Now This

Mrs. Viper can't catch a break. She had two minor surgeries in the past three months. She got bogged down with work stress. And now, three days after strongly finishing her leg of the Akron Marathon, she wrenches her back getting out of the shower.

She blames something else for the pain that now has her on a steroid regimen, but whatever the cause is irrelevant in the face of stalling our post-race "stay active" plan.

This sucks.

We both have some fitness goals, but it's tough to enact an exercise routine when one of us is stuck with doctor's orders to rest.

Mrs. Viper feels frustrated and discouraged by this new setback. Who can blame her? It has been one thing after another. It's hard to find a groove this way.

Most runners deal with injuries throughout the year, but this is ridiculous. These are freakish occurrences and have nothing to do with the typical "too much, too soon" maladies, which would be more preferable at this point. At least she would have a good reason why she hurts.

My role of head male cheerleader has been relegated to head male nurse. Instead of laying out Mrs. Viper's running outfit this morning, I arranged her medicine next to a glass for water.

Wait, did I just write about laying out my wife's clothing? Yeah, as if she'd let me pick out what she wears! I can barely match my socks, let alone a whole ensemble. But enough about my colorblindness.

The point is we should be building on our experiences at the Akron Marathon, not trying to decide whether the floor is better for her back than the couch.

When you hit a rough patch it shakes your faith. You start to wonder if this will ever end. How do you stay positive during a series of unfortunate incidents?

There was a pretty bad stretch in my life back in the 1990s. It took me to a low place for a number of years, but the experience taught me a lot about perseverance.

The ability to persevere separates those who win Charles Darwin's game of survival of the fittest. That doesn't mean you always have to present a "never say die" attitude, but know that the only constant is change. Life will get better.

Cause and Effect

Last night's planned five-miler was more like a six-miler because of where I had to park my car to access the Buckeye Trail. The run served to reboot my marathon training after a false start last week, as well as a testing environment for my body. Here are my field notes:

A Study of Wounded Knee
Still feeling the pain from Sunday's kneecapping, the "Hill Challenge" proved to be a tough test for my injury.

Cause: Kicked bedframe
Effect: Slowed stride; pain from heel strikes and descents
Notes: The knee experienced pain throughout the run, but it was only unbearable when there seemed to be forces pushing my leg forward, such as from overstriding, or when going downhill. Not being able to move my left leg as quickly as normal, scatter stepping was impossible. The slowed pace downhill forced the knee to take on too much supporting weight, and thus walking was much more preferable. Interestingly, the average pace for this run was a decent 12:51 per mile. (My previous effort was 12:37 per mile at 5.1 miles vs. 5.7 miles this go around.)

Fall of the House of Viper
My "not falling" boast has caught up to me.

Cause: Slow left knee lift; roots
Effect: Right palm plant
Notes: My superior balance could not stop me from tumbling forward in the "Pine Lane," where numerous roots form a latticework of tripping hazards. Not being able to lift my left knee quickly or put too much weight on that leg caused me to fall when my right toe caught a root. No serious damage, except to ego.

Beta Testing B Vitamins
Awhile back Bob at Ahcuah wrote about how B vitamins help repel insects. He suggests taking three B-100s per hour, and the resulting sweat will keep the bugs away.

Cause: Three B-100s five minutes before start
Effect: Decrease in pesky insects; vibrant yellow urine
Notes: The first half-mile didn't show much difference than past trail runs, but after that the bugs seemed to disappear. This was even after some big storms rolled through the region Monday. Not once did anything fly into my hair, which usually happens about 433,529 times otherwise. Beta test No. 1: success.

My knee still hurts, but it's getting better and it running on it didn't make it feel any worse. However, a bruise still hasn't appeared after three days, which is a surprise considering the bump that surfaced directly after impact.

Mud Suckage

Momentum doesn't last long when your shoes almost get sucked off your feet every other step. The Buckeye Trail is a mud trap. Although the water crossing had receded to its usual ankle deepness since my last run here, the rest of the trail was still soaked from the incessant rain.

(I suppose it would be snow if not for global warming.)

My left calf started cramping halfway through my Saturday long run, and my right ankle was giving me a case of the limps shortly after I finished. All the mud was causing me to waste a lot of motion pushing off into a series of sinking pits. I couldn't seem to get it into my thick skull that I should just lift my feet instead.

Thankfully, a solid regimen of RICE had my ankle feeling mostly better by Sunday. This morning, a barefoot run resulted in no ill effects.

Back to the Buckeye Trail run: I was gobsmacked by the heat. It has been a long time since I had to deal with such high temperatures. Between that and the mud, I took plenty of walk breaks. I can't wait until I can make it through without. I was quite glad that I didn't run Sunday, because along with the heat was a hefty dose of humidity -- a preview of summer.

How the Viper started his weekend. 

A Five-Mile Form Drill

I think that I think my toe hurts more than it actually does. Yes, it's dark under the toenail. Yes, it looks swollen. But I can touch it and prod it without pain. It hurts to bend too far, but that is likely from my first toe smash last week.

My toe also hurts if I push down on the nail, which is why I'm concerned about tonight's 10-mile tempo run.

Everything was jake during my five-mile recovery run last night. My whole run was a focus on form. Fast turnover, landing flatfooted or a little on the forefoot, lifting my feet instead of pushing off and maintaining good posture.

My run was painfree. However, my feet were bare. I'm worried about slipping on shoes tonight.

I don't want my toe to rub against the inside of the upper. I wish I had the confidence to run 10 miles fast and barefooted. I'm not there yet. I'd wear my huaraches, but I have a nasty tendency to catch the flappy rubber soles on the ground, which could result in another smashing of a toe. I really don't want that.

Two fears are apparent:

1. I don't know how to run 10 miles fast and barefoot
2. My toe will hurt from wearing shoes for 10 fast miles

Which fear is the lesser evil?

Kick the Ottoman Across the Room

Time for bed. Lights out. Headlights sweep the dark room. Walk toward the window to see. Kick the ottoman across the room. Left toe no longer healed.

Self-inflicted sabotage is my new specialty. My toenail bent back at an improbable angle. Blood seeped from underneath. The Enthusiast cleaned and wrapped it for me last night.

Pain has subsided. The toe is swollen and tender. A shoe does not sound appealing. Flipflops for now. Five miles tonight may be done barefoot. Longer runs pose questions about proper soling for the rest of the week.

Ten miles tomorrow at tempo pace. Five hilly miles on Thursday. Ten more miles Saturday. Twenty on Sunday. Toe be damned.

Anybody know of some good running paths in Fort Wayne, Ind.?

The Miraculous Healing Toe

Medical tape firmly wrapped the knuckle joint of my big toe. It didn't seem too tight to cut off circulation, just tight enough to keep it still. Despite my efforts yesterday, the toe tingled with pain on trips to the coffeemaker, the bathroom, the copier, the watercooler, the printer. All morning like this.

With a hidden jostle of my left leg under my desk, I'd slip my foot out of its shoe to avoid pressure on my jammed toe. After a post-lunch meeting in the conference room, I walked back to my cubicle and sat down. A swivel left and a swivel right revealed an oddity. No pain.

I wriggled the toe, shoes still on, and nothing. Maybe an extra forceful movement would cause some discomfort, but the sudden difference -- the sudden comfort -- was disconcerting.

The afternoon ticked by as I worried that the tape was too tight after all. The toe felt a little numb. Was it purple? A furtive glance revealed no discoloration. But I'm colorblind.

At home, I immediately removed the tape. I bent the toe. Stiff, but not painful. Despite the sudden improvement, I decided not to run my planned six miles. It is a rest week after all.

The toe still feels OK today. I'm a bit suspicious.

One Toe Over the Line

You're not supposed to get injured on your recovery run, especially not during a so-called "rest week." I waited to run until after the temperature cooled down last night. Usually, my recovery runs have been barefoot, but I was leery of stepping on something painful in the dark, so I wore my new aqua socks.

Everything was going smoothly until I came upon the sidewalk on Market Street. More specifically, everything was fine until I kicked that utility dropbox set in the concrete. Of course, this happens as I'm approaching an intersection where I'm looking ahead and seeing a line of cars that may or may not let me have the right of way when I get there. Then I trip, stumble, curse, and turn left for a second to catch my balance and make sure I still have all my digits before crossing behind traffic.

The first three toes suffered the brunt of the impact, but the big toes seems to have received the worst of it. I can still bend the toe, which I assume means it's not broken. But I've taped the joint to immobilize it. Tonight's six-miler could be interesting.

Checking Myself 'Fore I Wreck Myself

My right leg is telling me something, but it speaks in garbled language. After both runs yesterday, the leg feels unstable. There is what I like to call "deep butt" pain, which has plagued me before, 13 months ago at the start of my training for the 2009 Akron Marathon.

This pain could be from my iliotibial band, as the twinges of discomfort cause numbness throughout the leg and terminate in a strained sensation in my calf. However, there is no pain in my knee, as is typical to ITBS. The pain and numbness last a half-hour at most.

Last year, I thought the deep butt pain was a result of all my track work and the continuous left turns. The pain quickly went away, and I went on to run my current fastest marathon.

This year, I haven't even driven by a track, let alone stepped on one. My next guess would be to blame my faster running for the pain. (Tempo runs have ranged from 7:59 to 8:23 per mile in the last month.) But that wouldn't explain why I felt the sensation after yesterday's recovery run at a 10:06 mile pace.

If speed isn't the issue here, dude, then what is? I could blame the ramp-up in mileage. I could blame sloppy running form. I could blame my weight. I could blame the roads. I could blame the trails. I could blame the shoes. I could blame the occasional lack of shoes. I could blame society. I could blame the images on TV. I could blame Canada. Or I could just blame you.

These Burning Legs

The hip pain is gone, but don't worry. I have a new sore spot to take its place. After completing a successful first week of marathon training with an easy four-miler on Saturday and an eight-mile long run on Sunday, I basked in a rare sunny day in Northeast Ohio.

I basked a little too long.

My legs up in recovery repose on a chair outside, I read the Sunday newspaper while the sun reddened my shins and feet. My arms were decently tanned and didn't suffer much, but my lower half has only been exposed to the sun on the run. Clearly, my legs have been too fast to be caught by any ultra-violet rays.

Stark white is now pink and shiny with aloe.

No worries here though. I have three days of recovery, rest and ease before returning to the Circle of Doom in search of further aches and pains. Suffering is such sweet serenity.

Just don't touch my legs.

Flashback Friday: Hip to Be Square

Why must the beginning of marathon training be met with pain? My left hip is barking from deep inside what I like to call the high butt area (which now you'll all edit to read I have pain deep in my butt). Perhaps this aggravation is from all the left turns I made last night at the Circle of Doom.

And now, the statistical rundown:

• Intervals: 5 x 400 meters
  
• Goal pace: 6:26-6:42 per mile
• Lap 1: 1:38.63 (6:34 per mile)
• Lap 2: 1:38.81 (6:34 per mile)
• Lap 3: 1:36.1 (6:26 per mile)
• Lap 4: 1:40.04 (6:42 per mile)
• Lap 5: 1:41.1 (6:46 per mile) FAIL
• Average pace: 6:34 per mile
  
• Total distance: 4.2 miles

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

This weekend appears ripe for a couple good runs. I look forward to concluding my first week of marathon training. It's important to build determination by completing all the runs in the early stages. I feel confident in this plan.

Back Talk
Wherein I'll try not to be a total dick when I address your comments.

Thanks for the heartfelt semi-quasi-encouragement this week regarding my quest for the -- what now? -- sub-four-hour marathon. Dean at Zero to Boston says: "Go Viper! May you suffer as your heart desires!"

Answer: Just keep telling me I look great no matter how dire the situation appears.

Mike at Running is Funny on my training plan: "I've use [sic] a modified [Hal] Higdon plan for both of my marathons, but I strongly feel the Intermediate II plan was far superior because you do half the distance of your long run the day prior. ... Rest or an easy day before your long runs makes your long runs easier, but I think it makes your marathon harder."

Answer: And thanks to Mike, I've already tinkered with my training plan to give this a try, as I was using Higdon's Intermediate I plan. Now, my schedule is set -- for now.

That's all for this week, teammates. Happy Hour is nearly upon us! Have a finely brewed weekend and good luck to those of you who have races. Run well and drink well.

Haiku No. 2: Sockless Solipsism

Pound feet bare inside
Twinge right knee behind
Untapped barrels of knowledge

Watch That 3,237th Step

This is the kind of behavior that makes one cynical. Now, granted, I won't claim to be the furriest bunny in the rabbit hole. But if I see a man down, I'll at least ask if he's OK before I continue on my way.

Enter the Jackass in White Shorts.

Most of what happened is my fault. It was night. I am fighting off a cold (if you call this fighting). I was running on the sidewalk where there were piles upon piles of fallen leaves obscuring the terrain. Let's just say the conditions were favorable.

Two miles into my run yesterday after work, I encountered an uneven sidewalk, at Hereford and Merriman, covered over by wet leaves. The leaves hid an upheaval of pavement, which caught my foot unexpectedly. My body pitched forward and my limbs flailed.

For a moment, I thought I might make it, that my feet would stay under me. That was a short moment. My body tumbled past its center of gravity, and my face aimed for a mouthful of grass, saved from this mid-run meal only by my right palm, which broke the fall.

I pulled myself up, checking for blood -- none. However, my palm was certainly scraped, the skin flap raised like a bunched rug. I looked up to see Jackass in White Shorts run past me without so much as a sideways glance.

What a douche nozzle.

What kind of self-important dick can't even ask a fellow runner -- nay, a fellow human -- if he is all right?

I walked for a few moments to make sure all my pieces and parts were functional, and then I took off after that son of a bitch.

I caught up to within 30 feet of him (quickly, I might add), but I didn't pass him. I wanted him to hear me at his heals. Also, I didn't want to get in front of him and then biff it again.

[Drunkard's note: If by chance Jackass in White Shorts reads this blog, you're an ass-hat and I hope you feel like a bloated turd. Also, you're slow. I'm fine thanks.]

Back to Running

I did two things last night after work: voted and ran. And let that be the last time I mention the former of the two on this blog for a few years. There has been far too much of the former and much too little of the latter these past couple posts, and not nearly enough boozing to make up for either grievance. Out with the former, back to the latter. And not to be confused by a ladder. Let the latter be the ladder that lifts us from the vast wasteland of the former, for the former is far too formal for this sacred channel of communication. Let us toast the return of the latter and let us ... shit. What was I talking about?

My pickled little brain coughed up a memory yesterday while I was in the middle of a lightpole-to-lightpole interval. My leg twinged, alerting me to back off the pace, but that sensation reminded me of another peculiar feeling I had this year.

The pain and location is not exactly the same, but considering I ran a half marathon and two full marathons since that first pain, it seems logical that the two are related.

The sensation thrice announced itself during my three-mile run. I replied with a sharp, inhaled breath and "auch!" Then we returned to our regularly scheduled stride.

I was curious to see how this painful call and response would affect my pace, but alas my timing skills were inadequate. I couldn't for the life of me find my running watch. Occasionally, I take my watch to work so I can waste some time geeking to my splits. I decided I must have left it there. No matter. I remembered my cell phone has a stop watch function.

I stepped out of my lair and started the stop watch. Then I closed my phone (it's a flip phone) and stuck it in my vest pocket where it bounced around and generally annoyed me throughout the run.

When I approached my stopping point, I pulled my phone out. The stop watch had taken its name too literally. It had stopped.

It appears that the stop watch will only function if the face of the phone is open. How inconvenient. Thank you, Samsung.

The good news is that my leg doesn't hurt. It still just barks at random intervals. It doesn't affect my stride, but it seems less happy when I'm pretending to be fast.

I spent the night lounging on my couch and watching the election results. I paired my pundits with Liberty Ale. No matter what your political views, I hope you can revel in the complete void of campaign ads today. Now, we can all get back to life.

It's nice to be back to reality.



I'm the Viper, and I approve this message.

[Drunkard's note: Oh, and my watch was found. Thank you. It was cleverly hidden on the floor of my kitchen by the door where I passed it on my way out for my run.]

Speaking of Massaged Taints ...

Thanks to Marcy for classing up last week's taint discussion. You get a gold star, which is actually just this link with nothing gold or star-like about it.

The Detox Run returned in fine form Sunday after my hometown's citywide Halloween bash on Saturday. (Retardedly, the Halloween bash is always the Saturday before Halloween.) Because of scheduling issues, I had to run Sunday morning if I wanted to run at all.

I woke up with a bit of a bastard behind the eyes, but forced myself out the door at 8:30 a.m. To survive the run, I just had to get my footfalls to match the rhythm of the pounding in my head, which resulted in the Dipso Shuffle for the first seven of 10 miles. My pace fell between 10 and 11 minutes per mile until I decided to crush the final three miles.

I managed to get under 10 minutes per mile for the entire run, but those first seven miles at a limping, close-together stride did their damage. I was walking bow-legged for the rest of the day.

Sore though I was, I capped that evening in what Dr. Samuel Johnson would describe as heroic fashion.

Where Have All the Good Shoes Gone?

My stomach has grown used to its semi-daily doses of naproxen sodium tablets. Today, the ankle is wrapped. My left ankle has felt beat up. I don't know why. I suppose it could be a result of this and this. But who knows, really? The pain could also be derived from old shoes.

Out to Pasture
In my bedroom, in my closet, on a shelf, a box of unworn Brooks Adrenaline shoes sits. This is my booty for running the Akron Marathon. But the box reminds me that my old Brooks are a year old and nearing retirement.

These shoes have served me well over 416 miles, on the good days as well as the bad, through training runs and races, delivering some memorable PRs and accompanying brilliant revelations. But their time has come.

I feel the shoes got a fair send-off, though, as I wore them on my 10-mile run in Cooperstown last weekend. I didn't know it when I picked them to accompany me on vacation, but the Brooks had one last long run in them. I'm glad it was that run.

Now, I'm wearing them around more. I think they know.

Screw 'em!
The paradox about retirement is that it is both a reward and a death sentence. You work long and hard for it to come, but when it does? You get a party, where your former coworkers introduce you to your young replacement, who reminds you how you'll spend the rest of your days as a useless slouch in a mind-crushing stupor before you shuffle loose this mortal coil.

Why do you think all those poorly treated Wal-Mart greeters are former retirees? They just want to have a purpose again, even if it's welcoming shoppers who coldly ignore them or handing out smily face stickers to children who pity their sad existence.

Retirement, otherwise known as pre-death.

I don't want that for my Brooks. I feel that they can still serve me well at short distances. Or, perhaps, they need a makeover. I have considered making screw shoes since last year, but I never had the guts to possibly ruin a pair of shoes.

When I discovered this procedure, my shoes were far too young. Perhaps the Brooks are willing to donate their soles to science.



The First Step
Yesterday, I received a comment from an anonymous coward reader, who informed me of a mistake in my Tuesday post. I wrote that I was running alongside Lake Otesaga when I was in Cooperstown. I was wrong.

The lake is Lake Otsego. The Otesaga is resort hotel that is on Lake Otsego, where I ate dinner one night. (Very good, but pricy.) I admit it, I didn't check my facts. I hope this confession absolves me of my sins. Or least that sin.

Desnotathon II: Friendly Fire

Just be glad that you don't know me in real life. And if you do know me in real life, be glad you didn't see me Sunday until after I had changed out of my snot-encrusted red running shirt. It was not a good day for the Snot Rocket Guidance System.

Usually the SRGS discharges projectiles safely away from the body and to the side of the running path. This did not happen often during my final long run. There was, let's say, a thickness from the sickness last week. This viscosity was not conducive to proper rocket propulsion.

One such misfire resulted in a direct hit on my right shoulder. If I were to describe the stain, you would never eat clams again.

But I did not focus on these several errant blows because I had started off the run by doing something completely idiotic.

I did not feel my right thigh, but I did feel my left hip. A lot. Painfully, a lot. That's fun. I was limping all of yesterday and most of this morning while I was traipsing through airports, from Cleveland to Chicago-Midway to Nashville. I'm going to go ahead and call it nothing and hope I don't feel it when I try to get a run in by trying to find the Ryman Auditorium.

However, I was able to disassociate myself from the hip pain because I had done that stupid thing before I even started my run. I put on my running shoes without socks.

What?

Four More Days
There's very little left to do but keep my legs loose and healthy. Get used to reading about the Akron Marathon because that will be the subject of every post this week and maybe even next week.

Country Beer
One benefit of traveling for work is drinking on the job. Tonight, I was at a welcome reception with two free drink tickets. Usually, that means some shit beer, shittier liquor and some wine. They surprised me with a local brew, Yazoo Pale Ale. Not bad. Nothing to write home about, but something to write you schleps about. Cheers.

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:

• 6 oz Jamesons (or your favourite whiskey, I won't judge)
• 1 tablespoon Honey
• 8 oz hot water
• Mix together and drink!

"Hey, he lived to be 97. It could work."

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.

Race Report: 'Are You OK?'

I was standing to the right of the finishing chute with my hands on my knees as my fast-clench muscles calmed. A voice from behind me asked, "Are you OK?" For the life of me, I couldn't find a single regret about the race I had just run. What a perverse feeling.

The Background
Sunday was the Buckeye Half Marthon, a small local road race with about 430 racers at the starting line. A race that tore me apart last year. The half marathon course is set in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, on two main roads (Riverview and Akron-Peninsula) and two crossing roads (Bath and Bolanz). This year the route changed from a loop to a double loop because the village of Peninsula would not agree to support the race anymore. By cutting out Peninsula, the race became significantly flatter. Generally, I don't like double loops, but this wasn't too bad. It allowed for better spectator support, which was a nice boost (thank you).


View Larger Map

The Strategy
My faith-based race strategy started with the lessons I learned last year. I woke up and ate a light breakfast about two hours before the race start. I taped my nipples with two-inch strips of cloth medical tape (very reliable). I double-knotted my shoes. And I remembered I'm not fast.

Martini wanted to line up with the 1:30 pacers. He almost had me. "You can start here and drop back," he said. "Dropping back is easy. You just slow down." I stood with him for some of the announcements, considering his boozy logic, and then I wished him luck and said, "I'm going back there." I lined up with the 1:45 pacers to avoid too much jostling and jockeying for the first mile and waited for the 1:50 pace leader to pass me.

The Pacer
I've never used a pacer before. I decided to try it when a friend of mine, who BQ-ed at the Cleveland Marathon, said he would sign up as the 1:50 pacer. That idea, unfortunately, fell through. Nevertheless, I stuck with my plan. (Coincidentally, Runner's World seems to have its finger on the pulse--my pulse--as the latest issue has an article about pace teams, which of course I can't seem to find online.)

I tucked myself behind the pace leader for the first 10 miles with about seven other runners orbiting around me. One man always seemed to show up at my side. (And you know how I like to pick a mark for each race.) He reminded me of Cecil Turtle, with his bulbous, shaved head and loping stride.

My strategy was to pick up the pace after 10 miles. I actually started to surge during the ninth mile because I felt like the pace team was slowing down. They had banked about 20 seconds. I got ahead of the pack, but had some trouble distancing myself. When the 10-mile marker appeared, I heard the pace leader shout out the split and encourage the runners still with him. It was the extra boost I needed.

I slowly pulled away. About 50 yards ahead of me was a woman at the back of the next cluster of runners. I tried to reel her in as if she were my new pace leader. I was alone, but not for long. Soon another man from the 1:50 group appeared at my side. We overtook the woman and he soon pulled ahead without me. Alone again, but again not for long. I heard footsteps at my heels, and then I saw him bouncing at my right elbow, Cecil. We passed the 11th mile.

Cecil and I ran together in near silence. It started to drizzle. We overtook another runner as we turned onto a cross road (Bolanz) that would take us back toward the finish. "We've got it now," he said with a sleepy, Midwestern drawl, which might as well have been supplied by Mel Blanc, to go along with his appearance.

We approached the only mean hill on the course, about a half mile from the finish. We gained on a group of runners as one of the race volunteers shouted, "That's it! Now someone pull ahead and show the way in!"

I tried to be that someone. I know I can finish strong, but the last, let's call it, 0.2 miles of the race are a bit tricky. We turned right off the road onto a gravel path, crossed a set of railroad tracks onto a dirt and grass path, passed the 13-mile marker just before a sharp left turn on what was now all grass, and with the rain we had to be careful. I got a little stuck behind two of the guys Cecil and I had caught. I broke outside and passed them, kicking as best I could and looking ahead to the clock. It read, 1:48:something. I had it!

The Calm
I crossed the finish at 1:49:09, breaking my previous PR by five minutes and 40 seconds. My mind went blank. My stomach tingled and heaved. Get me out of this chute! I handed over my bib tag and stumbled away from the crowd, choking back any digestive insurgents. Without any disappointments, I almost didn't know how to feel. I just stood there, hunched over and swallowing with my hands on my knees.

"Are you OK?" a voice said.

It was Cecil.

"Yeah, I just need some water," I said.

"Thanks for carrying me there," he said, putting out his hand. "I needed that."

I shook his hand and thanked him for the same. I didn't tell him he was my mark.

The Leg
As you may have noticed, I haven't mentioned my leg. No news is good news, right? Yes, I noticed it. There were some times when it hurt. But for the most part it wasn't a factor. The final three miles when I picked up my pace were the worst. And I didn't feel like I had all of my finishing kick. It hurt afterward, but with some post-race stretching, self-massage, ice and naproxen, it's not too bad today. I have a feeling this injury will be with me until after the marathon, but it's manageable. It was good to see how my leg responded to in-race stress.

The After
The post-race celebration involved some beers and lots of food. First, there was breakfast: two eggs over corned beef hash with a pint of Guiness at a little spot called Gasoline Alley.

From there, it was to a birthday celebration where I ate pizza with the works, birthday cake and turtle cheesecake (Cecil?!). Mind you, this was only about an hour after breakfast.

And then a football gathering to watch the Dallas Cowboys season opener at Cleveland while the Browns apparently decided to skip the game. Dinner there was sloppy joes, cheesy potatoes, a chocalate chip cookie and apple crisp, accompanied by some Sierra Nevada Porter. That pretty much sent me into a food coma. And here I thought I was blimping from not running!

Flashback Friday: Degenerate Regenerated

Thank you to those readers who harassed encouraged me in the comments of this week's posts.

Thank you to the incredibly slow runners I passed who made me feel like I hadn't done my laundry for a week.

Thank you in particular to the man and woman I passed twice, coming and going, almost at the same spot along the park path. You made me feel like a two-bit deity, running from the heretics and their newfangled religion.

I try to think that every run has equal importance in the entire scheme of a training schedule. Though my early 3-milers may not seem to compare to my later 20-milers, the former is an integral rung to the latter. That said, last night's 8-miler was very important in terms of injury assessment, rebuilding confidence and race preparation.

Though my simple watch doesn't show anything too remarkable, the steady 9-minute pace felt liberating. Like shaking off the rust. My lungs burned from all that not running. My pores poured sweat like an attentive bartender in the 88-degree swelter. My stride fell into alignment after starting off as if I had just stumbled off a stool after being overserved. My right leg felt, well, more or less like the left leg--some tweaks every now and again, but nothing too worrisome.

Now, the leg is wrapped in precaution and numbed by naproxen. Nine minutes per mile isn't too far off 8:24 per mile, right? Right! One hour and 49 minutes, here I come.

Couch Diagnosis
Playing doctor (heheh) on the couch last night, I located the general location of the thigh pain. It seems to be in the area of the gracilis muscle or the semitendinosus muscle. And since I can't seem to lock down what motion is actually causing the pain (e.g., getting out of the car, climbing steps/hills, sitting up in bed in the morning), I can't come to a firm conclusion. But it's nice to put a name to culprit: semigracilistendinosus.

Back Talk
Wherein I pay you back for all the nasty things you said about me.

Cautioning me against Barbaroing myself, Big says: "If you go all Barbaro, you won't be able to get studded out. If no studding out ... what's the point?"

Answer: Eternal glory? Or are you saying I'm not as charming as a dead horse? I guess I'd better stay studly.

Under the impression that my faith was lacking, Vanilla offers help: "Since you missed a perfect opportunity to post the video I'll do it for you right here."

Answer: I once said I wouldn't question your manhood, but I now retract that statement. Thankfully, it's the presidential campaign season and my flip-flopping is in the spirit of patriotism.

Wondering if he had stumbled onto the wrong blog, Bornagainrunner says what you all were thinking Wednesday: "Dude! That was, dare I say, inspiring."

Answer: My apologies for the confusion. I must have eaten some bad cilantro.

Tired of my whining this week, MCM Mama reminds me of the important things in life: "'Victory' will save you every time. ... Now, focus on picking out your post race beer and relax about all this non-running business."

Answer: Yes, mom.

Showing her concern for my blimping, Ms. V offers encouragement and a diarhea: "Suck it up, buttercup.

"I have some Brett Favre Chili for you. You could drop, like five pounds."

Answer: Does Brett Favre Chili make you cry like Brett Favre?

Perhaps not realizing that as a Gemini I'm prone to bi-directional thought, Xenia tells me to stay on my side of the blogdumb: "Snap out of it, lard ass. I've got the market cornered on self-doubt. Your niche is stubbornness. Stick with your specialty."

Answer: Maybe if you'd stay on your side of the pond, we wouldn't have this problem.

Stay tuned for my Buckeye Half Marathon race report. Cross your fingers that Happy Hour cures what ales ails me. Have a fine weekend. Run well and drink well.

Um ... Yeah ... I'm Going to Have to Go Ahead and Ask You to Come Back Another Time

As you have already assumed, all this not running around these parts this week has led to utter dilapidation of the Viper. Faith and fear take equal turns punching me in the metaphysical snot-locker.

I think I can.

No I can't.

Not running means I'm not burning the usual calories. I'm ballooning--no, blimping--to astronomical (or is that 'aeronautical'?) proportions. It's so bad I'm going to need a bigger home, one so big you can see it from space. Luckily, there is such a place nearby: the Goodyear Airdock.

Move over skinny dog 'cause the fat dog's moving in.

And because I'm not burning calories, I've got all this extra energy. My legs are bouncing around like Mexican jumping beans. (Wait, that's not racist is it?)



And all this bouncing around is screwing with the healing process, as my right, inner thigh is clearly about to collapse upon itself, causing a chain reaction throughout the leg, weakening the contiguous supporting muscles, crippling the knee, compromising the calf, rendering the ankle completely useless as the foot dangles like a dingle berry, forcing me to not run (not even walk) for months on end, which will certainly lead to catastrophic atrophy in the limb a la Tiny Tim.

To sooth my not running soul, I turned my thoughts to Victory--that is, Victory Brewing Co. and its HopDevil Ale, an IPA. You can read some reviews at Beer Advocate. I wouldn't say it was menacingly delicious, but pretty good nonetheless.

Now, go away. Not running also means I don't have much to write about. So wish me luck on my run tonight and come back to read about it tomorrow. Cheers.