Down Howard Street. The Towpath. Sand Run. The Bastard Garman Hill. Shredded quads. Loneliness and lost confidence. Terrible cramping. Brutality to the 21st mile marker.
This will be my third attempt at the Akron Marathon. I know the course, which only means I know where I've struggled before.
Just before the halfway mark, I will turn right onto Howard Street and run down a steep hill into the Cuyahoga River Valley before entering the Towpath Trail. This 105-foot drop is notorious for making me run too fast, shredding my quads and causing me to blow up later in the race. I consider this hill the source of all failures to come.
Once on the Towpath, racers becomes more spread out, and there is no place for spectators to watch and cheer you on. It can be a lonely place, a place where my confidence has faded after a bad mile or two.
Last year, Sand Run was where I experienced my first ever bout of muscle cramps during a race. Until this point, I was on pace for a 3:55:xx finish. However, the park is where the course starts its long climb out of the valley.
The Bastard Garman Hill. I drove down it last night. It seems so piddly. But this quarter-mile, 50-foot climb is a rude end cap to 21 miles. You can see for yourself by clicking on the elevation profile, below.
I have struggled at these points in the race, but I won't let these previous failings scare me. These are my demons, this is my exorcism.
This will be third attempt at the Akron Marathon. The third time is the charm.
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Showing posts sorted by relevance for query garman hill. Sort by date Show all posts
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
So Now What?
With the Akron Marathon now behind me, it's time to take stock of my running life and make some plans for this final quarter of the year.
My goals and desires for the marathon were modest, and I managed to notch a few notable successes despite adding an hour to last year's time. Here's a quick glance back at how I did.
Have fun: There was never that feeling of disappointment I've gotten in the past when I've raced and not done as well as I'd like. I embraced the slower pace and interacted with my fellow runners. My race was a communal effort.
Wave to the crowd: Akronites come out in force for the marathon. I waved at quite a few folks in appreciation of their support, including anonymous spectators, friends, and loved ones. These are the people who make this race my favorite marathon.
Slap high-fives: Early on in the race, I grabbed my opportunity to high-five a few kids. It helped me remember that I run because I enjoy it, not because I'm looking for some kind of glory.
Beer, beer, beer: I didn't notice any beer samplings to try on course. I probably could have gone up to some of the party-goers for a taste--as happened to me so long ago--but I'm not that outgoing. However, my Dogfish Head Punkin Ale made it through to the finish line with my drop bag unscathed, and I'm sure I made more than a few Michelob Ultra drinkers envious.
Walking: Amazingly, I only really walked at water stops. I had been practicing some of my long runs with 30-second breaks every 10 minutes, but I didn't feel the need during the race.
Run efficiently: I monitored my steps-per-second rate every few minutes. Until about the Bastard Garman Hill, I was right at four steps per second. I struggled to maintain three steps per second for the rest of the race. I probably fell below that after I started cramping.
Finish strong: When I regained the lead on the five-hour pacers, one of them said I looked strong with less than a mile to go. My final 1.2 miles were under an 11-minute pace. Also ...
Negative split: With a five-minute negative split of the clock time, I'm even more determined to make this strategy work for a new personal best.
Garman Hill: This hill has tortured me ever since I began running, as it falls within my neighborhood running loops. It's been nicknamed the Bastard Garman Hill on this blog since forever ago. I think I finally figured out how to conquer it during the marathon: power walk.
Married PR: This race will always hold a special place in my heart as the first race I ran as a married man. Of course, my wife, the Enthusiast, was there as she always is to cheer me on. I don't take that for granted.
So now what? There are still three months of running left in the year. Jamoosh posted a good blog entry about longer training plans for races, and there is no time like the present--especially with winter coming on--to start training for next year.
Miles and miles: The greatest difference in my training this year compared to 2010 was mileage. This year I have run 470 miles. Last year, I had run 775 miles. There is a direct correlation between my total mileage and my performance on race day. Nothing prepares the body for a marathon better than mileage.
Trail race: Running on trails has become one of my favorite places to log miles. I feel less pressure to run the whole time, the scenery is better, and the challenging terrain keeps things interesting. However, I have yet to carry that experience over to a competitive setting.
Half marathon PR: As with the Akron Marathon, I ran the Buckeye Half with less than ideal training, not to mention the whole bachelor party thing. Now that I've packed on more mileage, perhaps my legs could be ready to set a new personal best in at the 13.1-mile distance this year. There's a race in November that I'm eyeing.
Winter weight: Another contributing factor to my slowness this year has been the extra 10-plus pounds I've been carrying around. With winter coming on, I'd really like to avoid adding any additional insulation. Maintaining my running motivation will go a long way in fighting off the bulk.
Barefoot: My barefoot mileage is hovering around 20 percent of my total. There is still plenty of good shoeless running weather ahead. My goal is get my barefoot percentage up to a quarter of my total mileage for 2011.
Next year's racing: After a slow year, I really want to get fast and knock off some PRs in 2012. Developing a plan to carry my running through the winter and prepare for next year's goal races is crucial. Have any of you ever trained all year?
My goals and desires for the marathon were modest, and I managed to notch a few notable successes despite adding an hour to last year's time. Here's a quick glance back at how I did.
Have fun: There was never that feeling of disappointment I've gotten in the past when I've raced and not done as well as I'd like. I embraced the slower pace and interacted with my fellow runners. My race was a communal effort.
Wave to the crowd: Akronites come out in force for the marathon. I waved at quite a few folks in appreciation of their support, including anonymous spectators, friends, and loved ones. These are the people who make this race my favorite marathon.
Slap high-fives: Early on in the race, I grabbed my opportunity to high-five a few kids. It helped me remember that I run because I enjoy it, not because I'm looking for some kind of glory.
Beer, beer, beer: I didn't notice any beer samplings to try on course. I probably could have gone up to some of the party-goers for a taste--as happened to me so long ago--but I'm not that outgoing. However, my Dogfish Head Punkin Ale made it through to the finish line with my drop bag unscathed, and I'm sure I made more than a few Michelob Ultra drinkers envious.
Walking: Amazingly, I only really walked at water stops. I had been practicing some of my long runs with 30-second breaks every 10 minutes, but I didn't feel the need during the race.
Run efficiently: I monitored my steps-per-second rate every few minutes. Until about the Bastard Garman Hill, I was right at four steps per second. I struggled to maintain three steps per second for the rest of the race. I probably fell below that after I started cramping.
Finish strong: When I regained the lead on the five-hour pacers, one of them said I looked strong with less than a mile to go. My final 1.2 miles were under an 11-minute pace. Also ...
Negative split: With a five-minute negative split of the clock time, I'm even more determined to make this strategy work for a new personal best.
Garman Hill: This hill has tortured me ever since I began running, as it falls within my neighborhood running loops. It's been nicknamed the Bastard Garman Hill on this blog since forever ago. I think I finally figured out how to conquer it during the marathon: power walk.
Married PR: This race will always hold a special place in my heart as the first race I ran as a married man. Of course, my wife, the Enthusiast, was there as she always is to cheer me on. I don't take that for granted.
So now what? There are still three months of running left in the year. Jamoosh posted a good blog entry about longer training plans for races, and there is no time like the present--especially with winter coming on--to start training for next year.
Miles and miles: The greatest difference in my training this year compared to 2010 was mileage. This year I have run 470 miles. Last year, I had run 775 miles. There is a direct correlation between my total mileage and my performance on race day. Nothing prepares the body for a marathon better than mileage.
Trail race: Running on trails has become one of my favorite places to log miles. I feel less pressure to run the whole time, the scenery is better, and the challenging terrain keeps things interesting. However, I have yet to carry that experience over to a competitive setting.
Half marathon PR: As with the Akron Marathon, I ran the Buckeye Half with less than ideal training, not to mention the whole bachelor party thing. Now that I've packed on more mileage, perhaps my legs could be ready to set a new personal best in at the 13.1-mile distance this year. There's a race in November that I'm eyeing.
Winter weight: Another contributing factor to my slowness this year has been the extra 10-plus pounds I've been carrying around. With winter coming on, I'd really like to avoid adding any additional insulation. Maintaining my running motivation will go a long way in fighting off the bulk.
Barefoot: My barefoot mileage is hovering around 20 percent of my total. There is still plenty of good shoeless running weather ahead. My goal is get my barefoot percentage up to a quarter of my total mileage for 2011.
Next year's racing: After a slow year, I really want to get fast and knock off some PRs in 2012. Developing a plan to carry my running through the winter and prepare for next year's goal races is crucial. Have any of you ever trained all year?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
A Hard Look at the Middle Miles
I'm a fast starter and an even faster closer. Those middle miles? I just try to hang on until I get close enough to the finish line to kick. I want that to change.
Last night's four-miler was a scheduled tempo run. I wanted to kill those middle miles. My plan was to ease into my pace slowly, kill-kill-kill and coast back home after about 32 minutes.
Oh, and I wanted this all to feel effortless. I don't want to work too hard for my speed.
My form was my main concern. I tend to get all long-strided, jostly and loud when I speed up.
I'm on this foolhardy mission where I try to run like I'm barefoot while I'm wearing shoes and trying to be as silent as those annoying waifs who blow past me at my local running paths while I jump two and a half feet out of my skin because they didn't alert me to their presence.
On this run, I focused on keeping my shoulders back, my feet under me, my turnover fast, my stride smooth, and my footfalls stealthy. That was a lot to think about that first mile, as I tinkered with my form until it felt right.
Once my form felt smooth, it was time to start pushing the pace. I had eased into a comfortable rhythm, but I knew it wasn't too speedy. I started using lightpoles as interval markers to ramp up my effort.
This route includes the Bastard Garman Hill, which seems less bastardly in comparison to Memorial Parkway. However, that tune will change after 21 miles come marathon time. Once I turned onto Garman, I tried to maintain my lightpole interval effort until I hit the hill.
After the hill, I hit the home stretch. I kept my effort level high, but a bit more relaxed until I reached my neighborhood and started coasting to a 32:29 finish. An 8:07 mile pace. Not too bad. My goal is to get my tempo pace into the high sevens. Can I do that without effort?
Last night's four-miler was a scheduled tempo run. I wanted to kill those middle miles. My plan was to ease into my pace slowly, kill-kill-kill and coast back home after about 32 minutes.
Oh, and I wanted this all to feel effortless. I don't want to work too hard for my speed.
My form was my main concern. I tend to get all long-strided, jostly and loud when I speed up.
I'm on this foolhardy mission where I try to run like I'm barefoot while I'm wearing shoes and trying to be as silent as those annoying waifs who blow past me at my local running paths while I jump two and a half feet out of my skin because they didn't alert me to their presence.
On this run, I focused on keeping my shoulders back, my feet under me, my turnover fast, my stride smooth, and my footfalls stealthy. That was a lot to think about that first mile, as I tinkered with my form until it felt right.
Once my form felt smooth, it was time to start pushing the pace. I had eased into a comfortable rhythm, but I knew it wasn't too speedy. I started using lightpoles as interval markers to ramp up my effort.
This route includes the Bastard Garman Hill, which seems less bastardly in comparison to Memorial Parkway. However, that tune will change after 21 miles come marathon time. Once I turned onto Garman, I tried to maintain my lightpole interval effort until I hit the hill.
After the hill, I hit the home stretch. I kept my effort level high, but a bit more relaxed until I reached my neighborhood and started coasting to a 32:29 finish. An 8:07 mile pace. Not too bad. My goal is to get my tempo pace into the high sevens. Can I do that without effort?
Monday, September 28, 2009
Race Report: Some Will Win, Some Will Lose
Ten seconds per mile. That's all I needed.
My negative split plan went all weird after the fourth mile of the Akron Marathon. I told myself to stay patient, don't panic. But I hit the 10-mile mark too fast. My 20-mile split was right on target, and I stayed confident. I told myself to hold on. However, as the final 10-K went uphill, my performance went down hill.
First 10 miles: The plan was to start off with 9:21-9:26 mile pace and hit the 10-mile mark between 1:33:30 and 1:34:20. I knew my first mile or two would probably be slow because of the crowd. I lined up about 30 feet behind the four-hour pacer and planned to stick close to him until things settled. My first two miles were 9:30 and 9:35, but I didn't panic. I just kept close to the pacer and hoped he would help me make up time.
Mile three was 9:59, and I was starting to get antsy. The pacer walked through the next water stop, and I passed him. I heard him say he was 18 seconds behind pace. I tried to keep my pace even and waited for the pacer to retake me, which he did about five minutes later. My fourth mile shocked me: 7:42. I still don't think I was running that fast, and I wonder if the course was a little mismeasured here. Regardless, I tried to back off.
My next mile was 9:18, closer to my goal, but that's as close as I got even though I had let the pace group open a significant gap. I hit the 10-mile mark at 1:31:38, right at my marathon goal pace. Don't panic. I calmed myself by thinking of all your comments, that I was so ready that I wouldn't have to log too many 9:20-ish miles. The clock was almost right at my goal time, so I thought maybe I'd beat four hours gun time. That would be cool, right?
Second 10 miles: The plan was to pick up the pace to 9-9:10 per mile and hit the 20-mile split between 3:03:30 and 3:06:00. Mile 11 contains the demonic Howard Street Hill. I've tried every which way, including loose, to approach to this hill. I don't have an answer for what works. That mile was 9:01, so I backed off and ran the next mile at 9:22. I repeated this pattern -- 9-ish mile, 9:20-ish mile -- for most of the next eight miles.
I made it through the lonely stretches of the Towpath and the difficult uphills of Sand Run (where my legs seized on me last year). I knew I was struggling a bit, but I was relieved to see the clock read 3:03:52 at 20 miles. I was still on target with 9:12 per mile, despite the positive split. Hold on to that feeling.
Final 10-K: The plan was to run all out to finish in less than four hours, which meant 57:07 or less. I didn't get off to a good start, logging the 21st mile at 9:23. It only got worse as I trudged up the Bastard Garman Hill. By the top of it, I had logged my first mile over 10 minutes. I recovered slightly for a 9:25 mile, but then fell off again for a 10:29. A new pattern. An unfortunate pattern.
I already knew I wouldn't make it. I would have had to cover the next 2.2 miles of rolling hills in less than 15 minutes. I grit my teeth and pushed on. By this point, I was audibly talking to myself between grunts: "Come on! ... Go legs! ... Don't stop!" I had no gears left to kick in. I covered the final 10-K in 1:00:55.
The clock read 4:06:xx when I crossed the finish line. My chip time was 4:04:xx. A very significant PR by 18 minutes, but a frustrating 10 seconds per mile too slow for my ultimate goal. Again, I succumbed to Start Too Fast Goblin.
I didn't achieve THE goal, but it's not the end of the world. That was my post-race beverage, along with a couple Duvels and some Sierra Nevada Torpedo.
Thanks Supporters
Thanks to all you imaginary friends in my computerwebs for cheering me on, reading my ramblings, and giving good and bad advice throughout my training. But most of all, thank you to those who were there in person.
I had great race day cheering sections, including my usual group of friends at the 23rd mile marker, my folks and other folks near the finish just before the turn into the stadium, and my biker companion who dropped Martini and I off at the start, cheered me on throughout the whole race, and had my post-race beverage on hand at the finish. It doesn't get better than that.
My negative split plan went all weird after the fourth mile of the Akron Marathon. I told myself to stay patient, don't panic. But I hit the 10-mile mark too fast. My 20-mile split was right on target, and I stayed confident. I told myself to hold on. However, as the final 10-K went uphill, my performance went down hill.
First 10 miles: The plan was to start off with 9:21-9:26 mile pace and hit the 10-mile mark between 1:33:30 and 1:34:20. I knew my first mile or two would probably be slow because of the crowd. I lined up about 30 feet behind the four-hour pacer and planned to stick close to him until things settled. My first two miles were 9:30 and 9:35, but I didn't panic. I just kept close to the pacer and hoped he would help me make up time.
Mile three was 9:59, and I was starting to get antsy. The pacer walked through the next water stop, and I passed him. I heard him say he was 18 seconds behind pace. I tried to keep my pace even and waited for the pacer to retake me, which he did about five minutes later. My fourth mile shocked me: 7:42. I still don't think I was running that fast, and I wonder if the course was a little mismeasured here. Regardless, I tried to back off.
My next mile was 9:18, closer to my goal, but that's as close as I got even though I had let the pace group open a significant gap. I hit the 10-mile mark at 1:31:38, right at my marathon goal pace. Don't panic. I calmed myself by thinking of all your comments, that I was so ready that I wouldn't have to log too many 9:20-ish miles. The clock was almost right at my goal time, so I thought maybe I'd beat four hours gun time. That would be cool, right?
Second 10 miles: The plan was to pick up the pace to 9-9:10 per mile and hit the 20-mile split between 3:03:30 and 3:06:00. Mile 11 contains the demonic Howard Street Hill. I've tried every which way, including loose, to approach to this hill. I don't have an answer for what works. That mile was 9:01, so I backed off and ran the next mile at 9:22. I repeated this pattern -- 9-ish mile, 9:20-ish mile -- for most of the next eight miles.
I made it through the lonely stretches of the Towpath and the difficult uphills of Sand Run (where my legs seized on me last year). I knew I was struggling a bit, but I was relieved to see the clock read 3:03:52 at 20 miles. I was still on target with 9:12 per mile, despite the positive split. Hold on to that feeling.
Final 10-K: The plan was to run all out to finish in less than four hours, which meant 57:07 or less. I didn't get off to a good start, logging the 21st mile at 9:23. It only got worse as I trudged up the Bastard Garman Hill. By the top of it, I had logged my first mile over 10 minutes. I recovered slightly for a 9:25 mile, but then fell off again for a 10:29. A new pattern. An unfortunate pattern.
I already knew I wouldn't make it. I would have had to cover the next 2.2 miles of rolling hills in less than 15 minutes. I grit my teeth and pushed on. By this point, I was audibly talking to myself between grunts: "Come on! ... Go legs! ... Don't stop!" I had no gears left to kick in. I covered the final 10-K in 1:00:55.
The clock read 4:06:xx when I crossed the finish line. My chip time was 4:04:xx. A very significant PR by 18 minutes, but a frustrating 10 seconds per mile too slow for my ultimate goal. Again, I succumbed to Start Too Fast Goblin.
I didn't achieve THE goal, but it's not the end of the world. That was my post-race beverage, along with a couple Duvels and some Sierra Nevada Torpedo.
Thanks Supporters
Thanks to all you imaginary friends in my computerwebs for cheering me on, reading my ramblings, and giving good and bad advice throughout my training. But most of all, thank you to those who were there in person.
I had great race day cheering sections, including my usual group of friends at the 23rd mile marker, my folks and other folks near the finish just before the turn into the stadium, and my biker companion who dropped Martini and I off at the start, cheered me on throughout the whole race, and had my post-race beverage on hand at the finish. It doesn't get better than that.
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 ...
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Laborious Last Long'un
ON LABOR DAY, a long run because Sunday was hungover after a wedding Saturday. Not as many benefits from the 10-miler the day before as the schedule says. But a 20-miler is a 20-miler. And it was a good one.
The plan was a simulation of sorts. The run broken down into two eight-milers and a four-miler. The first eight would be at 10:10 per mile, the second at 9:55 per mile and finish with four all out. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and Labor Day is a day for horseshoes, if not hand grenades.
The first eight took a little longer than planned at 10:32 per mile. The second was held up on account of a notoriously too-long mile, which made for an overall 10:00 mile pace, but my biker companion met up with me after a four-mile run and helped keep me on target. The final four was pretty solid at 9:26 a mile. Confidence built.
Two days before, 10 hill bent miles done to the tune of another negative split. A surprise when the second half featured the doomsday hill. A vicious climb from Merriman Valley up the winding Portage Path to the house that rubber built. The Bastard Garman Hill looks paltry as I pass by. You don't scare me.
Now preparations for the Buckeye Half Marathon this weekend. Only one run of quality for the week with the final session of Yasso 800s on Thursday. Two recovery sessions to keep the legs loose before they are turned loose.
The plan was a simulation of sorts. The run broken down into two eight-milers and a four-miler. The first eight would be at 10:10 per mile, the second at 9:55 per mile and finish with four all out. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and Labor Day is a day for horseshoes, if not hand grenades.
The first eight took a little longer than planned at 10:32 per mile. The second was held up on account of a notoriously too-long mile, which made for an overall 10:00 mile pace, but my biker companion met up with me after a four-mile run and helped keep me on target. The final four was pretty solid at 9:26 a mile. Confidence built.
Two days before, 10 hill bent miles done to the tune of another negative split. A surprise when the second half featured the doomsday hill. A vicious climb from Merriman Valley up the winding Portage Path to the house that rubber built. The Bastard Garman Hill looks paltry as I pass by. You don't scare me.
Now preparations for the Buckeye Half Marathon this weekend. Only one run of quality for the week with the final session of Yasso 800s on Thursday. Two recovery sessions to keep the legs loose before they are turned loose.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Really, How Bad Is a Doughnut for You?
What about Two?
As I feel the surge of sugar flow through my veins after a second maple frosted doughnut of the day -- lunch deserves a dessert, right? -- I'm starting to worry about the effects of two doughnuts today will have on my running. (The first one this morning was cream filled.)
Probably not much.
Chances are I'll burn off these zillion-and-a-half calories in the next month or so, but still I'm thinking about my eventual plan of attack for the Akron Marathon.
Last year, I was bound and determined to break the four-hour mark and dedicated myself to weekly track work. The result was a 17:48 PR, but about five minutes shy of my goal.
[Drunkard's note: Yes, this is the part where you groan and think, "Criminy, are we going to have to go through another seven months of him going on and on about beating four hours in the marathon again?" The answer is yes, it is.]
Sunday, while I was plodding down Quick Road at the beginning of my nine-miler, I had a flash of inspiration.
There were few cars on the road, but everyone of them seemed to be either coming from or going to one of the three or four park areas on Quick Road. These areas are mostly just large fields with giant hills, which are perfect for sledding.
In the summer, these areas are far less populated. And then I thought, "It would be a bitch to run repeats on those hills." Thus, my marathon training plan started to come into focus. Frank Shorter is often credited with saying, "Hill repeats are speed work in disguise."
As many of you know from my past whining, the Akron Marathon is a hilly course. From the Demonic Howard Street Hill at Mile 11 to the Bastard Garman Hill at Mile 22, your thighs will be in pain.
I hoped last year's focus on speed work would give my legs the strength they needed to conquer these hills, while giving me the speed to achieve my goal time. I now believe that I must fight fire with fire. If I want to be beat the hills, I need to run more hills.
When I compose my training schedule for my fourth crack at Akron, I will be including barefoot repeats on those gnarly hills. No ifs, ands or buts -- I will beat four hours in the marathon this year. And these doughnuts will be just a faded memory.
Probably not much.
Chances are I'll burn off these zillion-and-a-half calories in the next month or so, but still I'm thinking about my eventual plan of attack for the Akron Marathon.
Last year, I was bound and determined to break the four-hour mark and dedicated myself to weekly track work. The result was a 17:48 PR, but about five minutes shy of my goal.
[Drunkard's note: Yes, this is the part where you groan and think, "Criminy, are we going to have to go through another seven months of him going on and on about beating four hours in the marathon again?" The answer is yes, it is.]
Sunday, while I was plodding down Quick Road at the beginning of my nine-miler, I had a flash of inspiration.
There were few cars on the road, but everyone of them seemed to be either coming from or going to one of the three or four park areas on Quick Road. These areas are mostly just large fields with giant hills, which are perfect for sledding.
In the summer, these areas are far less populated. And then I thought, "It would be a bitch to run repeats on those hills." Thus, my marathon training plan started to come into focus. Frank Shorter is often credited with saying, "Hill repeats are speed work in disguise."
As many of you know from my past whining, the Akron Marathon is a hilly course. From the Demonic Howard Street Hill at Mile 11 to the Bastard Garman Hill at Mile 22, your thighs will be in pain.
I hoped last year's focus on speed work would give my legs the strength they needed to conquer these hills, while giving me the speed to achieve my goal time. I now believe that I must fight fire with fire. If I want to be beat the hills, I need to run more hills.
When I compose my training schedule for my fourth crack at Akron, I will be including barefoot repeats on those gnarly hills. No ifs, ands or buts -- I will beat four hours in the marathon this year. And these doughnuts will be just a faded memory.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Revenge of the Bastard
Sneaking out for a four-mile run Sunday morning got me into trouble in more ways than one. Today, soreness is my penance.
Having switched feeding shifts last week, the early hours have started to feel not so terrible. Friday, my extra morning time provided a chance to play my fiddle. Saturday, I just went back to sleep after Baby Viper ate his bottle. Sunday, however, seemed like a good time to run.
I put Little Man back in his crib, making sure he was done being fussy, and kissed Mrs. Viper goodbye. Little did I know that she had hoped to have her own time that morning. I'd be hearing about that later.
The morning was cool, but the humidity foretold the heat and thunderstorms that came later. The only hat I could find to tame my wild morning hair was a winter cap. Otherwise, shorts and a short-sleeve shirt were all I needed.
My route would take me down to my old foe, that old dirty Bastard Garman Hill. It had been quite some time since I last ran up the infamous hill. My pace seemed slow enough to save energy to make the climb, but the intervening month since my last run had drained all my trail-honed hill-running skills. About a third of the way up, my legs said, "No more."
Two more walk breaks were necessary before my run was through. The final tally was an 11:30 mile pace. My calves, hamstrings and quadriceps are all cranky today. That's what I get for being selfish and leaving my wife at home with the baby when she's stuck at home with him all week.
The toughest thing so far about becoming a parent is adjusting to the rearranged schedule. Our time is not our own. Although I've taken advantage of the early hours for some me time, I need to remember to make sure my wife also gets time for herself.
Having switched feeding shifts last week, the early hours have started to feel not so terrible. Friday, my extra morning time provided a chance to play my fiddle. Saturday, I just went back to sleep after Baby Viper ate his bottle. Sunday, however, seemed like a good time to run.
I put Little Man back in his crib, making sure he was done being fussy, and kissed Mrs. Viper goodbye. Little did I know that she had hoped to have her own time that morning. I'd be hearing about that later.
The morning was cool, but the humidity foretold the heat and thunderstorms that came later. The only hat I could find to tame my wild morning hair was a winter cap. Otherwise, shorts and a short-sleeve shirt were all I needed.
My route would take me down to my old foe, that old dirty Bastard Garman Hill. It had been quite some time since I last ran up the infamous hill. My pace seemed slow enough to save energy to make the climb, but the intervening month since my last run had drained all my trail-honed hill-running skills. About a third of the way up, my legs said, "No more."
Two more walk breaks were necessary before my run was through. The final tally was an 11:30 mile pace. My calves, hamstrings and quadriceps are all cranky today. That's what I get for being selfish and leaving my wife at home with the baby when she's stuck at home with him all week.
The toughest thing so far about becoming a parent is adjusting to the rearranged schedule. Our time is not our own. Although I've taken advantage of the early hours for some me time, I need to remember to make sure my wife also gets time for herself.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Flashback Friday: Desnotathon
Finally, a run, 7 miles through the neighborhood, past Akron's Westside mansions, through Highland Square, up the main thoroughfare, across to part of the marathon route, up the bastard Garman hill and back home again, past more mansions. And for each of these landmarks, a snot rocket from each nostril.
Wednesday night, I took the whiskey cure and, last night, the running expelled the poisons that wrecked my body this week. The Viper is on the mend.
Although, the thigh reared its ugly head again. I was hoping the not running would fix it, but I guess I have to live with the pain for the time being. And then there was the slight matter of a tightness in the Rectus Abdominis area. Pain, really. Perhaps this is my long-hidden six pack trying to emerge. Or perhaps it was my liver trying to escape to a long-hidden six pack.
Back Talk
Wherein participation counts toward your final grade.
You guys had some real doozies to help cure my taper sickness.
First, Roisen ridiculously agreed with Xenia (who does that?), but then she made up for the gaffe by providing a recipe for a restorative elixir: "I agree with Xenia, whiskey is the ticket to recovery. In fact, my grand uncle Paddy (true story) swore by 'Fiskey' for getting him to 97 years.
"Recipe for Fiskey:
Answer: Your Uncle Paddy is a genius. (But what's with all the water?) I'm sure he would approve of my running hat. However, sorry to say that Bushmills is my favorite Irish whisky, but Jameson happens more often.
The mysterious ohionative dispensed some invaluable wisdom about getting over sickness and tapering: "Illness is the reason god invented the hot-tottie. Warm cider is always good for the soul, and even better when fortified with a little whiskey. But all that stuff is for kids, real drinkers just warm up the brandy and drink until they can't recall if they have a cold.
"As for the tapering: it sucks! but use it to your advantage and sleep as much as you can. You're better off taking that extra time off then going out for a crap run and just beating your' body down more.
"Other than that cry yourself a river build a bridge and get over it!"
Answer: sniffle ...
While most of you suggested what I can do for my sickness, AddictedToEndorphins suggested what I can do for others: "My theory to staying healthy during taper--carry around vitamin C and spike the drinks of those around you so that they stay healthy and you, in turn, stay healthy!"
Answer: How fiendish! Does it have to be vitamin C, though?
P.O.M., on the other hand, makes me paranoid: "It's all in your head, man. It's all in your head. Just the taper-madness, kinda like Acid."
Answer: Acid? Wait ... am I ... could this still be ... oh lord ... I think I'm starting to get the fear ...
Some of you keep commenting even though I told you to go read a book.
Big doesn't like my review rating system: "I'm sad the rating system lacks any obvious drinking reference, like single malt aged 20 years, or readability with a hangover."
Answer: The obvious drinking reference is that the rating system is based on a good pour. If I got 1 finger on the rocks, I'd toss it in the bartender's face. But 5 fingers, neat? Thank you, kindly! A good pour is universal. Good taste is subjective.
Laura is starting to notice the fine mess she just stepped into by signing up for the Akron Marathon: "Great, you're telling me I have to find and read a whole book in order to prepare for the marathon in ONE WEEK? Geez, isn't trying to get a >20 mile run in enough? And I just got an e-mail from the race director telling me I ought to do some hill training!"
Answer: You seem to be an able woman. But I'd worry less about the book and more about the hills. Did I fail to mention that the whole second half is uphill? Oops. And people worry about Boston's Heartbreak Hill ... pfffffffft!
Well, my dear little readers, Happy Hour is only a few short hours away. Have a fine weekend. Run well and drink well.
Wednesday night, I took the whiskey cure and, last night, the running expelled the poisons that wrecked my body this week. The Viper is on the mend.
Although, the thigh reared its ugly head again. I was hoping the not running would fix it, but I guess I have to live with the pain for the time being. And then there was the slight matter of a tightness in the Rectus Abdominis area. Pain, really. Perhaps this is my long-hidden six pack trying to emerge. Or perhaps it was my liver trying to escape to a long-hidden six pack.
Back Talk
Wherein participation counts toward your final grade.
You guys had some real doozies to help cure my taper sickness.
First, Roisen ridiculously agreed with Xenia (who does that?), but then she made up for the gaffe by providing a recipe for a restorative elixir: "I agree with Xenia, whiskey is the ticket to recovery. In fact, my grand uncle Paddy (true story) swore by 'Fiskey' for getting him to 97 years.
"Recipe for Fiskey:
- 6 oz Jamesons (or your favourite whiskey, I won't judge)
- 1 tablespoon Honey
- 8 oz hot water
- Mix together and drink!
Answer: Your Uncle Paddy is a genius. (But what's with all the water?) I'm sure he would approve of my running hat. However, sorry to say that Bushmills is my favorite Irish whisky, but Jameson happens more often.
The mysterious ohionative dispensed some invaluable wisdom about getting over sickness and tapering: "Illness is the reason god invented the hot-tottie. Warm cider is always good for the soul, and even better when fortified with a little whiskey. But all that stuff is for kids, real drinkers just warm up the brandy and drink until they can't recall if they have a cold.
"As for the tapering: it sucks! but use it to your advantage and sleep as much as you can. You're better off taking that extra time off then going out for a crap run and just beating your' body down more.
"Other than that cry yourself a river build a bridge and get over it!"
Answer: sniffle ...
While most of you suggested what I can do for my sickness, AddictedToEndorphins suggested what I can do for others: "My theory to staying healthy during taper--carry around vitamin C and spike the drinks of those around you so that they stay healthy and you, in turn, stay healthy!"
Answer: How fiendish! Does it have to be vitamin C, though?
P.O.M., on the other hand, makes me paranoid: "It's all in your head, man. It's all in your head. Just the taper-madness, kinda like Acid."
Answer: Acid? Wait ... am I ... could this still be ... oh lord ... I think I'm starting to get the fear ...
Some of you keep commenting even though I told you to go read a book.
Big doesn't like my review rating system: "I'm sad the rating system lacks any obvious drinking reference, like single malt aged 20 years, or readability with a hangover."
Answer: The obvious drinking reference is that the rating system is based on a good pour. If I got 1 finger on the rocks, I'd toss it in the bartender's face. But 5 fingers, neat? Thank you, kindly! A good pour is universal. Good taste is subjective.
Laura is starting to notice the fine mess she just stepped into by signing up for the Akron Marathon: "Great, you're telling me I have to find and read a whole book in order to prepare for the marathon in ONE WEEK? Geez, isn't trying to get a >20 mile run in enough? And I just got an e-mail from the race director telling me I ought to do some hill training!"
Answer: You seem to be an able woman. But I'd worry less about the book and more about the hills. Did I fail to mention that the whole second half is uphill? Oops. And people worry about Boston's Heartbreak Hill ... pfffffffft!
Well, my dear little readers, Happy Hour is only a few short hours away. Have a fine weekend. Run well and drink well.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Side Stitches: Overrun
Tuesday night, I ran off the touch of soreness in my legs from Sunday's negative split. The first mile was a slog as I struggled to find my rhythm, but by the second I felt like I was cruising along despite the snowflakes attacking my retinas. Yes, I was really moving now!
I could hear the unmistakable sound of an awesome pace. Foot-strike after foot-strike, the sound of satisfaction. Or at least it would have been the sound of satisfaction had those foot-strikes been mine.
I realized someone was behind me and gaining fast. I rarely see other runners on this route, so I was overrun with surprise. I flinched and looked back, with an uncomfortable pull at my right oblique, which oblique would bark for the next half mile until my regulated breathing quelled the side stitch.
"Spring will be here in 59 days," the faster runner said. "We'll believe it when we see it, right?"
The Doppler Effect was noticeable. The man passed me as if I were flatfooted.
To sprinkle a little sodium in the eye, I looked right a few painful strides later and saw a woman on the sidewalk who seemed hellbent on overtaking the man who had just passed me. I was now in third place -- that is, last place.
I picked up the pace in hopes of at least maintaining stride with the two runners, but there was no hope in catching either of them. The man kept going straight when I turned right onto Garman. The woman had made the same turn, but made another at the next street where she slowed down to walk, apparently done with her run, as I continued toward the Bastard Hill of Doom.
This was supposed to be a recovery run.
Snow Tracks, No Trax
I scouted part of my run on my drive home. The roads were wet, but relatively clear. However, the conditions changed fast. As you may have noticed in the very first paragraph, snowflakes were attacking my eyeballs -- and collecting in my beard.
The roads became mushy and slick within the first mile, but because I had deemed the roads clear enough I had not worn my YakTrax. Footing was more or less fine, but climbing Garman hill was even less fun that normal.
I could hear the unmistakable sound of an awesome pace. Foot-strike after foot-strike, the sound of satisfaction. Or at least it would have been the sound of satisfaction had those foot-strikes been mine.
I realized someone was behind me and gaining fast. I rarely see other runners on this route, so I was overrun with surprise. I flinched and looked back, with an uncomfortable pull at my right oblique, which oblique would bark for the next half mile until my regulated breathing quelled the side stitch.
"Spring will be here in 59 days," the faster runner said. "We'll believe it when we see it, right?"
The Doppler Effect was noticeable. The man passed me as if I were flatfooted.
To sprinkle a little sodium in the eye, I looked right a few painful strides later and saw a woman on the sidewalk who seemed hellbent on overtaking the man who had just passed me. I was now in third place -- that is, last place.
I picked up the pace in hopes of at least maintaining stride with the two runners, but there was no hope in catching either of them. The man kept going straight when I turned right onto Garman. The woman had made the same turn, but made another at the next street where she slowed down to walk, apparently done with her run, as I continued toward the Bastard Hill of Doom.
This was supposed to be a recovery run.
Snow Tracks, No Trax
I scouted part of my run on my drive home. The roads were wet, but relatively clear. However, the conditions changed fast. As you may have noticed in the very first paragraph, snowflakes were attacking my eyeballs -- and collecting in my beard.
The roads became mushy and slick within the first mile, but because I had deemed the roads clear enough I had not worn my YakTrax. Footing was more or less fine, but climbing Garman hill was even less fun that normal.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Another Fastest Three
These three-milers are starting to go like clockwork. Last night, I felt strong and pushed the pace. The result was a new fastest run of the year at 9:29 per mile.
Speed is secondary to my goal of just getting back to a regular running schedule, but it's nice to see those little improvements when I stop my watch. It means my legs are getting stronger, my lungs are getting deeper, and my feet are getting quicker.
A sub-9:30 pace isn't exactly warp speed, but it's a start in this year of starting over. January is all about recording baseline metrics, setting the foundation for a solid year of running.
After completing my new favorite neighborhood circuit, I again conducted my new strength workout, which consisted of dumbbell curls, push-ups, crunches, bicycle-kick sit-ups, chair dips, and I added planks in accordance with Jamoosh's Hard Core Club.
One of these days, I need to complete this workout on an off day for running, but it works for now.
Next up this week are three more runs for nine miles, one of which being a trail run. The weather forecast remains positive, although we're expecting some rain and 20-degree dip in temperature later this week. But along with Nitmos, I continue to go pantsless this winter. Thankfully, my ThermaJock will protect my junk from the coming chill.
Akron Marathon Changes
Entering its 10th year, the Akron Marathon has announced some changes to its tough course to make for a faster half marathon and a flatter full marathon, as well as a new website. Looking over the new course, the biggest changes are at Miles 11, 18 and 21.
Where the course descends into the Cuyahoga River valley and enters the Towpath, the new route takes a roundabout way for a more gradual downhill, rather than the previous quad-buster down Howard Street.
In Sand Run, the course will no longer go all the way through the park to Revere Road and will turn earlier at Sand Run Road (from Sand Run Parkway), which includes a much steeper but shorter hill.
And finally, to make up for some lost mileage, the course now makes a short out-and-back on Castle Boulevard before heading toward the Bastard Garman Hill.
I'm least excited about that final change, but I'm mostly curious to see if the changes will really be noticeable. The Akron Marathon still covers some serious elevation.
[Drunkard's note: Post updated at 10:44 a.m. to include marathon news.]
Speed is secondary to my goal of just getting back to a regular running schedule, but it's nice to see those little improvements when I stop my watch. It means my legs are getting stronger, my lungs are getting deeper, and my feet are getting quicker.
A sub-9:30 pace isn't exactly warp speed, but it's a start in this year of starting over. January is all about recording baseline metrics, setting the foundation for a solid year of running.
After completing my new favorite neighborhood circuit, I again conducted my new strength workout, which consisted of dumbbell curls, push-ups, crunches, bicycle-kick sit-ups, chair dips, and I added planks in accordance with Jamoosh's Hard Core Club.
One of these days, I need to complete this workout on an off day for running, but it works for now.
Next up this week are three more runs for nine miles, one of which being a trail run. The weather forecast remains positive, although we're expecting some rain and 20-degree dip in temperature later this week. But along with Nitmos, I continue to go pantsless this winter. Thankfully, my ThermaJock will protect my junk from the coming chill.
Akron Marathon Changes
Entering its 10th year, the Akron Marathon has announced some changes to its tough course to make for a faster half marathon and a flatter full marathon, as well as a new website. Looking over the new course, the biggest changes are at Miles 11, 18 and 21.
Where the course descends into the Cuyahoga River valley and enters the Towpath, the new route takes a roundabout way for a more gradual downhill, rather than the previous quad-buster down Howard Street.
In Sand Run, the course will no longer go all the way through the park to Revere Road and will turn earlier at Sand Run Road (from Sand Run Parkway), which includes a much steeper but shorter hill.
And finally, to make up for some lost mileage, the course now makes a short out-and-back on Castle Boulevard before heading toward the Bastard Garman Hill.
I'm least excited about that final change, but I'm mostly curious to see if the changes will really be noticeable. The Akron Marathon still covers some serious elevation.
[Drunkard's note: Post updated at 10:44 a.m. to include marathon news.]
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Too Fast Race Pace Run, or
Too Slow Race Pace Goal?
My midweek mid-distance runs alternate between tempo pace (searching for sub-8:00 miles) and race pace (around 9:00 per mile). These paced runs and all the hills I've been running are the basis of my speed training for the Akron Marathon.
This morning I rousted my ass out of bed to fit in the miles I meant to run last night. My plan called for five miles at race pace.
Morning runs are not my favorite. My joints feel creaky, and it takes forever to find my rhythm. Effortless is not the word I'd use to describe my stride in the morning, which is a total bummer because "effortless" is my goal (aside from the whole "get super fast" thing).
After a short eternity, I fell into a decent groove. I quickly short-stepped up the Bastard Garman Hill and pushed my pace along the extended home stretch. I was hoping to finish in exactly 45 minutes. It looked like it was going to be close as my watch hit 41 minutes while I still had to loop around the block before I could stop.
I cruised down a short brick road, made a quick dash up to my street to head back toward home. I sprinted up a bunny hill until I could see the bend in the road right before the intersection that marked my endpoint. However, I was too fast.
By the time I stopped my watch, the time had only reached 44:13--about 10 seconds per mile faster than planned.
My goal pace puts me on track for a 3:55-ish marathon, which I feel comfortable trying for considering I shaved more than 15 minutes off my PR last year. However, an 8:50 mile pace puts me close to a 3:50-ish marathon, which was my original goal time when I started running these things in 2007. Is it advisable to shoot for another PR of 15 minutes at the Akron Marathon?
This morning I rousted my ass out of bed to fit in the miles I meant to run last night. My plan called for five miles at race pace.
Morning runs are not my favorite. My joints feel creaky, and it takes forever to find my rhythm. Effortless is not the word I'd use to describe my stride in the morning, which is a total bummer because "effortless" is my goal (aside from the whole "get super fast" thing).
After a short eternity, I fell into a decent groove. I quickly short-stepped up the Bastard Garman Hill and pushed my pace along the extended home stretch. I was hoping to finish in exactly 45 minutes. It looked like it was going to be close as my watch hit 41 minutes while I still had to loop around the block before I could stop.
I cruised down a short brick road, made a quick dash up to my street to head back toward home. I sprinted up a bunny hill until I could see the bend in the road right before the intersection that marked my endpoint. However, I was too fast.
By the time I stopped my watch, the time had only reached 44:13--about 10 seconds per mile faster than planned.
My goal pace puts me on track for a 3:55-ish marathon, which I feel comfortable trying for considering I shaved more than 15 minutes off my PR last year. However, an 8:50 mile pace puts me close to a 3:50-ish marathon, which was my original goal time when I started running these things in 2007. Is it advisable to shoot for another PR of 15 minutes at the Akron Marathon?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Race Report: Damn You, Akron!
Akron Marathon goals redux:
Things I learned Saturday:
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.
- 3:50 finish -- FAIL!
- Sub-4:00 finish -- FAIL!
- PR finish -- FAIL!
- Finish -- Success!
Things I learned Saturday:
- I'm always right
- Cramps suck
- I can still have fun in the face of failure
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.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Race Report: New Wrinkles
"This is unbelievable," I muttered after an incredulous sigh. After just six miles of the Akron Marathon, I was staring at a bank of porta-pissers instead of running with the four-hour pace group as it disappeared into Firestone Park.
This was the first time I had ever had to stop to use the facilities during a race. Of the eight portable toilets it seemed people were only going in and out of two of them. Who knows what was going on in the other six stalls.
Back on the road I started picking off everyone I could. On a long straightaway I could faintly see a pace group sign bobbing above the heads of all the runners ahead of me. I cut to the outside, merged across to the tangents, and emphasized turnover, turnover, turnover. I was straining a bit.
My mind flashed to the motivational speeches at the previous night's pasta party from Chris McDougall and Amby Burfoot. They stressed the importance of relaxing and enjoying the run. I started to emphasize not straining, but instead a relaxed and quick stride.
I eventually caught up to the pace leader, David, on the brutal downhill of Howard Street, right before entering the Towpath, where I saw a woman holding a sign that read, "Chafed nipples turn me on." I was relieved to have caught up to my group right before entering the parks, the toughest stretch of the run.
I got right next to Pacer Dave and settled in as he told a blonde joke. At around Memorial Parkway, my home stretch of the Towpath, a rock wedged itself into my right shoe and started bouncing around under my foot. I tried to deal with it, knowing that if I stopped to get the rock out, I could just end up with another one before this stretch was over. I wanted to wait until we got off the crushed limestone path, but I couldn't.
At the Big Bend aid station, after about two miles of running with the pebble mostly under my toes, I peeled away from the pace group and peeled off my shoe as my group ran away. I didn't want to be alone in Sand Run, where the course starts to climb out of the Cuyahoga River valley.
Pacer Dave walked all the water stations. I knew that if I kept picking off runners and didn't walk that I would catch him early in Sand Run. Just after the second relay exchange I was next to him again as he told another joke.
I remembered something I had heard McDougall say at some point about the reason why the Tarahumara are such excellent runners is their ability to surge and recover. That's what had been doing all race to keep up with the four-hour pace group. My mentality was in a much better place this year, and I would need that as we had exited Sand Run and passed the 18th mile. The race was starting to get tough.
Before I dropped from the group in the Towpath, Pacer Dave said something important, "If you lose me in Sand Run, don't worry. There is enough downhill in the last two miles that you can make up about two minutes. There is still hope."
I played the surge and recover game with the pace group from Sand Run to Garman Road. Every time I caught them I would lose them again. And then the Bastard Garman hill put a real gap between me and them. As the race course took me through Stan Hywet I felt like I was on an island, running alone for the first time all day.
For a short stretch of Portage Path, I tried to keep up with a chatty couple, one a marathoner and the other a relay runner who seemed to be pacing him. They wore the same shirts. One told the other that they'd use the four-hour pacer as their rabbit. I used them as a distraction. I had no cheering section waiting for me this year after the 23rd mile, but I did run past my old apartment building and got a good cheer from my old neighbors for a boost.
I cut a tight tangent onto Market Street. Pacer Dave finally seemed to be within reach. Here I was, in Highland Square, with just over two miles to go and a large gap to make up to reach my goal. I tried to make my sore legs relax and use the downhills to gain ground. It hurt. Relax, relax, relax, I muttered to myself.
Finally, Pacer Dave was within shouting distance at Market and Merriman Road. He was running alone, the other groupmembers either dropped off the back or had run ahead to glory. "How we doing, Dave?" I said as loudly as I could. He looked back and let me catch him.
"We're doing good," he told me. "If we keep on pace, we'll be right on time."
"OK, I'll stick with you for a bit," I puffed.
I fell off pace on some of the remaining uphills, but Dave never let me fall too far behind, offering encouragement and at one point the sign he was carrying. "You'll get all the cheers," he said. I said no thanks. I didn't want the added wind resistance. I had enough to worry about.
A gust of wind smacked us in the face as we made the turn onto Main Street. I was waiting for my final wind to kick in so I could pull away for the finish. I kept waiting and waiting. We passed the 26th mile marker. I was just ahead of Dave, and I heard his final instructions, "Keep it up. Don't sprint."
I turned onto the walkway behind Canal Park. Rounded the corner into stadium. I saw the clock: 4:01 and counting. I knew I had a couple minutes banked from the gun, but I didn't know how much time. I couldn't slow down. The crowd in the stadium picked me up. I crossed the line, arms outstretched. I was pretty sure I'd done it.
I stopped my watch at 4:02:09. I stumbled through the corral. Shook Race Director Jim Barnett's hand. Found a place to lean. I scrolled through my splits on my watch to find my gun to chip difference. Just over three minutes. I had done it. My chip time was 3:58:40-something.
I waited a bit in hopes of seeing Pacer Dave come through to thank him, but I didn't see him. I made the long climb up the stands and started stumbling through the crowds. The Enthusiast appeared in front of me. I put my arms around her and then put my weight on her as we hobbled to the gear bag pickup.
I about pulled every muscle trying to pull on the knee-high, black compression socks I had gotten the other night. I slipped my feet into my slippers and walked around like an old man. There is an embarrassing photo of me on Facebook that I'm happy not to share with you.
I've never felt better about a race, despite the new wrinkles that every race presents. I stayed relaxed, positive and enjoyed the run as I let the pace come to me. And it did.
Thank you all for your support this year. I hope you're happy not to be hearing about my four-hour white whale ever again. And thank you to all you creepy stalkers who congratulated me before this post was online. Cheers!
This was the first time I had ever had to stop to use the facilities during a race. Of the eight portable toilets it seemed people were only going in and out of two of them. Who knows what was going on in the other six stalls.
Back on the road I started picking off everyone I could. On a long straightaway I could faintly see a pace group sign bobbing above the heads of all the runners ahead of me. I cut to the outside, merged across to the tangents, and emphasized turnover, turnover, turnover. I was straining a bit.
My mind flashed to the motivational speeches at the previous night's pasta party from Chris McDougall and Amby Burfoot. They stressed the importance of relaxing and enjoying the run. I started to emphasize not straining, but instead a relaxed and quick stride.
I eventually caught up to the pace leader, David, on the brutal downhill of Howard Street, right before entering the Towpath, where I saw a woman holding a sign that read, "Chafed nipples turn me on." I was relieved to have caught up to my group right before entering the parks, the toughest stretch of the run.
I got right next to Pacer Dave and settled in as he told a blonde joke. At around Memorial Parkway, my home stretch of the Towpath, a rock wedged itself into my right shoe and started bouncing around under my foot. I tried to deal with it, knowing that if I stopped to get the rock out, I could just end up with another one before this stretch was over. I wanted to wait until we got off the crushed limestone path, but I couldn't.
At the Big Bend aid station, after about two miles of running with the pebble mostly under my toes, I peeled away from the pace group and peeled off my shoe as my group ran away. I didn't want to be alone in Sand Run, where the course starts to climb out of the Cuyahoga River valley.
Pacer Dave walked all the water stations. I knew that if I kept picking off runners and didn't walk that I would catch him early in Sand Run. Just after the second relay exchange I was next to him again as he told another joke.
I remembered something I had heard McDougall say at some point about the reason why the Tarahumara are such excellent runners is their ability to surge and recover. That's what had been doing all race to keep up with the four-hour pace group. My mentality was in a much better place this year, and I would need that as we had exited Sand Run and passed the 18th mile. The race was starting to get tough.
Before I dropped from the group in the Towpath, Pacer Dave said something important, "If you lose me in Sand Run, don't worry. There is enough downhill in the last two miles that you can make up about two minutes. There is still hope."
I played the surge and recover game with the pace group from Sand Run to Garman Road. Every time I caught them I would lose them again. And then the Bastard Garman hill put a real gap between me and them. As the race course took me through Stan Hywet I felt like I was on an island, running alone for the first time all day.
For a short stretch of Portage Path, I tried to keep up with a chatty couple, one a marathoner and the other a relay runner who seemed to be pacing him. They wore the same shirts. One told the other that they'd use the four-hour pacer as their rabbit. I used them as a distraction. I had no cheering section waiting for me this year after the 23rd mile, but I did run past my old apartment building and got a good cheer from my old neighbors for a boost.
I cut a tight tangent onto Market Street. Pacer Dave finally seemed to be within reach. Here I was, in Highland Square, with just over two miles to go and a large gap to make up to reach my goal. I tried to make my sore legs relax and use the downhills to gain ground. It hurt. Relax, relax, relax, I muttered to myself.
Finally, Pacer Dave was within shouting distance at Market and Merriman Road. He was running alone, the other groupmembers either dropped off the back or had run ahead to glory. "How we doing, Dave?" I said as loudly as I could. He looked back and let me catch him.
"We're doing good," he told me. "If we keep on pace, we'll be right on time."
"OK, I'll stick with you for a bit," I puffed.
I fell off pace on some of the remaining uphills, but Dave never let me fall too far behind, offering encouragement and at one point the sign he was carrying. "You'll get all the cheers," he said. I said no thanks. I didn't want the added wind resistance. I had enough to worry about.
A gust of wind smacked us in the face as we made the turn onto Main Street. I was waiting for my final wind to kick in so I could pull away for the finish. I kept waiting and waiting. We passed the 26th mile marker. I was just ahead of Dave, and I heard his final instructions, "Keep it up. Don't sprint."
I turned onto the walkway behind Canal Park. Rounded the corner into stadium. I saw the clock: 4:01 and counting. I knew I had a couple minutes banked from the gun, but I didn't know how much time. I couldn't slow down. The crowd in the stadium picked me up. I crossed the line, arms outstretched. I was pretty sure I'd done it.
I stopped my watch at 4:02:09. I stumbled through the corral. Shook Race Director Jim Barnett's hand. Found a place to lean. I scrolled through my splits on my watch to find my gun to chip difference. Just over three minutes. I had done it. My chip time was 3:58:40-something.
I waited a bit in hopes of seeing Pacer Dave come through to thank him, but I didn't see him. I made the long climb up the stands and started stumbling through the crowds. The Enthusiast appeared in front of me. I put my arms around her and then put my weight on her as we hobbled to the gear bag pickup.
I about pulled every muscle trying to pull on the knee-high, black compression socks I had gotten the other night. I slipped my feet into my slippers and walked around like an old man. There is an embarrassing photo of me on Facebook that I'm happy not to share with you.
I've never felt better about a race, despite the new wrinkles that every race presents. I stayed relaxed, positive and enjoyed the run as I let the pace come to me. And it did.
Thank you all for your support this year. I hope you're happy not to be hearing about my four-hour white whale ever again. And thank you to all you creepy stalkers who congratulated me before this post was online. Cheers!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Feet of Fleeting Frustration
There's no doubt the Viper suffered from a two-day hangover after the Summer Un-Solstice Challenge. A long slog like that calls for purgative. I needed to feel fast and light even if I wasn't all that fast nor all that light.
My feet haven't trod my four-mile route in months. My legs felt surprisingly springy as I started my watch and bounded up the street. Residual anger built up over the last two weeks of less than stellar training propelled my stride ever forward. I cruised around each turn, jumped up the Bastard Garman Hill and flew back home. It felt good. Exactly what I needed. Back on the horse. Today is a new day. Six weeks until the Akron Marathon. Here I come.
My feet haven't trod my four-mile route in months. My legs felt surprisingly springy as I started my watch and bounded up the street. Residual anger built up over the last two weeks of less than stellar training propelled my stride ever forward. I cruised around each turn, jumped up the Bastard Garman Hill and flew back home. It felt good. Exactly what I needed. Back on the horse. Today is a new day. Six weeks until the Akron Marathon. Here I come.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Running Free
Finally, the weather I've been waiting for arrived Sunday. Despite layers of melting ice and slush all over the landscape, I found some time to return to running. Who knows how long the snow will take to melt, but we're supposed to hit the low 50s later this week, and that's OK by me.
As I've been doing since the Akron Marathon, I wore no watch and just ran aimlessly, going where my feet's muse took me, down the brick road to the edge of Mount Peace cemetery, past the holy mackerel painted on the retainer wall, through the well-off neighborhoods of West Akron, down the Bastard Garman Hill, over the slushy back streets as I wended over to Market Street, and up the endless incline of unshoveled sidewalks back home. I hopped puddles and bounded snow piles.
Neighbors -- and when you're a runner, everybody you see are your neighbors -- were out scrapping the ice from their driveways and were especially joyful to be outside and not cold. I wore shorts. One woman said as I passed, "I almost decided on shorts today too." The enthusiasm of the thaw always brings a smile to my face.
In my overexuberance, I may have overdone it. My legs felt like gelatinous goo afterward, and my core was so tight that my bellybutton hurt if I stood up too straight. But damn, it felt good.
As I've been doing since the Akron Marathon, I wore no watch and just ran aimlessly, going where my feet's muse took me, down the brick road to the edge of Mount Peace cemetery, past the holy mackerel painted on the retainer wall, through the well-off neighborhoods of West Akron, down the Bastard Garman Hill, over the slushy back streets as I wended over to Market Street, and up the endless incline of unshoveled sidewalks back home. I hopped puddles and bounded snow piles.
Neighbors -- and when you're a runner, everybody you see are your neighbors -- were out scrapping the ice from their driveways and were especially joyful to be outside and not cold. I wore shorts. One woman said as I passed, "I almost decided on shorts today too." The enthusiasm of the thaw always brings a smile to my face.
In my overexuberance, I may have overdone it. My legs felt like gelatinous goo afterward, and my core was so tight that my bellybutton hurt if I stood up too straight. But damn, it felt good.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Flashback Friday: Super Humility
Mr. Loser of the Loser Report commented on my Booze Hounds Guide to Passing, asking about my worst getting passed moment. Here we go.
I was struggling through my first marathon, the 2007 Akron Marathon.
I was at the falling-off-the-cliff stage of the race, where I was just trying to make it through the last six miles.
Around Mile 21 is Firestone High School, a point in the race just before the dreaded Garman Hill when you should be summoning some reserve confidence. But that's exactly when I saw Super Man, who looked like a desiccated old shoe, wearing a blue T-shirt with the giant 'S' on his chest and a tiny red felt swatch taped to his back for a cape.
If this was Super Man, why did I felt like I'd been socked with an anvil of Kryptonite?
He passed me as we crossed a set of railroad tracks, and if a locomotive were to have come along just then this Super Man would not have been more powerful than it. He wouldn't even have been able to outrun it.
But he left me in his dust, with that fig-leaf of a cape waving to me as he passed.
But look at him! Doesn't he look like he's having fun? I hope to have that much fun when I'm running marathons at his age.
I actually have two embarrassing getting-passed-by-an-old-timer stories, but this one had a picture. The other was at the 2008 Towpath Marathon, when I committed a cardinal sin of passing. I got re-passed.
There is a good lesson here: Experience matters. And if you don't have experience, you can always pray for an eastbound freight train to satisfy your worried mind.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Enjoy the weekend. Run well and drink well.
I was struggling through my first marathon, the 2007 Akron Marathon.
I was at the falling-off-the-cliff stage of the race, where I was just trying to make it through the last six miles.
Around Mile 21 is Firestone High School, a point in the race just before the dreaded Garman Hill when you should be summoning some reserve confidence. But that's exactly when I saw Super Man, who looked like a desiccated old shoe, wearing a blue T-shirt with the giant 'S' on his chest and a tiny red felt swatch taped to his back for a cape.
If this was Super Man, why did I felt like I'd been socked with an anvil of Kryptonite?He passed me as we crossed a set of railroad tracks, and if a locomotive were to have come along just then this Super Man would not have been more powerful than it. He wouldn't even have been able to outrun it.
But he left me in his dust, with that fig-leaf of a cape waving to me as he passed.
But look at him! Doesn't he look like he's having fun? I hope to have that much fun when I'm running marathons at his age.
I actually have two embarrassing getting-passed-by-an-old-timer stories, but this one had a picture. The other was at the 2008 Towpath Marathon, when I committed a cardinal sin of passing. I got re-passed.
There is a good lesson here: Experience matters. And if you don't have experience, you can always pray for an eastbound freight train to satisfy your worried mind.
Happy Hour is nearly upon us, teammates. Enjoy the weekend. Run well and drink well.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I'm Good at Following Directions
Somewhere back in time, the Grand Idiot Nitmos advised, "If you keep knocking out these easy feeling negative splitters, maybe you ought to kick up the training a notch!? Shouldn't be that easy. Start approaching the puke threshold."
Last night, after the sun had finally sunk into its bed below the treeline, I stepped out my door for a four-miler at attempted 10-K race pace. The puke threshold was my pursuit.
The result was failure and success. I blame the sushi for both.
My four-mile neighborhood loop features a mostly downhill first half and a steady uphill second half, with the dreaded Garman Hill a mile from the endpoint. I set my pace range between my 10-K PR pace of 8:11 per mile and that puke inducing 10-K pace of 8:33. The result was a disappointing 8:55 per mile, despite a hard kick to the finish.
I flew through the first half, but maybe took it too easy for the first few minutes. I seemed to be on pace at my estimated mile markers.
When I encountered the uphill portion, I tried to keep up my pace with light pole intervals. My neighborhood loop finishes with a final road crossing and then a very flat 0.1 mile straightaway, where I attempt to expel the remaining effort left in the tank.
I had the right-of-way with lucky timing of the traffic light, and I burst into my finishing kick as I crossed the intersection. The whole time I'm concentrating on forefoot striking and turnover. I do not relent until I pass the gray utility box near the end of the block, where I reach across my body and press the stop button on my watch.
The effort tightened my lungs and diaphragm and I felt the familiar twinge in my guts. I trotted around the corner until the feeling subsided. The puke threshold was near. I could taste rice, soy sauce and wasabi from my dinner.
I don't usually run after dinner. This is probably why.
Last night, after the sun had finally sunk into its bed below the treeline, I stepped out my door for a four-miler at attempted 10-K race pace. The puke threshold was my pursuit.
The result was failure and success. I blame the sushi for both.
My four-mile neighborhood loop features a mostly downhill first half and a steady uphill second half, with the dreaded Garman Hill a mile from the endpoint. I set my pace range between my 10-K PR pace of 8:11 per mile and that puke inducing 10-K pace of 8:33. The result was a disappointing 8:55 per mile, despite a hard kick to the finish.
I flew through the first half, but maybe took it too easy for the first few minutes. I seemed to be on pace at my estimated mile markers.
When I encountered the uphill portion, I tried to keep up my pace with light pole intervals. My neighborhood loop finishes with a final road crossing and then a very flat 0.1 mile straightaway, where I attempt to expel the remaining effort left in the tank.
I had the right-of-way with lucky timing of the traffic light, and I burst into my finishing kick as I crossed the intersection. The whole time I'm concentrating on forefoot striking and turnover. I do not relent until I pass the gray utility box near the end of the block, where I reach across my body and press the stop button on my watch.
The effort tightened my lungs and diaphragm and I felt the familiar twinge in my guts. I trotted around the corner until the feeling subsided. The puke threshold was near. I could taste rice, soy sauce and wasabi from my dinner.
I don't usually run after dinner. This is probably why.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Between the Rain Drops
A ferocious storm swept through the Akron area last night and soaked the ground and cast debris about the landscape. The storm was still lurking this morning when I went for a five-mile tempo run.
As I mentioned last week, morning runs are tough for me. This one was especially bad. My body never felt in rhythm, my breathing was erratic, and it seemed like I was working extra hard to maintain my form and quick foot turnover. Based on that, I thought I'd be lucky to hit the high end of my goal finish time (40 to 43 minutes).
I felt like I was running in a swimming pool. Alternating bursts of humidity and rain had soaked me through, and my limbs felt sluggish. My pace never felt consistent or, least of all, fast.
However, as I crested the Bastard Garman Hill, I was surprised to see that my watch was at 28 minutes with a little less than a mile and a half to go. If I really pushed it, I would be pretty close to 40 minutes.
The long straightaway pulled me along like a conveyor belt. I apparently snubbed the only friend of mine who would have been awake at that cruel hour (aside from the lovely Enthusiast who was on her way to work) by blowing right past his truck at a stop light as I made a left and then some rights into my neighborhood.
[Drunkard's note: In an e-mail, my third-shifter friend said, "You looked pissed." That's just my default facial expression. I get it from my mother.]
With a half-mile to go, I was right on target for a 40-flat finish, which only made me want to go faster in search of mile pace in the 7:50s.
I made the final turn onto my street. I waited until I was a few houses down to look at my watch for the final time: 39 and counting. A final surge rushed through me. My apartment was in sight. My erratic form finally fell into a comfortable rhythm.
The last house before the apartment buildings seemed to elongate. I finally passed my marker, looked down at my watch, and almost let the timer keep going because I had plenty of cushion--39:54. Just in time for the skies to start pouring rain.
After my run, I took Dobson out to conduct official canine business. He enjoyed the debris from the storms. Clearly a Teddy Roosevelt fan, the Dobber found a branch and carried it halfway down the block back home.
Bark softly and carry a big stick.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
If You're Going to AK-Run
I know for a fact one of you is running the Akron Marathon (make that two), but I'm sure there are legions of silent readers who look up to me with slack-jawed awe in anticipation of my encouragement and advice regarding their pursuits in the Rubber City this weekend.
Fear not, my drunk, little minions, the Viper cometh.
As Ms. Addiction says, we Akron racers have one more sleep and one sleepless night before the marathon. I assume you've already prepared for the distance and the hills. Now let's get your mind right.
The Viper's Keys to Success
There are two points along the marathon route that will kill you: the turn onto Howard Street and the second half of the race.
Howard Street goes straight downhill into the Cuyahoga River valley. Just plan on shredding your quads on the descent. This part of the race scares the shit from my bowels. Good luck. Don't die.
The second half of the Akron Marathon is all uphill, as you slowly climb out of that valley. If anyone tells you, "It's all downhill from here," consider this a false statement. And when you get to the Bastard Garman Hill, you might pee your shorts. But don't worry--your shorts will be so wet from sweat that no one will notice. After that, though, it's all downhill.
Your booze taper should have started at 7 a.m. today to allow the toxins to vacate your bloodstream and to properly hydrate. If you haven't already done so, return the office flask to the bottom drawer until Monday.
The good news is that the Akron Marathon is well-supported. There are plenty of bathrooms and aid stations throughout the course. You should have plenty to drink and plenty of GU. There is only one stretch (through the parks) that isn't lined with spectators cheering you on.
Entering Canal Park at the finish is amazing. Revel in the moment. I promise you that nothing will hurt when you see that crowd cheering for you. Let their voices carry you through the finishline.
The post-race "beer" is Michelob Ultra. Get one for the toddler in your life and head to one of the nearby bars for a proper selection. Lockview, 69 Taps, The Northside, Ido Bar, Matinee, Annabell's, Ray's Pub, Frank's Place and Rockne's are all Team BHI-approved rehydration stations. The first two are within ambling distance of the finish and the others are all along the marathon course. Also nearby is the Winking Lizard (two locations, actually).
Sights of Akron
Here are some things to look at as you tour my fair city:
- National Inventors Hall of Fame (at the start)
- The All-American Bridge (the "Y" bridge)
- Firestone Park
- The University of Akron (look for the Red Rocket on the track)
- The Towpath, Sand Run Park and West Akron (i.e., the Viper's running turf, sacred ground)
- Stan Hywet Hall
- The Viper's apartment
- David Giffels' house
- Highland Square
- Diamond Grille
- The Civic Theater
- Canal Park
- And somewhere overhead, the Goodyear Blimp
Where to See the Viper
OK, for those of you who hope to run into me after the race, good luck. I am elusive. And Martini and I have to get to a post-race bash. We have lots of drinking to do before we reach Blackout Island. However, I will hang out at Canal Park for a while after I finish. Timeframe: 10:45 a.m. (pfft!) to 11:30 a.m.
How will you know me? Haven't you seen my picture? I will be wearing a bright yellow New Balance tech shirt, black Champion shorts, red and gray New Balance shoes. And, I may or may not have "Viper" on my race bib.
Disclaimer: I'm just as friendly in person as I am online and I don't like meeting strange people. I can only promise to try and be nice.
See you soon! Cheers!
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