noise again, tackatubba-tackatubba. What was that? I started to
As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I could see the faintest bit of white bobbing along a few hundred feet ahead of me. Soon, I could hear something else. It sounded like heavy breathing, huf-huh-huf-huh. Whatever was there was making a lot of noise.
Within seconds I was upon the beast. The white I had seen was only a small patch of long fur belonging to none other than Dobson.
"Hey, boy, am I glad to see you!" I cried. The dog looked at me blankly."Uh, sit?" I said. Dobson still looked at me blankly.
After several more attempts and then just pushing his butt down, I finally got the dog to sit.
"Shake?" I said, reaching my hand out. "Shake. Shake! Shake?" Nothing.
"Dobson, shake," I said. Finally, he complied, lifting his giant paw into my hand. However, his paw was wet with something thick. I squinted in the darkness to see what the liquid could be, as Dobson sniffed at my hand looking for a treat for being such a good dog.
"Sorry, pal, all I have are Jolly Ranchers." I continued to inspect Dobson's paw without much luck. Then, I realized my Timex has a light on it that I could possibly use to better see the viscous fluid. The dim light of my watch gave everything a green hue, but I was pretty sure it was some kind of green paint. I looked down at the trail Dobson had created in his wake.
Was it? Could it be? It was. Dobson's painted paws were creating the emerald line of the race course. But Dobson is so slow, why would Jamoosh pick such a slow method of marking the course? Maybe he's not such a great race director after all. What if he screws up the beer too?
Well, it would be pretty hard to lose this race if nobody knows where the course goes and I'm directly behind the Dobson as he marks the course (in more ways than one).
"OK, boy, go!" I urged him. Nothing. I ran ahead of him a bit to get him going. "Come on!"
Finally, the Dobber began to trot, but he stayed just a little behind me. When I veered left, he followed. When I edged back right, he followed. Rumbling from deep behind us, cloaked in the shadows of the airdock, a herd of runners had found its way in and was closing the gap.
"Race route be damned! Let's go, boy," I shouted and bolted into the black abyss, hoping to find an end to this behemoth of a building. I already felt like I had been
The rest of the race field was catching up. I could hear their chortling grunts and screeching breath. It was a hideous sound. I ran on.
As I approached still more blackness, I could sense a presence before me. A very large presence. Like, maybe a wall. I prayed to no one that I had reached the other side of the airdock at last. Almost as if on cue, a thunder of metal erupted and a blinding slice of light opened before me.
I reached up my arm to block the vicious sight and stumbled backward to the ground. Dobson yelped in pain behind me. A chorus of screaming runners emanated from farther back.
When my eyes adjusted to the light, we had stumbled upon the Ohio-Erie Canal Towpath Trail. I felt a whoosh of air as the Enthusiast rode past on her bike, rooting me onward, and Dobson bolted after her faster than I had ever seen him run. The emerald paint from his paw prints congealed into a perfect line, marking the path for me to follow.
Finally, I felt like I could settle into a consistent pace. I knew this terrain. No problem.
I logged some pretty fast miles, making up for the early part of the race. The Towpath is pretty flat, with just slight rolling hills. However, I could see the emerald line making a sharp turn into the woods up ahead.
My feet became bouncing springs as I cruised over tree roots and underbrush. I climbed a short, but steep hill and soon found myself on a mound of stones that poked painfully into the soles of my huaraches. It was the foundation of a railroad and the emerald line went on down the tracks.
I came upon a long rickety trestle that crossed Deep Gorge, a long gash in the earth created by the glaciers during the last Ice Age. The emerald line continued on over the treacherous bridge.
I settled into the cadence of the railroad ties and found some speed. I wondered how far back the rest of the pack was. It couldn't be far. But that was the least of my worries.
In the distance ahead, I saw a puff of black smoke rise from the trees and a low rumble filled the air. These tracks must be for the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad. Soon, the front of the red and yellow diesel engine appeared, as the train reached the opposite side of the bridge. There was no place to run. It was either get hit by a train or jump.
I jumped.
Thankfully, far below the bridge is Sandy Bottom Run, a tributary of the Cuyahoga River known for its soft water. I tucked into a cannonball and splashed into the deep stream. As I swam toward the bank, I spotted the emerald line. Dobson must have also had to jump to avoid a nasty collision. I was still on course!
After scraping a leech off my foot, I climbed out of the water and followed the emerald line into the tall grass, my feet slipping in my homemade shoes. I heard a terrible crash of water. The chase pack was close behind.
The tall grass gave way to a mowed lawn, and I could see Firestone High School in the distance. I crossed the football practice field and and turned onto Castle Boulevard. The emerald line intermingled with the blue line of the Akron Marathon. I had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
Just as I suspected, the emerald line turned left onto Garman Road, following the marathon course. Those of you who have been reading Team BHI for a while know about my battles with the Bastard Garman Hill. The hill is relatively short, but very steep. A rude end to the 21st mile of a marathon, and rude end to this bizarre race.
The rest of the racers were within sight now and I would need to pick up the pace if I was going to win this thing. I started to gather my strength for the finish. I spun my feet like a maniac toward the doomsday hill.
The steep incline halted my momentum, but I pressed on. Halfway up now, the chase pack was closing in and their faces looked ravenous. These racers were hungry.
Cresting the hill, I felt a sharp prick at my heels. I turned to see the gnashing teeth of a fellow runner. These racers were hungry, all right, hungry for me!
At the top of the hill, I saw the Enthusiast cheering me on with a decidedly terrified look about her as she saw the starving runners chasing me. Meanwhile, the course officials -- also decidedly terrified -- waved me leftward through the gates of Stan Hywet toward the finish. As I made the turn, my feet were sliding in my hippie shoes, and I realized they had never dried after my train dodge. (Dig it!)
In my arrogance, I had chosen to wear these huaraches for the first time during a race. The lacing chafed so badly that it had cut into my flesh and left a trail of blood, which had turned these once fierce competitors into blood thirsty cannibals. Very fast blood thirsty cannibals. And still fierce.
Ignoring the pain that finally registered in my brain, I found a new gear and dashed toward the finish in front of the House that Rubber Built.
Despite my best efforts though, the chase pack caught me and I was swallowed into a now-familiar darkness just as I crossed the finish line. Runners are full of electrolytes.
Sorry, I never got my official time. But I do know that the beer that washed me down was tasty.
Now, that I think about it, maybe Chrissie Hynde was right after all. Nah ...
Friday, April 2, 2010
Flashback Friday: Day's Off Are Good
Well, the Boss Man has deemed it fit to give us today off, regardless of religious persuasion. Therefore, I wrote this yesterday.Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but having to write two posts in one day is worse than finding gingivitis in that equestrian gob. But my readers have no lives, so I must provide them with adequate content to enlighten their days. Missing a regularly scheduled post would almost be as sinful as a Catholic eating a horse hamburger before Communion.
So, as of this writing, I was planning on going for a short trail run in my hippie shoes last night. Let's say that went off without a hitch. Also, imagine that I took a really cute picture of Dobson and posted it here, because that always seems to get a good response from the audience. And now onto this week's ...
Back Talk
Wherein I'm not really trying, but just doing enough to keep up appearances.
Many of you raised similar concerns as Dr. Nic in regard to my recent stint as babysitter: "I think we need clarification ... you only mention the child went to bed early. There is no further mention of said child. Please tell me the child is okay, and back in the custody of a TRUSTWORTHY individual."
Answer: Hell if I know. Once the kid was asleep, I was off duty. As far as I know, I'm not being sued for child endangerment or contributing to the delinquency of a minor.
Jess gets caught not reading my entire review of the Southern Tier Imperial Cherry Saison: "I don't like 'fruity' beers, but if it's light enough, I'll tolerate for one brew."
Answer: I said this beer has a "sweet cherry aroma, but only a light hint of the fruit comes through in the flavor." I wouldn't call that fruity at all. Many beers have hints of fruit without being "fruity." To me, a fruity beer is something like Sam Adams Cherry Wheat or a cherry lambic. Now, those are fruity.
Happy Hour is all day today, teammates. Have a finely brewed holiday weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Virtual Race Report: Globally Warmed Ass
Last night I struck out on a double challenge: first, to complete Razz's Global Warming, My Ass! 6.66 Mile Run; and second, to piggyback an Elevens workout after the race to do my best to best Barefoot Josh in the combined events.
The Setup
In the comments to my Monday post, BFJ said he wouldn't be going for time. Even still, I knew it would be difficult to win this challenge. His Elevens are twice as fast as mine, so my only chance was to make up time on the run. That too is a tall order.
Josh's race stats are also quite a bit faster than mine, except his marathon PR (4:18:10, according to his blog) and his recent "not trying" 10-K were slower than my bests. However, I'm nowhere near my best shape. Would my out-of-shape pace be enough to beat his not-trying pace?
For the race course, I picked Sand Run, a familiar path, but one that is hilly, soggy and uneven. And I started this run as the sun was setting, so add darkness to the mix. The Sand Run path is six miles out and back, but it's easy to tack on mileage after the turnaround by continuing on Sand Run Parkway after the park path ends.
I had one rule for this race: Keep my strides short. I'm working on my turnover and forefoot landing, but I have a tendency to revert to longer strides when I'm pushing the pace. I wanted to see if I could run fast with tiny, girlie steps.
The Hook
The continuing thaw has cleared all the snow and ice from the Sand Run path, but the crushed limestone surface was spongy under foot from the added moisture. I tried to start off too fast like in a real race and see if I could hold on to the pace throughout my run.
Before the first half-mile, I caught up to a man running with his dog. As I approached, the dog stopped to write its name in the snowbank next to the path. They started up again as soon as I passed, and I could hear them nipping at my heals. This was the motivation I needed. I kept my legs churning in miniature circles and pulled away from the pair.
Mile 1: 8:29.46
I crossed Sand Run creek and rounded the bend after the bridge to start the second mile, where the rolling hills begin. I pretended to climb a tall staircase with shallow steps, hammering up the hills and flying down as if I were trying to stay on top of a rolling barrel.
Mile 2: 9:30.6
The second half of the third mile is all uphill and requires two road crossings. I flew across the first crosswalk, but had to wait for cars at the second. My impatience got me charged up to tackle the long climb to Revere Road, where the park path ends.
Mile 3: 9:55.42
Here's where things got tricky. As you should know by now, I refuse to use a Garmin or any other GPS device. I often extend runs at Sand Run to eight miles by continuing into the residential area beyond the park path, and I also know the turnaround point for a seven-miler. But this was supposed to be a 6.66-miler.
I used MapMyRun.com to determine the 0.33-mile turnaround point, which was roughly at the end of a yard. There, I pressed the lap button on my watch and continued to the turnaround for an even seven miles. On the way back, I marked the 0.33-mile point again and timed myself back to the park.
I knew that where I pressed my lap button for the 0.33-mile mark was a little off. To get the proper time for 0.66 miles, I used the average between the combined time I had for that 0.33-mile stretch (6:04.25), the time for the entire fourth mile (9:06.98), my pace for the prior three miles to see what I was running up until then (9:18), and my pace for the whole run (9:05). The result is a 9:10 mile pace.
Mile 3.66: 6:03.25
I failed to mention that the darkness gave me trouble seeing the street signs that served as my mile markers during that fourth mile. I turned around too early once, realized my mistake and turned around again. After all that confusion, I was ready to get back to the park path, where I hammered down that long hill.
Mile 4.66: 8:38.5
The darkness was starting to play tricks on me now. My eyes were as wide as they could go, but exertion was forcing oxygen to other parts of my body, causing the edges of my vision to blur and distort. Shadows turned beastly. Passing cars blinded me with their headlights, and I bent double to see the edge of the path so I wouldn't fall into the ditch.
Mile 5.66: 8:53.92
My running form was starting to unravel. It became more difficult to take baby steps, as I wanted to let my legs loose. But I knew the focus on turnover was resulting in my fastest run of the year. I redoubled my concentration and took even smaller strides to the finish.
Mile 6.66: 9:02.32
The Sting
I finished the run at a decent 1:00:33.47, but that wasn't the end of this challenge. I still needed to knock out a fast Elevens workout, completing 55 push-ups and 55 sit-ups. All in good form. And if possible, without Dobson tackling me.
When I got home from Sand Run, I asked the Enthusiast to distract the dog while she also cooked and cleaned. (Was that asking for too much?) The strategy worked for the first few sets, and I was sure I was on pace for a record-setting Elevens. But then Dobson caught a glimpse of all the fun I was having.
The pooch rushed over to join me as I was in the middle of some push-ups, helpless to his tongue lashings. I rolled over to perform some sit-ups and tried to ignore the giant paws batting at my head. "Dobson, stop bothering daddy while he tortures himself," the Enthusiast pleaded. But it was too late. My Elevens had him wound up, and my record was gone.
Elevens: 8:28 flat
The post-race spread was far better than any I've had at other events. There was salmon, marinated in a pineapple teriyaki sauce, rice with chicken flavor, and a lightly sauteed summer squash. To rehydrate, Redemption wine from Wolf Creek Winery. For dessert, lime Jell-O with pineapple and maraschino cherries. All in all a successful evening. But did I win?
GW,MA!6.66MR: 1:00:33.47 (9:05 pace)
Elevens: 8:28
Combined: 1:09:01.47
I think this virtual race report is longer than most of my real race reports ...
The Setup
In the comments to my Monday post, BFJ said he wouldn't be going for time. Even still, I knew it would be difficult to win this challenge. His Elevens are twice as fast as mine, so my only chance was to make up time on the run. That too is a tall order.
Josh's race stats are also quite a bit faster than mine, except his marathon PR (4:18:10, according to his blog) and his recent "not trying" 10-K were slower than my bests. However, I'm nowhere near my best shape. Would my out-of-shape pace be enough to beat his not-trying pace?
For the race course, I picked Sand Run, a familiar path, but one that is hilly, soggy and uneven. And I started this run as the sun was setting, so add darkness to the mix. The Sand Run path is six miles out and back, but it's easy to tack on mileage after the turnaround by continuing on Sand Run Parkway after the park path ends.
I had one rule for this race: Keep my strides short. I'm working on my turnover and forefoot landing, but I have a tendency to revert to longer strides when I'm pushing the pace. I wanted to see if I could run fast with tiny, girlie steps.
The Hook
The continuing thaw has cleared all the snow and ice from the Sand Run path, but the crushed limestone surface was spongy under foot from the added moisture. I tried to start off too fast like in a real race and see if I could hold on to the pace throughout my run.
Before the first half-mile, I caught up to a man running with his dog. As I approached, the dog stopped to write its name in the snowbank next to the path. They started up again as soon as I passed, and I could hear them nipping at my heals. This was the motivation I needed. I kept my legs churning in miniature circles and pulled away from the pair.
Mile 1: 8:29.46
I crossed Sand Run creek and rounded the bend after the bridge to start the second mile, where the rolling hills begin. I pretended to climb a tall staircase with shallow steps, hammering up the hills and flying down as if I were trying to stay on top of a rolling barrel.
Mile 2: 9:30.6
The second half of the third mile is all uphill and requires two road crossings. I flew across the first crosswalk, but had to wait for cars at the second. My impatience got me charged up to tackle the long climb to Revere Road, where the park path ends.
Mile 3: 9:55.42
Here's where things got tricky. As you should know by now, I refuse to use a Garmin or any other GPS device. I often extend runs at Sand Run to eight miles by continuing into the residential area beyond the park path, and I also know the turnaround point for a seven-miler. But this was supposed to be a 6.66-miler.
I used MapMyRun.com to determine the 0.33-mile turnaround point, which was roughly at the end of a yard. There, I pressed the lap button on my watch and continued to the turnaround for an even seven miles. On the way back, I marked the 0.33-mile point again and timed myself back to the park.
I knew that where I pressed my lap button for the 0.33-mile mark was a little off. To get the proper time for 0.66 miles, I used the average between the combined time I had for that 0.33-mile stretch (6:04.25), the time for the entire fourth mile (9:06.98), my pace for the prior three miles to see what I was running up until then (9:18), and my pace for the whole run (9:05). The result is a 9:10 mile pace.
Mile 3.66: 6:03.25
I failed to mention that the darkness gave me trouble seeing the street signs that served as my mile markers during that fourth mile. I turned around too early once, realized my mistake and turned around again. After all that confusion, I was ready to get back to the park path, where I hammered down that long hill.
Mile 4.66: 8:38.5
The darkness was starting to play tricks on me now. My eyes were as wide as they could go, but exertion was forcing oxygen to other parts of my body, causing the edges of my vision to blur and distort. Shadows turned beastly. Passing cars blinded me with their headlights, and I bent double to see the edge of the path so I wouldn't fall into the ditch.
Mile 5.66: 8:53.92
My running form was starting to unravel. It became more difficult to take baby steps, as I wanted to let my legs loose. But I knew the focus on turnover was resulting in my fastest run of the year. I redoubled my concentration and took even smaller strides to the finish.
Mile 6.66: 9:02.32
The Sting
I finished the run at a decent 1:00:33.47, but that wasn't the end of this challenge. I still needed to knock out a fast Elevens workout, completing 55 push-ups and 55 sit-ups. All in good form. And if possible, without Dobson tackling me.
When I got home from Sand Run, I asked the Enthusiast to distract the dog while she also cooked and cleaned. (Was that asking for too much?) The strategy worked for the first few sets, and I was sure I was on pace for a record-setting Elevens. But then Dobson caught a glimpse of all the fun I was having.
The pooch rushed over to join me as I was in the middle of some push-ups, helpless to his tongue lashings. I rolled over to perform some sit-ups and tried to ignore the giant paws batting at my head. "Dobson, stop bothering daddy while he tortures himself," the Enthusiast pleaded. But it was too late. My Elevens had him wound up, and my record was gone.
Elevens: 8:28 flat
The post-race spread was far better than any I've had at other events. There was salmon, marinated in a pineapple teriyaki sauce, rice with chicken flavor, and a lightly sauteed summer squash. To rehydrate, Redemption wine from Wolf Creek Winery. For dessert, lime Jell-O with pineapple and maraschino cherries. All in all a successful evening. But did I win?
GW,MA!6.66MR: 1:00:33.47 (9:05 pace)
Elevens: 8:28
Combined: 1:09:01.47
I think this virtual race report is longer than most of my real race reports ...
Friday, March 5, 2010
Flashback Friday: Getting a Jump on Laundry
My running clothes were in a bad way. The Enthusiast would scrunch up her nose at me and say, "Ew, you stink!" And this was before I went for a run.
So I have a tendency to rewear my running gear. But clearly, time had come to throw some quarters into the washer and clean my shorts ... and shirts and tights and socks and running underwear and, yes, I have special running underwear and wind pants and gloves.
Meanwhile, I had the urge to do something exercise-ish. So I decided to jump rope in the basement/washroom until it was time to put the clothes in the dryer.
After you push in the coin slot carriage to turn on the washer, the display reads "21." I thought this meant I would be jumping for 21 minutes. I had my stopwatch, but decided to use the washer as my timer. I can do 21 minutes of jumping rope.
About five minutes in when I had my first hiccup in jumping rhythm and snapped the vinyl jump rope against my calf, I looked at the washer to see how far the timer had ticked down. "21," it read.
Fuck.
Perhaps what the washer really meant was that I need to get started on Steve Stenzel's Twenty One workout. I looked at my watch and tried to calculate what time I started jumping. It was a little after 6 p.m.
Meanwhile, I could hear Dobson barking up a storm. I ran upstairs to see what was his malfunction. I settled him down, gave him a treat and ran back down to the washing machine. Now, the washer read "16."
OK, so maybe it does count down, but at odd intervals. I started jumping again. The washer read "14," then "13," then "10," then "9," then "9," still "9," it's stuck on "9" and my watch says 6:17. I decided I'd go until 6:25 if the washer didn't stop sooner. Of course, the washer didn't stop sooner.
I'm pretty sure I jumped for about 21 minutes. I have no idea how long that washer went. I had to go back upstairs to get ready for Dobson's obedience class. The washer stopped sometime before I got back down there to switch the laundry before we left for training.
Stupid washer. The good news is my running clothes are clean, and my jump-roping has gotten way better. I can do the two-foot jump, the running man jump and the one-foot jump. I'm awesome.
Back Talk
Wherein my readership two-ups me and undercuts my success.
Miss Zippy allows me some leeway with my Elevens workout, but goes right ahead and raises the bar: "We'll cut you some slack for the dog. I have made the 11s workout a part of the routine. Have done it for 2 weeks now and I definitely need to move the bar up--Josh and I discussed 13s, which is my goal next week. Can't really imagine ever making it to 21, can you?"
Answer: Crap! I'm falling behind in my own workout!
Meanwhile, Barefoot Josh has gotten even faster at kicking my ass at my own game: "I'm now at 4:08, with real sit-ups. I'm a machine."
Answer: Both you and Zippy are responsible for my new tag, jerks.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
So I have a tendency to rewear my running gear. But clearly, time had come to throw some quarters into the washer and clean my shorts ... and shirts and tights and socks and running underwear and, yes, I have special running underwear and wind pants and gloves.
Meanwhile, I had the urge to do something exercise-ish. So I decided to jump rope in the basement/washroom until it was time to put the clothes in the dryer.
After you push in the coin slot carriage to turn on the washer, the display reads "21." I thought this meant I would be jumping for 21 minutes. I had my stopwatch, but decided to use the washer as my timer. I can do 21 minutes of jumping rope.
About five minutes in when I had my first hiccup in jumping rhythm and snapped the vinyl jump rope against my calf, I looked at the washer to see how far the timer had ticked down. "21," it read.
Fuck.
Perhaps what the washer really meant was that I need to get started on Steve Stenzel's Twenty One workout. I looked at my watch and tried to calculate what time I started jumping. It was a little after 6 p.m.
Meanwhile, I could hear Dobson barking up a storm. I ran upstairs to see what was his malfunction. I settled him down, gave him a treat and ran back down to the washing machine. Now, the washer read "16."
OK, so maybe it does count down, but at odd intervals. I started jumping again. The washer read "14," then "13," then "10," then "9," then "9," still "9," it's stuck on "9" and my watch says 6:17. I decided I'd go until 6:25 if the washer didn't stop sooner. Of course, the washer didn't stop sooner.
I'm pretty sure I jumped for about 21 minutes. I have no idea how long that washer went. I had to go back upstairs to get ready for Dobson's obedience class. The washer stopped sometime before I got back down there to switch the laundry before we left for training.
Stupid washer. The good news is my running clothes are clean, and my jump-roping has gotten way better. I can do the two-foot jump, the running man jump and the one-foot jump. I'm awesome.
Back Talk
Wherein my readership two-ups me and undercuts my success.
Miss Zippy allows me some leeway with my Elevens workout, but goes right ahead and raises the bar: "We'll cut you some slack for the dog. I have made the 11s workout a part of the routine. Have done it for 2 weeks now and I definitely need to move the bar up--Josh and I discussed 13s, which is my goal next week. Can't really imagine ever making it to 21, can you?"
Answer: Crap! I'm falling behind in my own workout!
Meanwhile, Barefoot Josh has gotten even faster at kicking my ass at my own game: "I'm now at 4:08, with real sit-ups. I'm a machine."
Answer: Both you and Zippy are responsible for my new tag, jerks.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Have a finely brewed weekend. Run well and drink well. Cheers!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Of High Knees and Noodle Arms
Dobson got another strong run in, as we ventured across many unshoveled sidewalks through knee-high snow. Not the dog's knees, but mine. A route of just over two miles took me just under 30 minutes to complete, and I even stopped my watch for the dog's defecation delays. The pup is getting better at avoiding his instincts to sniff every flake of snow or the crotch of every passerby. Now, if I could just get him to pick up the pace.
The Notorious Jumping Blogger of Summit County
I bought a jump rope last night for $3 from Target. Now, either I'll injure myself the first time I use it or the snow will thaw and temperatures will rise and I won't have any desire for an indoor alternative to running.
Hating on Steve Stenzel
Sometimes I just want to hate Steve Stenzel. He runs faster than me. He runs farther than me. He blogs more than me. He posts more pictures than me. He has way more readers than me. He smiles more than me. He's certainly friendlier than me. My only hope is that I could drink him under the table, but you never know with those hearty Minnesotans.
I was reading Steve's blog yesterday and came across his "Twenty One" workout. Now, I really hate him. As he describes, you do 20 push-ups and one sit-up, then you subtract one push-up and add one sit-up each set until you do one push-up and 20 sit-ups. That's 210 of eachwhen if you finish.
This sounded like an interesting workout, but I knew that I couldn't do 210 push-ups and sit-ups. Not like that jerk Steve Stenzel. I thought, maybe I can do half that. [Faulty math alert!] You know, start with 10 push-ups and one sit-up. Thus the Eleven Workout was born! As it turns out, that equals 55 push-ups and sit-ups. OK, so not quite half. But close.
I knew I was in trouble when I got to the set of seven push-ups. My arms would give out and I'd free-fall from the raised position to the lowered position. Halfway through the set of five push-ups, I had to resort to girlie push-ups. Needless to say, my arms and chest are sore today. And I really don't care for that Steve Stenzel guy.
The Notorious Jumping Blogger of Summit County
I bought a jump rope last night for $3 from Target. Now, either I'll injure myself the first time I use it or the snow will thaw and temperatures will rise and I won't have any desire for an indoor alternative to running.
Hating on Steve Stenzel
Sometimes I just want to hate Steve Stenzel. He runs faster than me. He runs farther than me. He blogs more than me. He posts more pictures than me. He has way more readers than me. He smiles more than me. He's certainly friendlier than me. My only hope is that I could drink him under the table, but you never know with those hearty Minnesotans.
I was reading Steve's blog yesterday and came across his "Twenty One" workout. Now, I really hate him. As he describes, you do 20 push-ups and one sit-up, then you subtract one push-up and add one sit-up each set until you do one push-up and 20 sit-ups. That's 210 of each
This sounded like an interesting workout, but I knew that I couldn't do 210 push-ups and sit-ups. Not like that jerk Steve Stenzel. I thought, maybe I can do half that. [Faulty math alert!] You know, start with 10 push-ups and one sit-up. Thus the Eleven Workout was born! As it turns out, that equals 55 push-ups and sit-ups. OK, so not quite half. But close.
I knew I was in trouble when I got to the set of seven push-ups. My arms would give out and I'd free-fall from the raised position to the lowered position. Halfway through the set of five push-ups, I had to resort to girlie push-ups. Needless to say, my arms and chest are sore today. And I really don't care for that Steve Stenzel guy.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Broken, Refocus, Restart
"I don't know how much farther I can go," I said to my biker companion as Martini had left me in the dust after 20 miles. It was nearing noon, and the sun had burned through the morning haze to beat me down.
I knew the Boston Store was about a mile ahead, and I just wanted to sit down. I stopped running, and we walked there. I sat down on the peeling plank wood porch of the old store, answering "I don't know" to every question posed.
A few minutes later, Martini called. I was in no shape to talk. I overheard him say, "Don't let him quit." I sat awhile longer. I ambled over to the water fountain and drenched myself. I needed to cool down. I returned to my seat next to my ever supportive biker companion. I ate some Sharkies. I drank some Gatorade. I drank some water. I sat and sat and didn't know.
We started the day a little after 6:30 a.m., at sun rise. The temperature was a comfortable 69 degrees. I wore a tech tank top under a tech long sleeve shirt to protect myself from the sun and to create a cooling layer. I just bought a Nike DriFit visor after a lengthy inner struggle over whether I could be one of those visor guys. (It served me well, but I'm still not sure.) My CamelBak got its second annual use as I decided my handheld water bottle would be too tiresome to carry for 32 miles (give or take).
The plan was to take walk breaks every half hour and eat every hour. I knew it was going to get hot, so I hydrated early and often.
I felt pretty strong for the first 15 miles, despite not being able to keep pace with Martini. He said his knee bothered him if he didn't keep his pace up, and I have never been as fast as he is. This was kind of annoying, as I wanted the three of us to share some sort of we're-all-in-this-together bonding experience.
I tried to understand that he was running his Summer Un-Solstice Challenge -- I had to run mine. However, around that 20-mile mark his pace was absolutely mind-fuckingly discouraging. I didn't even have the energy to tell him I was struggling. I just let him go. I was broken.
There were times that I knew I would cry if I thought too much about how awful I felt or how grateful I was that my biker companion was there to support me or how mad I was at myself for not being able to finish the run.
I had already skipped my track session for the week. My planned 43-mile week was shot. Doubt clouded my mind with questions. How far would I have to run Sunday to make up for this failure? What am I doing? Why did I think I could run this far? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
I couldn't tell you how long we sat at the Boston Store. My biker companion said the decision was mine. We could keep going or call someone for a ride. I was starting to cool down. My mind was refocusing.
I didn't know how far I could go, but I knew I wanted to find out how far I could go.
I remember reading in Jim Fixx's The Complete Book of Running something about how a runner's "wall" is 10 percent of the mileage he ran in the previous month, and then the runner will continue encountering a wall in increments of 50 percent of that previous wall's distance.
I ran 132 miles last month, which means I hit a wall at 13.2 miles and then 6.6 miles later at 19.8 miles. I would encounter another wall at 23.1 miles and another at 24.75 miles and another at 25.575 miles and another and another and another.
I know I read part of this, but I very well might have invented the rest of this equation in my delusional state. Whatever the case, it worked. I knew that the run would continue to crush me, but having a calculated way of anticipating the next challenge helped me carry on, from station to station until the end.
Every time I felt like I was overheating, I walked or found a bench to sit on and regrouped. Martini called again when we had about five miles to go. He was done. He said, "Congratulations" and encouraged me to keep going. I just wanted to get through my next wall and reach my next resting point.
The heat kept rising. The bike computer's temperature gauge read 0 degrees at one point, which meant 100. That's how hot it felt in the sun, regardless of what it was in actuality. I needed a popsicle and a cold bath afterward to cool down.
Running time, the Summer Un-Solstice Challenge took me 6:46:54, but we didn't make it back to the car until about 3 p.m. The rest of the day followed thusly: lunch, nap, dinner, sleep.
There is a discrepancy in the mileage. MapMyRun.com says 31.4 miles, but the bike computer says 32.5. Regardless, it was the farthest I've ever run, and the most I have ever struggled to finish.
Now, I refocus all my attention on finishing my training plan to run the Akron Marathon in less than four hours.
Big thanks to my biker companion for the unceasing support and remaining upbeat despite a sore ass, and to Martini for encouraging me to always push my limits.
You Are Not Fast
But Usain Bolt is ...
I knew the Boston Store was about a mile ahead, and I just wanted to sit down. I stopped running, and we walked there. I sat down on the peeling plank wood porch of the old store, answering "I don't know" to every question posed.
A few minutes later, Martini called. I was in no shape to talk. I overheard him say, "Don't let him quit." I sat awhile longer. I ambled over to the water fountain and drenched myself. I needed to cool down. I returned to my seat next to my ever supportive biker companion. I ate some Sharkies. I drank some Gatorade. I drank some water. I sat and sat and didn't know.
We started the day a little after 6:30 a.m., at sun rise. The temperature was a comfortable 69 degrees. I wore a tech tank top under a tech long sleeve shirt to protect myself from the sun and to create a cooling layer. I just bought a Nike DriFit visor after a lengthy inner struggle over whether I could be one of those visor guys. (It served me well, but I'm still not sure.) My CamelBak got its second annual use as I decided my handheld water bottle would be too tiresome to carry for 32 miles (give or take).
The plan was to take walk breaks every half hour and eat every hour. I knew it was going to get hot, so I hydrated early and often.
I felt pretty strong for the first 15 miles, despite not being able to keep pace with Martini. He said his knee bothered him if he didn't keep his pace up, and I have never been as fast as he is. This was kind of annoying, as I wanted the three of us to share some sort of we're-all-in-this-together bonding experience.
I tried to understand that he was running his Summer Un-Solstice Challenge -- I had to run mine. However, around that 20-mile mark his pace was absolutely mind-fuckingly discouraging. I didn't even have the energy to tell him I was struggling. I just let him go. I was broken.
There were times that I knew I would cry if I thought too much about how awful I felt or how grateful I was that my biker companion was there to support me or how mad I was at myself for not being able to finish the run.
I had already skipped my track session for the week. My planned 43-mile week was shot. Doubt clouded my mind with questions. How far would I have to run Sunday to make up for this failure? What am I doing? Why did I think I could run this far? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
I couldn't tell you how long we sat at the Boston Store. My biker companion said the decision was mine. We could keep going or call someone for a ride. I was starting to cool down. My mind was refocusing.
I didn't know how far I could go, but I knew I wanted to find out how far I could go.
I remember reading in Jim Fixx's The Complete Book of Running something about how a runner's "wall" is 10 percent of the mileage he ran in the previous month, and then the runner will continue encountering a wall in increments of 50 percent of that previous wall's distance.
I ran 132 miles last month, which means I hit a wall at 13.2 miles and then 6.6 miles later at 19.8 miles. I would encounter another wall at 23.1 miles and another at 24.75 miles and another at 25.575 miles and another and another and another.
I know I read part of this, but I very well might have invented the rest of this equation in my delusional state. Whatever the case, it worked. I knew that the run would continue to crush me, but having a calculated way of anticipating the next challenge helped me carry on, from station to station until the end.
Every time I felt like I was overheating, I walked or found a bench to sit on and regrouped. Martini called again when we had about five miles to go. He was done. He said, "Congratulations" and encouraged me to keep going. I just wanted to get through my next wall and reach my next resting point.
The heat kept rising. The bike computer's temperature gauge read 0 degrees at one point, which meant 100. That's how hot it felt in the sun, regardless of what it was in actuality. I needed a popsicle and a cold bath afterward to cool down.
Running time, the Summer Un-Solstice Challenge took me 6:46:54, but we didn't make it back to the car until about 3 p.m. The rest of the day followed thusly: lunch, nap, dinner, sleep.
There is a discrepancy in the mileage. MapMyRun.com says 31.4 miles, but the bike computer says 32.5. Regardless, it was the farthest I've ever run, and the most I have ever struggled to finish.
Now, I refocus all my attention on finishing my training plan to run the Akron Marathon in less than four hours.
Big thanks to my biker companion for the unceasing support and remaining upbeat despite a sore ass, and to Martini for encouraging me to always push my limits.
"Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."--T.S. Eliot
You Are Not Fast
But Usain Bolt is ...
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Drink, Recovery, Run, Drink, Recovery Run
Success! Last you heard, I was preparing my liver and legs for a series of powerful performances for the Flag Day weekend. I wanted to make sure I got my birthday drinks in, but I didn't want to miss any training runs.
Friday evening was a gathering of my cronies at the local, cheap Mexican eatery, Mariachi Coco's. I ordered myself a giant Dos Equis as everyone arrived. I ate a bean burrito and rice to lay down as good of a base as possible before the sponsored drinks started to arrive.
First was another giant Dos Equis. Then the restaurant staff filed behind me with a sombrero. One of them placed a shot of tequila before me as the group sang "Feliz Cumpleaños." Within minutes of downing the complimentary shot, the erratic epicurean bought me another. And then the Martini bought me a third.
Flashforward to more good times. The erratic epicurean invited the 12 or so of us to her place for an aftermath party. Martini got me again with a flask full of Bushmills, while I revisited the goodness of Great Lakes Glockenspiel. From there, it was only a hop, skip and a jump to Blackout Isle.
Saturday morning disappeared mostly before I awoke, killing my hopes of running that morning. Plans took me to Cleveland for an artsy parade and an afternoon baseball game. I took the hair of a dog that didn't bite me with a late lunch at the Winking Lizard downtown. After Albert Pujols single-handedly beat the Clevelanders, I was ready to run.
I got home at about half past eight, quickly changed into my running gear and headed out to Sand Run for five miles at eight to nine-minute miles. Darkness consumed the park and I felt like a drunkard as I misstepped my way along the crushed limestone path. I finished the run with an average pace of 8:36 per mile.
Sunday was the big day. Lots of plans -- both known and unknown -- filled my afternoon and evening. I had to get my long run done that morning with less than 12 hours of rest. I ran 10 miles in the Cleveland Metro Parks and absolutely killed it. I finished with a 9:02-per-mile pace, a two-minute negative split and a final mile of 7:50.
The rest of Sunday was filled with relaxing, barbecuing and surprise birthday partying, which was orchestrated by the polka-dotted queen of secrets herself. We partied into the late hours, and I was happy I had at the last minute decided to take a vacation day Monday.
I slept in yesterday and got some errands done before heading out for a three-mile recovery run.
After a weekend of serious drinking and strong running, today, my liver and my legs are taking a break. Cheers!
Friday evening was a gathering of my cronies at the local, cheap Mexican eatery, Mariachi Coco's. I ordered myself a giant Dos Equis as everyone arrived. I ate a bean burrito and rice to lay down as good of a base as possible before the sponsored drinks started to arrive.
First was another giant Dos Equis. Then the restaurant staff filed behind me with a sombrero. One of them placed a shot of tequila before me as the group sang "Feliz Cumpleaños." Within minutes of downing the complimentary shot, the erratic epicurean bought me another. And then the Martini bought me a third.
Flashforward to more good times. The erratic epicurean invited the 12 or so of us to her place for an aftermath party. Martini got me again with a flask full of Bushmills, while I revisited the goodness of Great Lakes Glockenspiel. From there, it was only a hop, skip and a jump to Blackout Isle.
Saturday morning disappeared mostly before I awoke, killing my hopes of running that morning. Plans took me to Cleveland for an artsy parade and an afternoon baseball game. I took the hair of a dog that didn't bite me with a late lunch at the Winking Lizard downtown. After Albert Pujols single-handedly beat the Clevelanders, I was ready to run.
I got home at about half past eight, quickly changed into my running gear and headed out to Sand Run for five miles at eight to nine-minute miles. Darkness consumed the park and I felt like a drunkard as I misstepped my way along the crushed limestone path. I finished the run with an average pace of 8:36 per mile.
Sunday was the big day. Lots of plans -- both known and unknown -- filled my afternoon and evening. I had to get my long run done that morning with less than 12 hours of rest. I ran 10 miles in the Cleveland Metro Parks and absolutely killed it. I finished with a 9:02-per-mile pace, a two-minute negative split and a final mile of 7:50.
The rest of Sunday was filled with relaxing, barbecuing and surprise birthday partying, which was orchestrated by the polka-dotted queen of secrets herself. We partied into the late hours, and I was happy I had at the last minute decided to take a vacation day Monday.
I slept in yesterday and got some errands done before heading out for a three-mile recovery run.
After a weekend of serious drinking and strong running, today, my liver and my legs are taking a break. Cheers!
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