Lost Runner

I'm not sure when running longer-than-marathon races became a ho-hum, just another Saturday activity, but I couldn't help but feel that yesterday's Woodside 50K run was totally, completely routine. Heck, I'd run the thing just about two months before. It's as unexcited and un-nervous as I've ever been for a race.

I do love the course and the woods, though. In spite - or maybe because of - the rainy weather, it was a spectacular run. It's hard to convey those moments of complete contentment and tranquility, gliding along the soft ground in the damp mist under the green canopy of redwoods. This is why I keep coming back.

Those magical moments rarely last for five hours, though, and for me, at least, it turns out that running 30-odd miles is fairly hard. Using December's race as my baseline, I planned to push a little harder in the first third this time out, since I thought I had played it a little too conservatively back then. When we set out at 8:30, I made sure to keep the legs churning through the early, long climb to the King's Mountain aid station.

Once through there, I found I didn't have to push myself anymore - it was hard going no matter what my intensity was! I had definitely underestimated the difficulty the wet, soggy ground would cause. Mostly, it was just a subtle extra draining of energy with each step, but the accumulated drag of having to push off of very soft ground caused me some considerable problems as I moved through the course.

I hit the Bear Gulch aid station a little tired, but soon found my wind again on the downhill trails into Wunderlich Park. By the time I hit the theoretical half-way point of the race (15.5 miles on my Garmin), the clock stood at 2:24:48. Again, I was right on pace for an even-split 5 hour finish.

Throwing caution into the wind, I ran pretty much the entire uphill return to the aid station, slowing only once for an on-course pit stop, and caught my first road-kill victim at the top of the climb. Loading up on water and some chunks of Pay Day, I set out on the six-mile connector towards Huddart Park, which is when things got really tough.

Even small up-hill stretches reduced me to walking, and I felt a little embarrassed to be out of gas with nearly 10 miles left in the race. But the trail had become extremely sloppy after having had to absorb the footsteps of a couple of hundred runners, and much of my energy was spent pulling my shoes out of the mud. Unfortunately, I was running in my new Inov-8 FlyRoc 310s, which meant my feet had to do a lot of work. Soon, they felt quite sore, and my knees followed suit, as they were doing overtime trying to keep me stable as my legs slid to and fro.

By the time I hit King's Mountain again, I felt pretty trashed, and was not looking forward to the downhill section my quads would have to endure to get to the finish. But as far as I could tell, I had no competition behind me, so I could just cruise this last section and lick my wounds along the way. That is, that's what I thought until about a mile in, when out of nowhere a lady with a 500-number popped up behind me.

With miles to the finish, I figured I was toast. Bev Abbs was somewhere in front of me, but I really didn't like the idea of getting "chicked" a second time. Soon enough, this lady overtook me, and I decided to hang in behind her as long as I could. It turned out she was quite friendly, and we chatted a little bit as we moved along, now going at what I thought was a decent clip. I remarked to her later that perhaps all I'd needed was a proper kick in the ass, because I found my second wind and kept up with her until about a mile out, where I pulled away, somehow churning out a 7:20 pace (admittedly on a decline, and on asphalt).

I finished in 4:57, although the course was even shorter than last time (I measured 29.7 miles). I hesitate to call a 50K trail race a training run, but that's basically what it was. I just wish they could all be like that... well, minus the mud.

Posted by Michael at 8:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Well, this was my fourth year at PCTR's Pacifica trail running event. I'm so experienced I remembered, offhand, the address I had to punch into my GPS (600 Oddstad Blvd) to get to the park!

Unfortunately, I've had too many things going on for the last month or two, so I was stressed and tired when I woke up this morning. Worse, I had a sore throat, or at least a part of it was sore. Let's call a spade a spade: I felt like crap. Lying there with the alarm going off at 6:00am, I semi-seriously contemplated just skipping this race. But I am too thick-headed not go to a race I've already paid for, so I got my butt in gear, coffee in a mug, climbed into the car and drove to Pacifica.

I was a little worried, truth be told. I hadn't run anything longer than 15 miles since my last 50K of 2009 on December 6. Also, it's been raining cats and dogs for about two weeks, and I wondered if the run would become a mud-fest up and down the hills of the San Francisco penninsula. Standing in line for the bathroom, pre-race, somebody asked me if the course would be "conditioned"(!) I.e., sand put over bad spots, etc. I told the guy no, what you see is what you get. At least the rain had let up for the day, and we would only be exposed to a very short shower during the day.

Wendell started us all promptly at 8:30, and I joined the crowd pressing their way through the narrow trails towards the North Peak, a climb of approximately 2,000' in about 3.5 miles. Once I got moving, I felt pretty good, and just enjoyed the spectacular views along the way. The trail had some muddy spots, but nothing that stuck, which was a relief. There were some huge puddles on the fireroad near the summit, which I just went right through.

After reaching the peak, one of the first things I saw on the descent was a guy off the side of the trail, puking about a gallon of sports drink out onto the ground. Little early to be self-destructing, I thought. Then, I enjoyed the incredible view from the firetrail: I could see for miles and miles out over the Pacific, the city of Pacifica, and spotted a beautiful rainbow over it. I was grinning ear-to-ear as I took a right down the technical single-track back to the aid station/camp grounds.

What followed was a double-dose of the Hazelnut Loop, which includes a mind-bending climb with about 30 switchbacks that never seem to end. Every time you reach a point you think might be the summit, the trails doubles back and takes you higher. Running this stretch takes patience. The first time around, I felt a little worried again - I thought I was too tired for so early in the race. By the second time, I actually felt slightly better - I guess I'm just "out of practice". 50Ks aren't exactly a walk in the park, and it's not always easy sledding.

Finally, I started in on my second ascent of the North Peak, catching up to the second-overall female, and passing her (I did end up getting chicked by F-1). In fact, I passed another runner as I kept up a good running motion all the way to the top. The miles were beginning to take their toll, though, and as I ran back down to the base camp, my quads were complaining loudly. Even downhill, I had a 10:15 mile (on some very technical terrain), and another 8:45 mile - hardly a good pace on a descent.

With about four miles left in the race, I faced the toughest part of the run - the Hazelnut Loop, for the third time. Climbing the switchbacks was like taking a glimpse into hell. I swear the climb was longer! The more I ran, the more I slowed down, and soon I was walking at least half the time. Every time I thought I'd crested the summit, there was another twist in the trail, waiting to take me higher. Boy was I relieved when I finally began the last descent.

I reached the finish covered in mud, about 5 and a half hours after I had started. I had also torn holes into the outer layer of both my shoes - this was not a gentle course. But the weather had cooperated, and all in all, it was a great day to be running those hills around Pacifica. No wonder this race sold out all distances.

Posted by Michael at 9:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Briefly, an entry on the Woodside 50K, my last race of 2009.

You'd never mistake me for a speedster, but four weeks after the MMTR 50, I put together a very even 30 mile run, admittedly under perfect conditions, to post my first sub-5-hour 50K finish. Alas, I can't let it count, because the course was about 0.7 miles short!

I'm not sure how much this had to do with my performance, but I drank a Vespa before the race. In my constant experimentation with equipment and nutrition, I came across this supplement that both Scott Dunlap and others use and recommend. Only after I had purchased it ($6!!!) did I find the website linking the ingredients to the Asian Mandarin Wasp. Great, now it sounded like complete bullshit. But I put it down anyway.

Getting ready for the start, I tied a spare water bottle to my running vest in anticipation of the Orange Loop, a longish 9 miles without aid. As I was doing this, Mark Tanaka rushed over, flustered and late as usual (although his blog post reveals why), trying to change and get ready as Wendell was calling us out to the start. We all got there in time, and at 8:30, got going on the trails.

First thing I found, tying a water bottle to your running vest doesn't work. The thing was bouncing around like crazy, and after a couple of minutes, the knot came undone (my bowline was fine, but the rope I used too slick). Oh well - I transferred the spare to my left hand.

I tried to take it easy on the outbound section, given my proximity to a 50-miler and light running schedule since then. I had forgotten that the run opens with a protracted climb through the forest, but being early in the race, I managed to keep up a running motion the whole way (well, almost) without feeling I was pushing too hard. Soon, King Mountain aid station came into view. I refueled and started in on my favorite part of the course.

The section along Skyline Boulevard is beautiful. Running on soft ground through the lush forest, with very little elevation change, felt wonderfully peaceful. Still conserving energy, I got passed by two women in this section, something which would normally piss me off, but I was just too content to really care. Following one of those women, we came to a big tree that had fallen right across the path. She turned around and gave me a priceless look, a combination of "WTF?" and "are we still on course", before she tried to pick her way through the brush. I climbed up the hill to circumvent the tree, and we emerged on the other side roughly at the same time.

On reaching Bear Gulch aid station, I filled both bottles and watched in surprise as another woman blew through the station and onto the longish 9-mile loop. "She'll run dry and be hurting later," I thought. I buckled up and followed her.

Emerging onto one of the few unshaded spots of the course, I relished the feeble winter sun and took advantage of some bushes on an uphill to water the plants. Soon the trails began to descend, and as I followed them, the race leaders started to show up, already on their way back. The first guy passed me, and just as I started to think, "I'm feeling a little fatigued," I promptly rolled my weak right ankle. I hesitated a minute, but then I thought, I'm deep in the woods and nobody can hear me.

"FUCK!" "FUCK!" "FUCK!" I yelled, and it made me feel much better.

The pain in my ankle subsided, and I continued on. It would stay upright the rest of the day. By the time I started the loop that would turn me around back to where I'd come from, I had counted four runners already on the return section. Many more would be on the loop - looks like I wasn't having a good day, race-position wise.

Running along the Redwood trail, I came across the strange Salamander Pond in Wunderlich Park. Around that time, my Garmin announced I had run 15.5 miles, half-way through the race. My time was 2:24:57 - I was exactly on pace for a five-hour finish.

Unfortunately, the return to Bear Gulch aid station involved climbing the trails I had descended down earlier. I felt a little tired, but kept up what I considered a good "ascent" speed, but I was falling way off the pace for that five-hour finish. As I approached the aid station, I caught up to the woman who had run through without picking up water. "Gone dry?" I asked her? No, she hadn't. We paced each other up the last hill and back to the aid station.

As I stopped, she again blew right through without stopping! Muttering to myself, a friendly 35K runner put my spare water bottle in the back of my running vest, and I set out in pursuit. Within five minutes, I caught up and settled in behind her, feeling quite relaxed.

Then it struck me - there was no need to conserve my energy anymore. Now I don't know how much I can attribute to the Vespa drink, and how much to the easy course and conditions, but I felt remarkably focused and in control for so late in a race. This wasn't like spinach is to Popeye - my legs weren't turning over very fast, and I was feeling fatigued - but I was mentally sharp and my physical deterioration was very even, no sudden drops or surges.

I dropped Miss No-Aid-For-Me-Thank-You, worked hard along Skyline Boulevard and caught first one, then another runner. I tagged along behind the second runner, and we raced each other all the way to King's Mountain. But once we arrived, he doubled over, huffing and puffing like he was going to have a heart attack. I still felt really good, refueled and ran along towards the finish.

I caught one more guy, and spent some time chasing another I would not be able to overtake, but mostly I kept checking my time and doing the math. It did not look like I would be able to get under five hours, unless I hammered some 6-minute miles on that last descent. As I reached the dirt-covered asphalt road, I conservatively started to increase my speed, when the finish line ambushed me - the course was short. So officially, I ran a 4:58.

In the end, I got chicked three times, only finished 25th out of about 100 runners, but I had a great race. The Vespa I'm still on the fence about - did it help me, or was the course just easy? Pondering this question, I warmed myself up with some nice hot soup before driving back home, my last ultra of the year complete.

Posted by Michael at 3:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Whose bright idea was it to enter a race named the "Mountain Masochist"? Oh that's right... it was my idea. In my defense, I signed up as an overflow entry, trusting the ultrarunning community to not cancel their race entries en masse. No such luck - I got into the race ten weeks beforehand, and even on race day, there were still slots available to be filled.

My interest in the Mountain Masochist has its origins in a run I did in the year 2000. After pledging a fraternity (which shall remain unnamed), I was forced into early morning runs twice a week for the duration of my pledgeship. Mid-way through "Hell Week" - the final week of pledgeship - our group was taken out for an excursion on the Blue Ridge Parkway at the break of dawn.

It was a magical run. Mostly because one badly out-of-shape pledge brother held us back to the point where we were almost walking, and the rest could enjoy a quiet sunrise over the serene Blue Ridge Mountains. This was the very first time in my life I experienced running as runners do, and not as the torture it is for most other people. Though it would still be years before I took up regular running, and even more years before I started running "for real", that morning stayed stuck in my mind.

Once entered, I resigned myself to some hard training and ramp-up races, hoping what I could do would be sufficient for running 50 miles. But then again, how in the world can you really prepare for something like that? I figured if I could run 50K without too much difficulty, I could probably put together 50 miles one way or another.

I flew out to DC on Thursday and hung out with friends before getting a full night's sleep and driving down to Lynchburg on Friday. I was staying in the host hotel for the night - the Kirkley - which certainly eased the logistics for me.

Friday evening featured a pre-race dinner, where I was first exposed to the colorful Dr. David Horton - RD emeritus - as well as the new RD, Dr. Clark Zealand, and some other characters. Many runners seemed to know each other from the other ultras run in Virginia, like the Grindstone 100, Hellgate 100K etc. I tried to pry some useful intelligence out of MMTR veterans, and filled myself up on pasta and lasagna.

After a short and broken night of sleep, my alarm(s) went off at 3:20am (EST). Ouch. I got my gear together, checked out of my room and climbed aboard one of the five school buses that would take us to the start on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Promptly at 4, they snaked their way out of the parking lot and transported us to our destination. Most runners stayed in the bus til just before race start at 5:30.

It was, of course, pitch black as we got going, with most competitors wearing some form of headlamp or other. As the first six miles or so were on asphalt, it wasn't a problem. I spent some time chatting with a runner about headlamps, wildlife (mountain lions out West vs. bears out East) and whatnot as I paced some easy eight to nine-minute miles. By the time aid station #2 popped up, it was bright enough to discard my headlamp in the provided drop box and start the first climb into the trails of the Virginia mountains.

The sunrise was nice. Still fresh and finally in the forest, I enjoyed the morning even though my pacific-time-adjusted body was ready to fall asleep again. The trail running was completely different than what you'd experience in California because of all the foliage on the ground. The fallen leaves would cover rocks and roots, turning some stretches into really treacherous terrain.

After about ten miles, my energy level dipped precipitously, mostly because of the lack of sleep and time difference. I didn't feel right mentally and was fighting the terrain more than I'd have liked. As the miles ticked by, I pulled out of my low with the advance of the morning hours. Elevation changes weren't too momentous, and I felt like I was running a decent race.

The idea of having to run 50 miles still hadn't properly registered in my head, though. It was surreal to check my Garmin, see 15 miles on it, and think that I was still over 50K away from the finish.

The running conditions, meanwhile, took me by surprise a little. After enjoying a typical California fall, I had to negotiate the mass of golden leaves that littered the ground in the more northern Blue Ridge Mountains. In and of themselves, they weren't bothersome, but they completely obscured the ground proper, leaving me to balance over whatever rocks, roots or potholes they hid. Early on, this wouldn't be a problem - but later, it would be another story.

But a lot of the course was on fire roads, which made for pretty steady and uneventful running. I made idle chit-chat with other runners while we passed the miles until the race got serious. Which was a little bit past mile 20, when we started a grinding climb into the higher elevations. Though tired, I still felt fairly decent and even passed a few runners on my way up (utterly meaningless at this point). Finally, I crested a hill and emerged on a large clearing to the sight of a clear day and sunny sky. Not much further on, I found Aid Station 10 at mile 26.9 - inofficial half-way point and drop-bag station.

I managed to lose lots of time negotiating my drop-bag, and felt envious of those running with a crew. The simple task of changing shirts and re-loading my running vest with gels and food seemed as difficult as an algebra exam. At one point, I leaned over to pick up my sun glasses and all the gels fell right out of my vest! By the time I exited the aid station, I saw that I was right back at the tail end of the people I'd overtaken during the initial climb.

The next segment of the course featured the ascent of Buck Mountain, or as I unceremoniously dubbed it, "F*ck! Mountain!" It seemed to take forever, and in truth, it was a pretty long section, taking several miles and eating up a good 2,000 vertical feet. For a long time, the "Rocky" theme music would waft over the mountain side from the aid station at the top of the climb, taunting us runners. Feeling more and more tired, I realized I was right around 31 miles, my previous max. It would be unchartered waters from here on out.

Transitioning to fire road again, I trudged on until reaching the entrance to The Loop, a technical 5-mile or so section that would take runners near the summit of Mount Pleasant. As I began, I realized the sun was starting its descent from the sky! I'd been running a long time indeed.

Despite my fatigue, I decided to attempt some proper running - at least on the uphills - only to have my race start to unravel. As I was moving up the leaf-covered trail, I rolled my right ankle, hard. Switching to a walk, I let the pain settle for a couple of minutes before setting out again. Almost no sooner had I started jogging, when bam! Rolled my right ankle once more. A little harder this time. Cursing the trail, I waited out the pain, then tried picking it up... and again, I rolled my ankle, this time transferring off of it before I could cause more damage. And with that, the competitive running portion of my day, at least on the single-track trails, ended. Afraid of really hurting myself, I decided to walk any technical trails as best I could.

Surprisingly, not too many people caught me in this section, and by the time I exited the loop - now having run somewhere around 40 miles - I found I could move fairly well once back on fire road. A volunteer warned me, "it's uphill now!", and I replied: "Good!" At this point, I preferred the uphills to the downhills, with good reason: my quads were pretty shot, and any type of downhill running resulted in agony, not to mention endangering my weak right ankle.

Up or down though, there was no denying the wheels were gradually coming off. My pace slowed to 15-minute miles at points, and even the more runnable sections saw me maybe eking out 12 minutes for the same distance. My nutrition strategy also failed me. Originally, I had planned on one gel every 45 minutes, but in the late miles, they got harder and harder to stomach. Finally, I unpacked a vanilla-flavored Hammer Gel, took a slug, and almost blew it all back out right then and there. That was it for gels, there was just nothing I could do.

The 40s (mile 40+, that is) weren't a lot of fun. The fire roads were not particularly scenic, and all I could do was keep putting in the work to cover the miles. I did not ever have a huge low, nor did I find myself in a corresponding high, either. Never doubting my ability to finish the race, however slowly, I methodically plodded on. Endured, you could say. I think that was the point.

Although other runners would pass, I gradually recognized two other competitors who were moving at my pace, and we kept up some conversation as the afternoon wore on. Pacing with them helped me focus, and kept me motivated.

With around five miles to go, the course headed into some gnarly - and hilly - single track. Inevitably, I fell behind everyone else and got passed by more and more people. I was astounded by some of these runners, who looked like they were just warming up, while the leaf-covered ground and rolling terrain was challenging me to the max. Finally, I limped into the last aid station, which was officially listed as 2.9 miles from the finish line. All race, I'd been hearing horror stories about "Horton Miles", and some gossip had reached me that the final stretch was seven miles, not three! Luckily, the aid station crew came clean and revealed the actual distance to the finish line was 3.9 miles. I could deal with that, and embarked on the closing act of my 50 mile tragedy.

As the course crested another high point and started its final descent into Montebello, even more people bounded by me. I was especially jealous of those with pacers, and I recognized the benefit of company in tough stretches like that. All I got was a lady walking a dog who lied to me about the distance to the finish (misguided, but appreciated, and I almost believed her!) Soon enough, the 1-mile marker appeared, and then thankfully, mercifully, I got my wonky ankle off of treacherous trails and onto predictable asphalt. Accelerating to my new max speed (9:30/pace?), I held off further runners and crossed the finish line with 10:39 on the clock.

Holy crap! What a run!

Dr. Horton was right there at the finish, shaking hands with all the runners. I picked up my finisher's shirt and ambled over to the bench press set-up, fancying a go at the "Iron Horse" award (most reps at 135lbs/95lbs for men/women), but somebody had cranked out 35 already! Laughing, I skipped the work out, which would have probably been a travesty in the state I was in anyway.

Collecting my head lamp and drop bag (which now magically contained an unexpected pair of women's "arm panties" - weird), I managed to hop on the first bus back to the Kirkley, full of runners with which to trade war stories. One guy made me feel like a wuss - he was going to head to the Carolinas that night in order to run a marathon *the next day*!

The Kirkley staff was awesome: they set up a number of rooms with soap, shampoo and towels so we could get cleaned up! It was definitely much appreciated - I was expecting the usual "go the swimming pool" treatment. I felt like a VIP.

I skipped the post-race dinner to drive Route 60 to Lexington so I could visit/crash at a friend's place from college. How, I don't know, but I am probably lucky I didn't kill myself. My adventure ended the next day with a return to DC and a (thankfully) direct flight into SFO. What a weekend.

In no particular order, here are Things I Now Know that I was ignorant of before.

50K shape is not 50 mile shape. It's not even in the ballpark. Not even the same sport. Being able to run 50K well had no bearing on my performance at MMTR. 50 miles are tough!

You can fake your way through shorter trail runs even when you primarily train on roads. But the bitter truth is revealed in the ultra distance. I feel that by only running trails on weekends, neither my quads nor ankles were able to handle the rigors of the Mountain Masochist while my hamstrings and calves had reserves left. Which did me no good. Specificity of Training - simple lesson.

Ultra nutrition is still a higher-level mystery to me. Perhaps there is nothing that can be done, but gels apparently are not the answer.

Finally, to mis-quote Dean Vernon Wormer: "Color blind and running on fall foliage is no way to go through life, son." The leaves were an unexpected hazard. Lesson: stay in California!

Right now, I don't think I'll ever return to Virginia for running - heck, right now, even a marathon sounds ambitious - but I was blown away by the great race put on by Clark Zealand and team. I cannot imagine the logistical nightmare of putting on a 50 mile point-to-point race, but I certainly appreciated the pay-off. And I can honestly say, the course marking (white ribbons) were by far the best I have ever seen in my life, and a real life-saver for a guy like me who could get lost in a phone booth. Thumbs up from this California runner - what a great event.

MMTR Race Site
Eco-X Sports Blog
Garmin Connect Activity Details
MMTR Photos
2009_MMTR.kml

Posted by Michael at 8:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

My first week or so back at sea level, and I was constantly exhausted. I slept nine hours a night, usually added on another one or two on the couch in the afternoon. My knees buckled as I trudged around the house. I was down about five pounds from my usual weight. Suffice it to say, the Pikes Peak Marathon annihilated me. What fun, though!

But there were moments I thought I'd be a DNS for the race. Like 24 hours beforehand, when I couldn't run a single step. Somehow, I managed to aggravate an old rib injury and could barely breathe, never mind bounce my body on my feet while running. I studied the cut-off times on the race website, determined to at least start the run the next day.

Luckily, the injury subsided over night, and though bothersome didn't affect my time much the next day. As a Pikes Peak veteran now, I managed to find good parking and timed my arrival at the starting line nicely. The weather was perfect! The race director announced the conditions at the summit (30F, wind chill 15F) before ceding the stage to some local high-schoolers who sang an a capella version of "America the Beautiful" to get everyone in the right frame of mind. With Pikes Peak towering in the background, not a sound was heard from the crowd as the singers rendered their version of the song.

And then we were off! Mindful of my ribs, I started out slowly, but within a couple of minutes things loosed up and I was able to move at a decent pace. Soon the course left the paved streets of Manitou and took us up the initial steep switchbacks of the Barr Trail. I was happy with my pace, overtook a few and was overtaken by a few, but overall maintained my place and steadily ate up the distance.

This year, I'd have to not only go up, but also get back down. "Up and back down" - that sounds a little like "There and back again", the title for Bilbo Baggins' book on his travels with the dwarves. Unlike Bilbo, I wouldn't have to worry about Smaug the dragon at the top of the mountain though. Just breathing - the air at the summit has only 48% of the oxygen found at sea level.

Wearing my Garmin, I ignored the distance display and instead focused on elevation, the true indicator of progress in this race. 7,000', 8,000'... I was feeling decent. While I don't have my splits from last year's Ascent, I felt I was on a similar pace.

Things were moving along nicely until what must be my altitude cutoff... about 9,500'. Just like last year, I started falling back among the runners. Trying to make myself feel better, I asked a lady who was passing me if she was from "altitude". "No, I'm from Chattanooga, Tennessee," she answered cheerfully before leaving me behind for good. Damn! So much for my master plan of acclimatizing to elevation before the race.

Oh well, slow down was to be expected. But something was not right, or better put, something was worse than last year. Without consulting my times, I knew I was slower, especially on the relatively flat section of the course before Barr Camp. Things only got worse as the trees got smaller, the light got brighter, and we emerged from the woods onto the martian landscape of Pikes Peak above treeline.

Soon enough, shouts of "downhill runner!" preceded the appearance of Matt Carpenter, ruddy-faced but handily on his way to another marathon victory. More runners followed suit, intermittently at first, but then with increasing frequency until finally I was seemingly constantly balancing on the edge of the trail to make way for downhill runners.

That still didn't explain my pace, though. The first two miles above treeline took me 22 minutes and 25 minutes, respectively (versus about 20 minutes each in training not five days previously!) The final mile to the summit was especially brutal. I had trouble focusing, got tunnel vision and at one point almost fell off the trail. "You scared me for a minute!" said a rescue team member. "Imagine how I felt," I replied.

31 long minutes for that last mile to the top. I took a standing eight-count on the infamous 16 Golden Stairs, with the summit banner in sight, leaning against a large boulder, trying to catch my breath without passing out. Once I did make it to the top, there was no time to celebrate. Get me off of this thing! Air! Air! The Ascent, meantime, had taken me 3:57 - 12 minutes longer than last year.

Surprisingly, the descent was almost as bad as the ascent. My legs felt like complete rubber, and I had to walk large sections of the trail for fear of tripping, falling or just outright collapsing. I continued to be passed by runners who apparently had nowhere near the trouble I had with the thin air. Invariably, the sections I tried to actually run properly ended when I'd roll my right ankle. Fearing a trip to the emergency room, I'd slow back to a walk, just trying to survive this psychotic race. My fears, incidentally, seemed to be well-founded, as I heard some volunteers discuss another runner's broken ankle. Ouch!

Soon after A-Frame, I was passed by a runner from the Incline Club I had talked to previously. Her time from 2008 had been a little over seven hours. My God, was I that slow?! I had to pick it up, one way or another.

9,500' became my mantra. That was my magic number, the spot where I hoped I'd return to some semblance of my normal running self. Alas, a good section of the Barr Trail meanders through the woods at around 10,000' - 11,000'. I managed to attach myself to another runner who was having trouble similar to mine. Although we were both being passed quite often, I took solace in the fact that I had found a partner in pain, someone else who was struggling in the thin air.

With about five miles to go, I found the strength returning to my body. Now the downhill training I'd tried to focus on this summer seemed to pay off, as I managed to move quite well on the rather steep descent towards Manitou Springs. The temperature, meanwhile, had climbed into the 80s, in contrast to the near freezing temperatures at the summit. What a crazy race.

Nearing the end of Barr Trail, I found myself bringing up the tail of a small pack of runners. I was content to stay there, since passing was treacherous and I felt confident I could accelerate away from these other runners once we hit the asphalt of Manitou Springs. The only problem in this stretch was the gravel I collected in my right shoe (note to self: buy gaiters). The gravel caused a pretty painful blister on my right heel, but at this point, it seemed no more than a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.

The final mile of the race took us into Manitou Springs. As expected, I pulled away from the small pack, hoping I hadn't underestimated the distance to the finish line. It seemed to take forever, but eventually a line of cones formed a small lane along the road to lead us to the finish line. But where was it? I rounded a corner, and like a jack-in-the-box it popped up suddenly... and the clock read 6:39:55. I sprinted like a mad-man, and my final time was recorded as 6:39:59.

The finisher tent, blessedly, had some chairs, which felt heavenly after having been on my feet for almost 6 and three quarter hours. My slowest 50K time, incidentally, is 6:11! This had been quite an excursion. Meanwhile, another section of the tent looked like a WWII hospital, with numerous runners having taken painful spills along the course.

I picked up my sweats and a sweet finisher jacket and headed to the creek, where many runners were icing their legs. With numbing muscles, I contemplated what went wrong and came to the conclusion that my 10 days at altitude hurt me more than they helped. It seemed that day to day, I'd grown more tired instead of acclimatizing. Perhaps my next altitude race I'll try to arrive as close to start time as possible, to take advantage of the short period before performance deteriorates.

I don't know if I'll ever return to Colorado Springs and that insane set of trail races. I can honestly say that the Pikes Peak Marathon is the hardest race I've ever done... and one of the neatest runs you'll find in America.

Posted by Michael at 9:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Driving home after the 2008 edition of the San Francisco Marathon, beaten down and frustrated, I was already chomping at the bits to make amends in 2009. Now that 2009 has come and gone, I found I've dug myself a deeper hole instead of acquitting myself. I wonder whether someone's laid a curse on me. It just never works out for me in San Francisco.

This year, I was aiming for a 3:15. I finished a world away, in 3:23, my second worst time ever -- only better than my 2006 marathon time. 2007: 3:17. 2008: 3:18.

Fortunately, I never got to track just how badly I was doing because around mile 3, my Garmin fell apart. Literally. I heard the sound of plastic hitting asphalt, only to find that the face of my (expensive!) time piece had separated from the rest of the machinery. I retrieved the damn thing and lugged it in my hand for the next 23 miles. The only times I saw a clock in that race was at mile 13, and the finish. Not that I needed any help to tell that things weren't going well.

Thing was, just like in 2007 and 2008, I would have the dreaded "stomach trouble". With my guts starting to cramp up even as I got to Crissy Field, I reflected on the fact that there is no feeling worse in the world than needing to "go" while running a race. It's not just a physical problem, it's utterly draining mentally. A special brand of pain that consumes you completely. And it happens to me guaranteed in San Francisco. Some might say it's the wind or the dampness, but I know better: it's The Curse.

So, let's see. Six miles in. Stomach issues? Check. Watch broken? Check. Traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge? ... check. Thanks to a late registration, I was started in "Wave 3" along with people whose target time was 3:30 - 3:45. Which, anyway, is not something that makes sense to me. Why should your early or late registration affect your starting time? Shouldn't it be based solely on your expected pace? You know, to help the flow of the race?

I got stuck a little on the bridge as usual, which was OK though, since I was fighting my bowels more than anything else. On reaching Marin county, I raced to the port-a-potties only to find them ALL occupied... with one person already waiting. You have got to be kidding me! Nothing for it but to keep moving.

My stomach settled down a little on the return leg, but after the descent down the Presidio my guts were screaming for relief, and finally at mile 11 I took my standard three-minute break. All in all, it was extremely unsatisfying. Not to go into too many details, but I've got two words: Dim Sum. Had that on Friday, and the problem was it bound up inside of me, wreaking havoc on anything else I had eaten after that. OK... TMI.

All told, Golden Gate Park wasn't too bad. Last year, I completely and utterly disintegrated around mile 14. This year, I slowed down, but mainly kept up a steady pace. I now appreciate the peculiar torture this part of the course has in store for the marathoners, though. The route took us by the first-half finish not once, not twice, but three times. Finally, I thought I was going to scream if I heard the MC say one more time "you're almost there". We weren't!

Mile 19, exit park, enter Haight Street and the hilly streets of San Francisco. Here I found my downhill training (I'm scheduled to do Pikes Peak in three weeks) really helped me. I ran hard on some sections that back on my first try I had to side-step down on!

Around mile 22, we're all climbing one of those persistent hills to the sound of spectators cheering us on. "Come on, almost at the top!" "Keep it up!" And all of a sudden this new voice yells "Die! Die! I hope you have a heart attack! Fuckers!" Flabbergasted, I turned to find this bum pushing a shopping cart uphill, too, apparently not a running fan. I totally cracked up, it was too funny. I wish I could convey the heart-felt fury in his voice!

Ticking off the miles, I found myself feeling fairly good, despite the unsettled bowels. I've gotten so slow, but my endurance is fine. On the other hand, if I'm running slow... well of course it won't hurt as much. I found myself pondering the decline in my abilities. Is it age? The fact that I haven't run on a track since February? Mental laziness? Whatever it is, I find I run slower, but don't feel as beat up at the finish anymore. Which of course makes me think I should run harder, but I can't seem to.

Unexpected bonus: I missed the 23 mile marker, so coming up on #24 was a pleasant surprise! So close! I picked up my pace once I hit the ball park and picked off a number of runners, finally seeing the clock and confirming my poor time. But, as I always say, there's no such thing as a bad marathon finish.

2009 was cursed. And despite it all, San Francisco is still my favorite marathon course. I'll be back in 2010 for more pain and suffering.

Posted by Michael at 4:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Last weekend, I ran a race, and got beat by a seven year old girl. Wait... let me explain.

The Dipsea is a handicapped race, designed to give old and young, male and female an equal chance at winning. I ran it for the first time last year and had a blast doing it. Although difficult to get into, I finished well enough in 2008 to make the invitational section in 2009, which meant a guaranteed spot in a race that I had been looking forward to all year.

Like last year, I watched the first runners get going, which this year included a seven year old girl from Mill Valley, mixed in with the older gentlemen/ladies. She got the event started with a bang when she sprinted -- and I mean sprinted -- out to a huge lead right off the bat, much to the amusement of the assembled crowd. Every minute, more runners followed, and soon I headed out to warm up and get ready to enter the fray.

Unlike last year, I was in the invitational section, which I was looking forward to as I figured I'd get way more room to run. It would also change my goals for the race: instead of trying to finish in the top 750 combined, I'd have to finish in the first 450 of the Invitational. I'd aim for that, not that I had a clue what kind of time it would take.

As the "scratch" group moved into the holding pen, then to the start, I got the feeling looking around that things would be... more competitive this year. There were some fast looking people in my group, and I had only just squeaked into the Invitational.

And then we started. Within a few seconds, my goal dropped from staying in the invitational to not being the last guy out of Mill Valley! These fools were flying down the street, and I was huffing and puffing to keep up. On reaching the 671 stairs out of town, I had a clear path to the top, unlike last year. So no more taking it easy and blaming it on the traffic, I had to haul ass up that crucible. Within a couple of minutes, I found myself catching some of the other runners, both from my group and from others who had head starts on me. Perhaps I wouldn't finish DFL after all.

Feeling like an old pro at this now -- I ran the single, double and quad Dipseas last year -- I flew down Windy Gap towards the trails. Wearing trail shoes that seemed ideally suited for this shorter, not-rocky but at times technical course, I managed my descent down Suicide much better than last year, although I still got passed. On reaching the bottom, I started the climb up out of the valley, mixing in a bit of walking on the steep stuff.

Things got interesting on the long, exposed trail named Hogsback, as I again opted for the parallel track north of the main thoroughfare. But unlike last year, I did not rejoin the rest of the pack when entering the wooded area, instead continuing on, remembering that the trail would merge again further down the race. As I entered the forest, the main trail disappeared from view, and I suddenly found myself all alone in the silence! In a race like the Dipsea, this is pretty crazy. I tried not to lose my nerve and cut through the woods, or worse, turn back, and I was helped along by catching glimpses of the others every couple of minutes. Finally, my trail did indeed merge with the main one, much to my relief. Also to my benefit: though my detour was slightly longer, it had been free of traffic and also cooler.

Now this is where things start getting jumbled in my mind. As the pack begins to bunch up as the race nears its finish, there's less and less time to relax. Instead, it takes all your concentration not to crash into other runners, and to push yourself to go faster. After all, since the handicapping levels the playing field, a difference of a minute in your finishing time can make a huge difference in your final result.

One guy got an elbow in his face, just in front of me. He was not happy. I reflected briefly on what it must feel like to get a big head start, only to be passed by hundreds of people later. All in all, I think I prefer catching everyone from behind, even if it feels like you're rushing to make a train for 7.4 miles.

I managed not fall going down The Swoop (which would have resulted in a trampling, too), and I was pushing hard climbing Insult Hill. Now that my trail running has gravitated towards the longer distances, I found I had lots in the tank near the end of this race, and I tried to make the most of it. By this point, I was constantly passing people, and when I turned into the final straightaway, I fell into a (flailing) all-out sprint, which netted me one final victim, then almost a collision as some guy had just completely stopped in the chute.

According to the preliminary results, I finished 300-something, good enough for an invite next year, but not good enough to beat, among others, that seven year old girl (-3:06), a 71 year old man (-14:14) or a host of other runners. Less than four minutes separate me from spot #451, which shows how tight a race this is. Finally, I improved my time from last year by seven minutes -- which based on my training level is probably all due to being outside of the crowded Open Division.

Depending on personal circumstances, I am definitely back next year. And even though I decided to skip it this year, I'm now day-dreaming about the Double Dipsea, which is coming up quite soon!

Further pictures of the start and finish
Video of the start

Posted by Michael at 3:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

After I finished this race, I drove along the marathon course to Death Valley's Salt Creek, walked to a bench, sat down and just listened. And listened. And listened. There was not a sound to be heard. In fact, there was such a complete absence of sound that I got that fake static electricity hum that the brain makes when there's nothing else to be heard. Not an insect, not a bird, not a wisp of wind, nothing. I have never experienced anything like it.

Death Valley is without a doubt a unique state park, and one I've wanted to visit for a couple of years since I found out they run a marathon there. Unfortunately, the dates always conflicted with CIM, which I like to run because it is such a fast course. But this year I decided to skip that race and do the Quad Dipsea and Death Valley Marathon on successive weekends, foregoing the ego stroke of a fast marathon in exchange for some adventure and travel.

The entrants' last-minute email provided an interesting quote about the area from 1894:

"... the most deadly and dangerous spot in the United States. It is a pit of horrors--the haunt of all that is grim and ghoulish. Such animal and revile life as infests this pest-hole is of ghastly shape, rancorous nature and diabolically ugly. It breeds only noxious and venomous things. Its dead do not decompose, but are baked, blistered and embalmed by the scorching heat through countless ages. It is surely the nearest to a little hell upon earth that the whole wicked world can produce."

I stayed the night at Furnace Creek, got a good night's sleep and wandered out to the start line around 8:00am, fully rested and pretty much ready to go, although I still had some lingering soreness from the previous weekend. Our RD gave a long-winded introduction until everyone was really there, gave us our directions, then started the marathoners (10K'ers and Half Marathoners would start ten minutes later).

As we got underway, the mercury read about 50 Fahrenheit, and would not exceed 70 during the race, which was quite comfortable, though the air was very dry. The group spread out gradually in the first mile or two, and by mile three, a line of runners stretched their way along the shoulder of CA-190. No road closures for us, but the traffic was exceedingly light and what cars did come our way usually pulled into the opposite lane.

I quickly realized that this race would not offer any distractions in terms of scenery. We were in the desert, and although there is something undeniably powerful about the starkness of the landscape, it does not let your mind wander. I worried that with nothing to distract me, bad thoughts would bounce around my head as I got more and more tired and drag me down. I focused on staying positive, listening to my body and sticking to my game plan.

The mileage was marked in tape on the highway in both directions since we were running an out-and-back. This meant we could both see how far we had run and how far we had to go at regular intervals. Aid stations were every three miles with the basics, water and sports drink. Other than that, all we could do was settle in and start working through the early miles of the race.

I was struck by the visibility afforded by the emptiness of the desert and the straightness of the road. I kept track with my Garmin GPS watch, and I'd say on average, you could make out points of interest at least 1.5 miles out. Rather than get upset by running towards things that seemed so near yet so far, I found it oddly relaxing to know where everything was, be it the next runner ahead of me, or the next porta-potty. No surprises.

The rigorous spacing between aid stations also made any mileage-arithmetic easy. I had three gels with me and decided to take them at alternate water stops (i.e., mile 6, 12, and 6 on the return leg). This approach helped me mentally by dividing the race into about four 6-mile chunks. The symmetry was very calming.

In the second quarter of the race, I realized I had misjudged my liquid intake before the start and felt the call of nature quite strongly. I spent some time debating myself on whether I could hold it until the finish, then decided I'd rather lose the time than be in discomfort for two more hours. So at mile 12, I hit the porta-potty, timed myself at 40 seconds, then popped out to find two runners had overtaken me. Rather than get down on myself, I just felt "relieved" and losing two spots didn't bother me at all. As the turnaround neared, I found myself in place 13.

Full of enthusiasm, I jumped on the "X" that marked the turnaround, started back, and realized why everyone who'd run opposite of me had looked strained - it was a little windy, and a little uphill. I dug in and got ready for some real work as I motored back up the road at a steady pace.

The worry I'd had about bad thoughts proved unfounded. Something about the desert leached all thoughts from my head, until I was nearing a meditative state, my feet pounding the asphalt like a metronome. Some people say they like to run because they can think - for me, it's the opposite. I can't think because everything is forced out of my mind but the running, and that's the way I like it. The silence and asceticism of Death Valley amplified this phenomenon, and soon I was focused on the race like I had never been before, almost in trance. It was quite an experience.

I hit The Wall lightly around mile 17, but I think because I was still tired from the Quadruple Dipsea, I couldn't thrash myself like I might have otherwise, and I was as comfortable as one can be in a 26 mile footrace. I was passed once, but managed to pass two other runners (one had back trouble, the other was just in trouble), leaving me in 12th place, which is where I would finish the race.

By the time I hit the slightly rolling terrain which signaled the approach of Furnace Creek, I came out of the zone I'd been in and started thinking about Vegas, where I was headed for the night. And then finally, like an Oasis, I spotted Furnace Creek, though still almost two miles away. I checked my back for pursuers, found it clear, and rolled on down the road, crossing the finish in 3:14. No complaints from this runner.

Posted by Michael at 9:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

You know you've crossed some line in the sand when you enter a race named the "Quadruple" anything. Just last year, I saw a short report in the news about the race and though "that's nuts". Yet today, it made perfect sense. I had run the Dipsea and Double Dipsea in June. Clearly, I had to complete the trifecta and do the Quad Dipsea also.

Unlike the other two of the trio, this race was not handicapped, so the entire pack lined up on Throckmorton, eager to kick things off. I looked around and saw many intimidating race shirts: Hard Rock 100, American River 50, tons of Way Too Cool 50K, a Leadville 100. Uh-oh! I placed myself in the third quarter of the field while the RD announced something that was inaudible over the din of the crowd. Soon enough, everyone started moving.

The start was certainly crowded as the pack of around 250 ascended the 671 stairs leading out of Mill Valley. The weather was perfectly cool, although a little foggy, and the chatter from the start soon stopped. The Quad Dipsea features around 9,500' total elevation gain, and I too was concentrating on getting my trail legs under me. Unfortunately, they had deserted me early, and I found myself with calves hard as wood, even though I had tried to stretch them out before the race.

Quickly, I was relegated to mixing power-walking in with my running, and my pace was all over the map. My legs just would not warm up properly, and I felt I was running well below an appropriate speed. I didn't get too upset though, figuring any energy I saved would find use later on.

I spent most of the first leg around a shirtless older man who smelled like a moose and ran like a machine. He would consistently move up and down the hills around Mount Tamalpais, while I surged forward, then fell back, then surged forward again. My downhills legs weren't much better than my uphill ones, and at the turnaround point I wondered what kind of race I was going to have. Certainly I hadn't started out too well.

Returning to Mill Valley, I noticed my calves had finally loosened, not that it helped much on the brutally steep climb out of Stinson Beach. I kept myself occupied checking out the opposite-side traffic, and was astounded by the different types of people out on the course. A heavily tattooed and pierced woman with crazily dyed hair, a man with a beard halfway down his chest, prim older ladies, a Japanese woman wearing a cap with ear flaps. All across the board!

Having rid myself of the moose-smelling running machine, I entered Mill Valley and negotiated the stairs down, not an easy task at all. Concrete steps, wooden steps, concrete steps with wooden trim, stone steps... all of varying depths, widths and heights. Finally I reached the start/half-way point, and in light of the nice weather, changed into a tank top from my short sleeved shirt. This would pay off nicely.

Trying not to think about the distance left, I hopped back on the stair-stepper out of town. Progress was getting tough, but I just kept on plugging away, now facing a more stretched out trail of racers still on their second leg, and recognizing the many faces again (pierced woman... Auburn Running Company person... etc.)

My race position didn't change much, although I did catch up to a man with whom I talked a while. Unfortunately, he was hurting more than I was, and I dropped him just before we crested Cardiac Hill the second time. I found I still had trouble running downhill, but I did my best as waves of runners ascended the hills, already on the final leg. The leader was blowing the rest of them out of the water, but some of the chase pack was bunched together fairly tight. I recognized the winner of a 50K I had run in October, as well as some other faces that seemed familiar. Due to the double out-and-back nature of this race, everyone spent a lot of time "good job"-ing and "keep it up"-ing one another.

Once I hit Stinson Beach, I made a quick aid-station stop and headed back for the grand finale. Munching on a peanut butter sandwich while scarfing down MnM's, I caught and passed a lady who had overtaken me on the way down and was fumbling with her gear. All for naught, though, as she smoked me shortly after.

All in all though, I felt pretty good given the distance I had run. Clearly, my slow first leg had left more gas in the tank than I thought I'd have. I made sure to try and burn that gas, and moved fairly well on the uphill part towards Cardiac.

Everything came together for me shortly after descending Hogsback, though. The course was slightly downhill for two or three miles - not so much that it became technical, but just enough that it was a challenge for the quads. Ignoring the pain in my feet, I shot down this section like a bat out of hell (ok - relatively speaking). Rarely have I been able to let myself go on a downhill like that, and despite the discomfort, I was pleased with my speed. I managed to lose an Eastern European woman who had been hanging around me the entire race.

When the time came for some of the final uphills, I attacked them with more energy than I expected, running for longer stretches than I had on the first return to Mill Valley. And it paid off, as shortly before the top of the crazy stairs, I caught and passed two other runners.

I made my way down the stairs as quickly as I could, which was fairly dangerous. One misstep, and you could pretty much roll down to the finish line. I stayed on my feet all the way though, and finished in 5:23, a time I am pleased with. Especially considering how I started the race.

Two Ibuprofin, and a four-bag-of-ice bath later, I am ready to close the book on my 2008 trail running. I am hoping for a quick recovery, since I am signed up for the Death Valley Marathon in seven days. Another plan which looked better on paper than in action.

Posted by Michael at 4:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I've gone international! Despite a harrowing experience with travel and jet lag last April in Boston, I wanted to run a marathon back in Europe, or Germany specifically. This race was just seven weeks after a particularly brutal flame-out in San Francisco, and five weeks after a freezing cold mountain race. Too much? Perhaps, but compared to those events, this marathon was as easy as they come.

All my fears regarding the time adjustment proved to be just that, fears. I slept great! As well as I ever have before a marathon, a solid eight one-half hours, and felt awake and alert as I headed out to the start. The start was as close as I have ever been to a start, just ten minutes walk. No busses to take. What a nice change.

The weather was perfect. Cloudy, overcast and cool. It was all coming together, and once we got going, I found a fairly fast, yet comfortable pace to start. I was shooting for a 3:00 hour finish, which I thought was attainable given the very flat course.

I had some trouble with congestion. Streets in Europe are narrow! I was crowded in the group around the 2:59 pace setter (who carried a balloon instead of a sign), and after someone stepped on my foot, I shot out ahead to get some space.

After some time in the city of Karlsruhe, the course took us along some rural hiking and biking paths. I realized I was going too fast, but didn't slow down too much. I wanted to push things a little, but shortly before the half-way point, the yellow balloon caught me, and I knew 3:00 was not going to happen.

As the second half unfolded, I was caught by surprise at a couple of climbs onto overpasses we had to do, as well as some stretches of gravelly road, so it wasn't all a cake walk. Also, I wouldn't recommend running on cobblestones after 22 miles; that was extremely uncomfortable. The race highlight in this half was a tour of the Schlosspark, the tourist attraction of the city.

Crowds were out and about, cheering us on. I was quite impressed by the turnout actually, but all their encouragement couldn't keep me from slowing significantly during the last 10km, after what felt like a strong 20-30km stretch. I still felt like I was moving pretty fast (nothing like the disaster of San Francisco), and only one person overtook me in that stretch, as far as I can remember.

I finished in 3:05, which left me feeling a little disappointed after everything had gone right, from sleep to preparation to race pacing. But I guess that's all I had in me for this race. I am looking forward to the winter in California, where the quality of my training might go up without the energy-sapping heat I endured over the summer.

The finish area had free beer, so that was my isotonic drink of choice as I waited for my legs to recover enough to be usable and carry me back to my hotel. I'll need a couple of days to reflect on all that went right today, and see if I can apply any lessons to future races. But right now, I think I hear a couple of German bottles of beer calling my name.

Posted by Michael at 6:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I want to write a little entry about the Pikes Peak Ascent, which I ran on Saturday, but I am having trouble because words can't really do it justice. I am thinking of phrases and comparisons ("getting sucked through a jet engine... falling into an ice cream maker...") but nothing can truly convey the extreme conditions of this race. I'll try anyway.

Even on the best of days, Pikes Peak is not supposed to be easy, with the long climb, oxygen deprivation and volatile weather all part of the reason entry slots fill out faster than Obama fundraisers. But this year, weather took center stage.

I found myself at a rainy, 50F starting line in Manitou Springs debating what to wear. In the end, I opted for my complete winter gear... my complete, California, winter gear. So I started in shorts, a long sleeve shirt and a short sleeve shirt over it, while carrying along gloves and ear muffs. This would be woefully inadequate for what was to come.

The first several miles of the course are the steepest, but I found myself moving very well, running probably 80% of the time and making good progress. The middle miles flattened out a little, but continued an upward trend. Around 9,500', I found myself walking more than running, and getting passed a lot. This phenomenon lasted until about 10,500', where I either fell back into my appropriate pace group, or the oxygen deprivation caught up to everyone else.

Two things of significance I need to mention: the rain was intermittent, and although I was not soaked, I'd say I was wet. The other thing, I encountered a runner who was descending from the top. Everybody was wondering, what is he doing? Well, we'd find out.

A-Frame is the name of the final aid station, which is located roughly three miles and 2,000' from the finish. It is significant because this is also "tree line" -- the elevation above which trees stop growing. As I approached the station, I heard someone calling out that this was A-Frame, water on the right etc. and if it got too cold, to turn around and come back. I thought the last part was a joke, but then two other people called out the same thing. No joke!

Three miles, 2,000'. That's all that was left. But in the same way sometimes those last six miles in a marathon are the heart of a race, I don't think anyone who was out there is going to remember much of the first 10 miles of the 2008 Pikes Peak Ascent. This is what happened after tree line:

First of all, the temperature dropped. The number I heard was 29F. Next, the wind picked up since there were no trees to impede it anymore. That number was 20MPH, which doesn't sound too bad, until you remember that everyone was wet. The terrain turned into gravelly single-track through a boulder field. Visibility dropped, as we were basically in a cloud. The precipitation was at times sleet, small hail and later snow.

I'm not sure what to say. Words really can't do it justice. I read that paragraph, it sounds like mildly unpleasant weather.

The first of the three miles after A-Frame was possibly the most miserable in terms of the precipitation. A number of times I heard people shout out in pain when the wind hit us and blew the sleet and hail into our faces like shrapnel. It hurt like the devil. One wind blast caught me across the neck, and it was a searing pain until the area went numb a couple of seconds later.

Speaking of numb, there was good news and bad news regarding my hands. The good news was, I lost all feeling in both hands from the knuckles outwards. The bad news, from the knuckles in it was so cold it, ironically, burned. My runners' gloves might as well have been toilet paper. I transferred my water bottle to the crook of my arm in an effort to keep my hands close to my chest for warmth, but it didn't help much.

Second mile after A-Frame, it started to thunder, though nobody ever did see lightning. Now this was truly frightening, because there was no cover at all to be found. At this point, I would have pulled myself from the race if there had been a viable option to do so. Unfortunately, there were only two ways off the mountain: run to the summit or run back to Manitou. There was quite literally no way to drop out.

I knew my core temperature was dropping and did my best to keep moving, but everyone was basically speed hiking. The sleet/snow had begun to cling to the rocks, although I can't say the footing ever got really treacherous. One guy fell down and didn't move for a good 10 seconds, and had to be helped back to his feet before he could continue. Despite the lack of oxygen, my legs felt fairly strong and I was able to keep moving. I was extremely uncomfortable, but my main worries were the thunderstorm and my fingers, which I thought might be getting frostbitten. Interestingly, although my feet were soaked, my legs were bare and my torso was wet, none of those parts approached the level of cold I felt (or not) in my hands and face.

I never did see the "one mile to go" marker, and I wondered if I was losing my sense of distance because of the altitude or cold. Luckily, I only missed it. And lo and behold, there were volunteers on the course that had descended from the summit. Wrapped in winter gear like mummies, they were handing out plastic bags, which I promptly wrapped myself in and created a way to insulate body heat. It made a noticeable difference to my hands.

That last mile the precipitation picked up again, but it took the form of snow, which didn't hurt as much. The visibility and footing got as bad as it was going to get, meanwhile. At one point, a volunteer told us we had a third of a mile to go, and I almost started crying. The finish line popped up out of almost nowhere, and I have never in my life been so excited to see the end of a race. I have some race T-Shirts that say "I survived" or "survivor", but I felt it was true in this case.

The carnage was spectacular. Only 460 of 1,900 registered racers finished the Ascent, as many people were turned back at A-Frame when the weather worsened. 80 of those finishers, about 1 in 11, were treated for hypothermia. The little hut where runners put on their sweats looked like an epileptic convention, as everyone was trying to untie knots (iced over, too) in their bags while shaking uncontrollably. My body didn't stop shivering until about 45 minutes after getting in the van that would start us down towards Manitou.

There's a fine line between a challenge and outright danger, and I think I crossed it last weekend. The problem was compounded by my poor preparation. I know now that I should have bought, and brought, actual winter gear for the race. I don't think the chances of becoming seriously hypothermic, or being blown off the mountain by a stray lightning bolt were all that high, but I think the chances were too high for a voluntary event like this. In terms of preparation: at least now I know better.

Once back in Manitou, I heard about the effective race cancellation and watched many very glum folks jogging back into town, having completed a 20 mile out-and-back to A-Frame instead of the Pikes Peak Ascent.

I'd say at least I have a good story to tell, but it's not really, because, again, words cannot... they cannot... convey how bad it was up there.

Some further reading:
Storm pushes many Ascent runners back down
Peak throws all its tricks at Ascent runners
Blog post with summit pictures

Posted by Michael at 7:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

The National Weather Service San Francisco Bay Area Has Issued A Heat Advisory...Which Is In Effect From 12 PM To 8 PM PDT Saturday.

Another Hot Day Is Expected Saturday Following A Very Warm Night Tonight. A Very Warm Airmass Has Settled Over The Region And This Combined With Weak Offshore Flow Has Lead To Record High Temperatures Near The Coast Today. Highs Tomorrow May Approach Record Levels Again Especially Inland.

Darn!

This was the news that greeted me the evening before I was to run the Double Dipsea. The Double Dipsea is a trail race that is perfectly described by its name, as long as you are familiar with the (single) Dipsea, which I had run two weeks before.

The morning of the race, I made my way to Stinson Beach, which is in itself quite an adventure once you cross the Golden Gate. Let's just say CA-1 is a highway in name only; I almost made myself sick navigating the twisty, curvy and steep road in Marin County. I arrived just before 8am, picked up my race bib, goodie bag and finishers' T-Shirt (bad karma!), only to realize my start time was 9:22am. After watching the first waves go out, I sauntered back to my car and read a magazine with the door open. Even right on the beach, the temp was around 75F. It was going to be a scorcher.

The race kicks off with a wicked climb to the top of "Insult Hill". The real problem of course wasn't the incline, or even the length of the ascent, but the heat. We alternated short stints on the asphalt road with longer sections of very dusty single track. I wasn't wearing a watch, so it felt like it took forever to reach Insult, where the first aid station was. Already I was drenched in sweat and had nearly drained my water bottle. Thankfully, the volunteers were prepared for the heat and had ample fluids available as well as buckets of water with which to sponge down the runners. I took advantage of this amenity, and it made a huge difference.

After leaving the aid station, running a downhill kicked up so much dust I could barely see the ground in front of me. Then suddenly my vision went out of focus and I realized all the dust in the air must be drying out my contacts! I blinked a couple of times and my focus came back, not that it helped too much. The descent was followed by a gentler climb to the high point of the course.

At this point, the course enters a more wooded, covered area, much to the relief of everyone, I think. I still felt pretty strong and managed to make up some time (and places) after having started in the scratch group again. Unlike the original Dipsea, I had enough room to run freely. As we approached Mill Valley, the course rolled a little but remained mainly downhill.

I remembered much of the course from my adventure two weeks before. As we hit Mill Valley, the really interesting part of the race began. Those famous 671 steps? Yeah... now we had to run down them, which was an exercise in mental concentration, not physical prowess. Because those steps, they came in all shapes and sizes. Concrete steps... wooden steps... stone steps. Wide... narrow... deep... shallow. I played it safe, hopping down one at a time, especially as we hit an area that was bathed in shadows, which made it really difficult to see. And just when I thought things couldn't get more complicated, I got showered by a wayward sprinkler from a nearby residence. Boy, they need to adjust that thing, I thought. Looking up, I discovered a friendly resident was using her garden hose to keep us cool. Neat!

The half-way point had an aid station. I got another sponge bath, filled up the bottle and made my way back out of town, only to discover, on the 671-step-Mill-Valley-stair-stepper, that my quads were a little tired. The friendly neighborhood resident was still giving us showers, and another runner promised "We'll be by later for Margeritas!" She did have an interesting house, perched as it was in the steep hill and right over the Dipsea course. Can't imagine what it would be like to live out there.

Once out of Mill Valley, a long, long climb out to "Dynamite" and the high-point of the course awaited us. It was over this stretch that the Dipsea Course, finally, maybe inevitably, broke my spirit. The shade was nice, of course, but it was still so hot that I was panting like a dog, and soon I had to start mixing in some walking. I had lots of company, of course, and the irony of it was that we were still passing other runners and getting passed, albeit while moving at a snail's pace. At some points, say upon coming to a particular high rock to climb onto, it was all I could do to make my leg straighten.

I abandoned sponge baths and moved straight on to the fire-hose-drenching at the aid stations. My shirt was soon off my back and wrapped around my hand, not something I'm prone to do, but it was just so... so... hot. In terms of race position, I had stopped really making any progress since leaving Mill Valley, but I wasn't complaining. In particular, there was one guy I followed almost the entire second half of the course. Everyone was hurting.

Cresting the high point, we began our descent back down to Stinson Beach. Exposed though we were to the sunlight, at least the downhill kept everyone cool, and I shudder to think what type of carnage a climb like the one at the beginning of the race would have caused. Seeing the ocean only a mile or so in the distance was a welcome sight, and as I dropped down towards the finish, I tried to keep my pace up. I was almost upended by a sneaky root, but I ended up running the race completely on my feet, and none of it on my knees or rear-end (like some other folks I'd seen).

Finally, the finish line was in sight. I checked my back to find someone running hard maybe 20 yards back, but I kept him at bay and finished in about 2:25.

After downing copious amounts of food at the aid station, washing myself down with Tecnu and checking my sunburn -- I got burned to a crisp -- I hobbled over to the beach. Unlike the Double Dipsea, the Pacific Ocean was cold, and I bathed my calves in the icy water as long as I could stand it. All in all, another race well worth the effort. Say what you will, a trail race is never boring, even when it's like running in an oven.

Luckily, the Quad Dipsea is in November.

Posted by Michael at 10:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by.
- Robert Frost

At times, you find yourself in situations you never would have anticipated. Picture this: you come to a fork in the path. The left trail is marked "Suicide". The right one dubiously claims "Safer".

In a nutshell, this is the Dipsea Race, a helter-skelter, reckless free-for-all through the Marin hills, starting at Mill Valley and ending at Stinson Beach. Clocking in around seven miles in distance, it nevertheless boasts 2,200 feet of elevation change. First run in 1905, it has accumulated many peculiarities over the years.

For instance, in this day and age of internet registration and credit cards, the only way to get into the Dipsea Race is to mail in an entry form with a check. If you're not in the invitational section, entries are accepted on a first-come, first-served basis, and due to the race's popularity, you'd better get your snail-mail out as soon as the entry form becomes available (this, interestingly enough, is in fact an online download).

Then, the race has a staggered start. Big deal, you might say, many races do this nowadays. Sure, but how many have the slower runners go first, and the faster runners go last? In fact, the staggered start isn't designed to help spread the runners out; its purpose is to give young and old, men and women an equal chance at winning the race. It is a handicapping system intended to level the playing field. In the process, it turns the trails into a crowded, NASCAR-like experience, but that's the price you pay for equality.

The system starts all the invitational runners first, then works its way through the open field. Not knowing this, I arrived way too early and got to watch the very first old geezers start (three of them, and I use the term geezers respectfully; you would too if you'd seen them). Most of the rest of the 1,500 strong field followed suit, one minute at a time. This was a distressing experience, since each and every man, woman and child starting ahead of me was building up a huge lead that I would have to overcome. The only way to get into the invitational section is to finish in the first half of the race. Which, as I strolled up to the starting line, was already half-way up the mountains.

I was, in fact, in the very very last group. The announcer looked the sorry-looking bunch of us up and down and said "You'll have to pass about 700 runners to get into the invitational section next year. That's about 100 per mile. It's been done before. Your 2008 Dipsea Race starts in two... one... now!" I looked down at my bib, marked with the letters "SCR", for "scratch", as in scratch group, no head-start. It might as well have been marked "FCKD", because that's what I was.

The race started off on Mill Valley asphalt streets, and I questioned my decision to wear trail shoes. Where were the trails? After approximately a quarter of a mile we began our climb of the 671 steps leading up to the Marin hills. At the base of these steps is where I caught the first of my many passees. In fact, I felt like I caught up with all of them, as the climb was narrow and crowded. We were soon forced to walk, but I managed to force my way by a couple of people. Their labored breathing was music to my ears, since I was still quite comfortable. With any luck, many more of the runners up ahead of me would be having difficulties.

It was, in fact, a surreal experience to climb the first little bit of trail, leaving almost everyone else in the dust. I hadn't achieved some new level of fitness, but in comparison to the back-of-the-packers, I was Speedy Gonzales. At least, until we started our first descent. It was at this point that I was faced with the "Suicide" / "Safer" choice. I committed (to) suicide.

The trail turned into a stomach-dropping, narrow and dusty plunge into a little valley. Runners blew by me with panicked yells of "On your left!" I marvel at the skill, courage and strength of these trail runners. Downhill running is a discipline I still need to master. Or just advance a little in.

Luckily for me, Suicide was followed by an initial steep climb (known as "Dynamite"), then an interminable, long ascent to the highest point of the course. I found myself stuck in traffic, but managed my energy wisely and passed when I could. A mile into this second climb, I found enough room to run freely. Another peculiarity of the course is that runners are allowed to take any and all shortcuts that they want to. Actually, that's not entirely true: there are exceptions that will get you disqualified. Nevertheless, I followed a group of runners onto a parallel path which may not have been the shortest route, but was definitely less crowded. Things were going well, and I managed to keep running all the way to the top. At one point, a runner explained "This is Cardiac Hill", but even that was soon conquered, and we began a long descent to the beach and the finish line.

Halfway down, another fork appeared, this time allowing us to choose between "The Swoop" and "Safer". Once again, I opted against the safer route, only to find that The Swoop was just as bad as Suicide. I managed not to fall down, but others did, and I was amazed at the many runners covered in dirt and blood. This is not a race for the timid!

The Swoop was followed by "Insult", a final climb and flip-of-the-finger to us runners. Once mastered, a long stairway (interrupted by sections on road) led us into the finishing straight. I found myself left with lots of strength and sprinted past a final couple of runners, finishing so quickly I forgot to check the clock. Since I was not wearing a watch, I am not sure how I did, but from conferring with other runners, I might have been in the 1:10-1:15 range. The real question, of course, is how I placed. I could not possibly have less of a clue.

Not having any reason to linger, I climbed into a shuttle that took us back to Mill Valley. Unlike another big-name race I ran this year (*cough* Boston *cough*), this one lived up to its billing. I do anticipate another excursion to the post office next year in April, to get another crack at passing 700-plus runners.

Posted by Michael at 2:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

The story of my race weekend starts on Friday afternoon, as I sauntered through the B2B expo, picking up my T-Shirt and buying a new pair of running shorts. On a whim, I also purchased a mug from the 2006 race for $5. Along with my commemorative timing chip (forced on all entrants), I thought I made out pretty well.

Then I got home to find a package waiting for me. I went through a mental checklist (did I order anything... bodybuilding.com? No. amazon.com? No. zombierunner.com? No.) What could it be? Turned out it was a Boston Marathon windbreaker. I had sent an email two weeks ago asking if there was any way for me to exchange the large shirt I had ended up with at their expo, because they had run out of medium. In true New England fashion, they had been short on communication (no reply), but came through with action. Neat little jacket; AND I still have the shirt I got in Boston, which I might be able to use as a spinnaker.

Then, today, I capped things off (no pun intended) with a runner's cap that was given to the first 500 finishers. Oh right, there was a race...

Third time at Bay to Breakers for me, and I've got my routine down pat. I got to the front of the "mere-mortals" section about an hour before race start and let myself get squashed in like a sardine in a can as runners and walkers packed Howard Street. I saw my first naked guy around 7:10am; luckily, he wandered off, maybe scared away by the religious fanatics who stand line abreast every year, facing the crowds with cheerful signs that say things like "The wicked shall be tossed into hell and all the nations that forget God." Another sign had the word "Homosexual" on it, and I doubt it was an endorsement. These guys form a counterpoint to the rest of the race, of course. I find it fascinating every time.

Anyway, I found the race to be more crowded than last year, and I wasn't even able to retie my shoes before the start. Weaving in and out of the slow-pokes around me, I managed to hit a good speed after about half a mile, and was completely unencumbered by about 3.5 miles. Running for time like I was meant I missed most of the fun and costumes, although I did get glimpses of naked/scantily clad people, none of them welcome.

Hayes Street was as always a challenge, but I thought I timed my effort perfectly, and my legs turned to rubber only about 30 yards from the top. Luckily, rolling down the hill into Golden Gate Park allowed them to solidify again. I had crossed the mat in 18:06, on a 6:44 pace. So far, so good.

By the time I had reached the pan handle, I was in a group of runners who matched my pace. I tucked in behind one or two people when the breeze kicked up, but I felt really strong (just not too fast) as we moved west on JFK drive. This part of race is a little deceiving though, since it's mostly downhill. Of course I felt great! I also enjoyed getting away from the crowds and the hubbub, and got to appreciate the race for what it is, a challenging cross-city dash, through urban areas and a park, to the beach.

My finishing kick held off anyone who was still behind me, and I completed the race in 48:13 (6:28 pace), good for about 150th place and one of those running caps. How did I know my placing? Let me tell you, technology has come a long way. Shortly after the finish line, there were volunteers with "wands" ready to read your chip. The wand goes BEEP, the attached computer flashes, then a little machine prints out a small sticker with your time and place (overall, gender and division). This is all about 10 minutes after I cross the finish line.

After walking for about a quarter of an hour, I put in another easy three miles through the park (headed east this time) and rejoin the race, flumine adverso, around the pan handle. As I walk back to the BART station, I try to take in the some of the crazy goings on. Highlights include:

• Numerous scantily clad, intoxicated women of probably (hopefully?) questionable morals.
• A guy dressed as Anton Chigurh, complete with cattle gun
• People wearing colored boxes turning them into Pacman and those ghosts that chase him around. They re-enact the game all over the race course
• At least two pirate ships. Kudos to those guys for pushing those contraptions up (and down) the Hayes Street Hill
• Another completely naked guy, drunk to the point of incapacitation, and oiled up like an Italian sausage (whoah... again, no pun intended)
• A shopping cart dressed up as a space shuttle, with two gravity bongs attached. If you don't know what a gravity bong is, you haven't gone to college. Or you went to the wrong college
• Apropos bongs, I catch a number of whiffs of the green stuff
• Another float features a lady (see bullet one) who looks like she's being mounted by a large, four-legged furry animal they've built. Even I'm a little shocked by this

By the time I reach Market Street, I see the end of the procession, and it is not a pretty sight. The average BAC of the group has climbed steadily, people are peeing and puking in the streets, and it's just a huge mess in general. Homeless people are bringing up the rear, collecting discarded plastic bottles and aluminum cans for recycling. This kind of puts the damper on my mood.

No two ways about it, Bay to Breakers is an event like no other.

Posted by Michael at 10:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

A summary of my 2008 Boston Marathon, by keywords:

• Spent: how I felt at the starting line. The whole hassle of getting to SFO, taking a red-eye to Boston, finding the hotel, the pasta feed, the morning busses etc. just sucked a whole lot of energy out of me. Standing in my corral scant minutes before the gun fired was the first time I felt relaxed in two days.
• Loud: the crowd, from start to finish. In my life, I have never been bombarded by sound the way I was for those 26.2 miles.
• Crowds: I thought the 2007 CIM was full. Ha! Running a race with 25,000 other runners set me straight. I actually felt a little claustrophobic and trapped. No escape to the sides of the course because of the spectators. And then a horde of marathoners bearing down on me from behind. My only escape: the finish line in Boston!
• Heat: It might have only been in the 50's and 60's on the thermometer, but the massive number of runners (not to mention the crowd) generated enough heat to affect me. I was uncomfortable almost right from the start, though the temperature never became overwhelming.
• Rattled: that was me. Sleep-deprived, sluggish, jet-lagged, a little warm, stomach grumbling ominously, and then... the din from the crowd. It was too much for me, and in the early miles I found myself longing for some California single-track and a respite from the noise and stress of the event. I normally use the early miles to settle down and focus, but it was all I could do not to crawl under a table and curl into the fetal position.
• Pacing: non existent. My 5K paces (in min. per mile) over kilometers 5-40: 6:39, 6:43, 6:50, 7:01, 7:06, 7:36, 7:37 and 7:29. See a pattern?
• Wellesley: It was like a wall of sound from a quarter of a mile out. Deafening. Imagine about 200 yards of young, excited girls stacked 10-20 deep along the road, screaming their heads off and clanging cowbells. Now imagine running by them.
• Signs: "Kiss Me", "Kiss Me, I'm a Senior", "Kiss Me, I'm Female" and "Kiss Me, I'm Mormon" (all from the Wellesley girls).
• Aid: The marathon itself did a great job with the aid stations. Staggered left and right every mile or so, they had Gatorade and water at each. What was really neat, though, were the many "extra" aid stations provided enroute by who knows who. I guess everyone wanted to lend a hand.
• Boston Proper: Rolling into Boston itself was also a loud, loud moment in the race. And what had been a strong turnout up to that point was ratcheted up another notch. Seriously. People and people and people.
• Heartbreak Hill: overrated, but very cool to be running this infamous hill.
• Scary: a guy I saw at mile 24, unconscious, being lifted onto a stretcher. I saw what I found to be a large number of people walking or dropping out (there was another person at mile 25(!) I think the heat affected people more than they might have thought, and in retrospect I am glad I kept a watchful eye on my hydration along the way.
• Bland: the course. I was told the Boston race is "beautiful". I can say with full confidence that is bullshit. Exciting, yes. Steeped in history and tradition, true. But beauty? No way. Just Massachusetts suburbs and a plain old road leading into the city. I'll take *any* of the other marathons I've run over Boston in that regard.
• Organization: From getting bussed out to Hopkinton, to waiting in the athlete's village, to being herded into the starting corrals, to the course, its aid stations and the finish on Boylston St (chips, heat blanket, food, water, medal... medical), those guys have their you-know-what wired tight. All the volunteers were on a mission and ran as clean a race as I've seen.
• Trade: Anyone want to trade a Men's L shirt for a Men's M? By the time I got to the expo, they were all out of medium shirts. The only thing I can use the large for is a sail, or a hammock.

Posted by Michael at 3:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

In college, there was a phrase used in my fraternity to describe behavior for which there was no rational explanation: "It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time". Usually, this would apply to alcohol-fueled episodes of idiocy, like the time someone doused his hand in lighter fluid and lit it, or the unfortunate evening a brother dropped his pants in the middle of our off-campus house and urinated on the nice hardwood floor.

Two weeks ago, I had my moment of It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time when I registered for my first 50K, on a whim. I had run a 35K trail race two weeks before that and felt I could have probably gone longer, so I clicked the 50K option, punched in my credit card number and went about my business.

It wasn't until last night I started to freak out a little bit. 31 miles. On trails. What had I been thinking?

Well, I drove out to Skyline Ridge Open Preserve this morning just thinking about one step at a time (literally). The course would be a 23K out-and-back, followed by two 14K loops in succession. I tried to coast as much as I could on the first leg, which worked out really well actually. It got a little hilly, but I just stuck with an easy pace on inclines as well as flat sections. I reached the aid station at the turnaround feeling really fresh. Some mountain bikers were staring at us while we stocked up. "Is this a race?" "In theory," I answered. "Is this a benefit or are you just doing this for fun?" "It's just for fun," I replied, and made my way down the trail, feeling a little bit like a fool. It doesn't make sense on a rational level, but it's comforting to know I have lots of company in the pain-for-fun category.

On the way back, I think I went a little too hard, but I was fighting the wind. The scenery, incidentally, was spectacular. A perfect mix of pine forest and green California hills. At this point in the race, I was still enjoying the views.

Once returned to the starting point, I started in on the first of the 14K loops. It opened with a climb on a rocky single-track, then a small descent followed by a lot of running on bare, green hills. Of course, I was beginning to feel a little tired, and "taking it easy" was no longer the reason for my reduced pace. I wasn't wearing a watch, which I'd recommend for any scary long race. No need to freak out about miles remaining, or the time already spent running. It's also very Zen, somehow. How far have you run? How long have you run? None of that matters. What matters is that you keep running.

Well, or run/walking, hunched over, gasping for air. The views were still picturesque, in fact reminding me of the Black Forest a little bit (lots of pine trees) and making me homesick. Although a rattlesnake warning sign was distinctly California.

After finishing the first loop, I stocked up again (slice of PB&J -- best aid station *ever*) and started leg #3 before I could think about calling it a day. This was where I had a "bad patch", which was hardly unexpected after 37K. But between the pain in my leg muscles, the rocky climb and my nose running like a water faucet, I got a little worried about the remaining distance. I always tell myself, well, I can walk, but who wants to spend hours trekking on tired legs, getting overtaken constantly? Luckily, I managed to break through The Wall by the time I hit the last aid station and felt what I think of as "20 mile tired" the rest of the way.

I had my bottle filled with water and dropped in another Nuun tablet. These little suckers are loaded with electrolytes and also taste quite good. All in all, I felt about as well as you can running a long distance, and I think these tablets really helped me out. Between Nuun and lots of Cliff Shot Blocks (and a slice of PB&J!), I think my nutrition / hydration worked out perfectly.

On the way back, I ran at least as well as I had on my first loop, if not a little better. I had to walk some of the uphills, but I managed to move quite well on other parts of the course and even overtook another runner one or two miles from the finish. As I started the last descent, I heard someone approaching fast. Did my overtakee catch a second wind? No -- it was another runner who I remembered seeing before. I sped up and figured no way does he catch me, but I got smoked despite what should have been a really good pace (after 50 kilometers!) He finished a couple of seconds ahead of my 5 hour, 3 minute time.

I picked up a T-Shirt and a surprise bonus coaster before limping back to my car.

Apropos pictures, I saw Scott Dunlap out there today so I figure his blog will soon feature photos of the course on this magnificent day. If you live in the Bay Area, check out the photographs and ask yourself if this is a race you can afford to miss next year.

I feel beat up right now, but not nearly as bad as after a hard marathon. I was a little worried about all the little injuries I've been accumulating on my current training cycle, especially a bad right Achilles. Knock on wood, nothing seems to have failed catastrophically, but I'll have to check again tomorrow. If all's well, I'll be back into my normal schedule on Monday, having survived my It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time moment.

Posted by Michael at 5:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Third time's a charm.

Mile 1-13:
"Go!" shouted the MC, and like an old friend, the CIM course welcomed me back for another installment in the ongoing saga "How Fast Can I Run 26.2 Miles?" My pacing plan was exceedingly simple: stick to the 3:00 hour pace group like glue. I squeezed my way into the pack and tried to settle in for the first couple of miles. But it was crowded as hell, and when the first aid station popped up, I almost got run down by people trying to get to the volunteers. It was sheer pandemonium. I didn't even try to go for a drink.

So I made a decision, and a scant two miles into the race, I abandoned my pacing plan and accelerated away from the group.

Even so, the course was full, but I at least had enough room to run comfortably, and I even managed to get some liquids at the rest of the aid stations. I felt pretty relaxed, barely breaking a sweat in the first couple of miles. My focus was on getting through the first half with as little effort -- both mental and physical -- as possible. Thanks to the early downhill miles, and the cool temperatures, things were working out that way.

The clown from last year was back, as were other spectators. I got a good laugh when one runner found his girlfriend in the crowd, stopped, and gave her a big, exaggerated movie kiss, much to the delight of everyone around.

I started feeling a little tired around mile 10, but soon enough the halfway point appeared and I crossed the mat at 1:28:twenty-something. This left me a little over 90 minutes to complete the second half. I felt my pacing was spot on. Advanced Marathoning recommends nearly even splits, maybe 2% faster in the first half.

Miles 13-20:
So now, it's time to buckle down. It was actually noticeably windy, so I made sure to tuck in behind other runners. For some time, these were two men from some Sheriff's department. Later, I found my way behind a tall guy, running with what I assumed was his dad. Finally, I got caught by a large pack of runners, some of which appeared to be part of a running club called the Impalas.

As I think about it now, it was this pack that might have been the key to my whole race. As my legs got heavier, I was tempted to let myself fall back to the 3:00 hour pace group. After all, that was my original plan. But in all my past experiences, once a pace group catches you, it's very difficult to ratchet the speed back up to stick to them. So who knows what might have happened had I dropped back. Plus, with the wind, it would have been quite bad to be all alone on the course.

I worked very hard to stay with the pack. The promise to myself was, I would stick it out until mile 20, then run as best I still could. Like Gete Wami hanging on to Paula Radcliffe in NYC, I imagined I was attached with an elastic band. At times, it would stretch, but then I'd put in a hard quarter mile or so and catch back up.

Around mile 19, I got to talking to someone about San Ramon, which is where I work and he lives. I don't mind chatting in races, but he turned into quite the conversationalist. At first it didn't bother me, thinking I could use the (mental) break, but once I looked up a little past the 19 mile flag, I had lost the pack! Additionally, I was hitting the wall, and my hamstrings (which had started tightening around mile 17) really started hurting. Not much later, Mr. San Ramon left me in the dust, too. Was this the beginning of the end?

Mile 20-26.2:
I didn't let myself freak out. "Break through the wall," I told myself. In my thoughts, I gave myself two miles to get it back together. My Garmin GPS watch had quit on me once again, so I had no idea what my pace was. But I kept working through it, passing the CIM wall, then crossing the H street bridge.

I found then I had made it over the hump. My pack was up ahead, now also strewn to hell and back. Unfortunately, I knew I wasn't moving as fast as before, and wondered if it was only a matter of time until the 3:00 pace group would catch me. I gave myself a 50/50 chance at that 3:00 mark. But nothing for it but to keep picking them up and putting them down.

Not until I hit mile 23 did I know I had made it. I checked my expensive Garmin watch, which had turned back into a simple chronometer, and found I had about 24:20 to travel 3.2 miles. The math was simple, and I knew I had three 8:00 minute miles in me. I focused on moving efficiently, not necessarily as fast as I could, to make sure I didn't blow out a muscle.

Mile 24 arrived... and I had 16 minutes left! Around here, I caught up to Mr. San Ramon and gleefully announced "I'm back!" He was still chatty, but this time I left him behind and powered my way down J street.

As the crowds grew, I could taste the finish. Up ahead, a pale blue spec in the distance. Could it be? Yes! The 26 mile marker. I rounded the corner onto 8th, then left again into the Capitol Mall, and coasted down the finishing lane. I raised my arms (whether in victory or to say "No more! I give up!" I can't say) and crossed the finish line with 2:58:40 on the clock.

Posted by Michael at 9:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

"Deja Vu all over again", as Yogi Berra would have said. Some races can be totally different in subsequent years. This one, for me, a carbon copy of 2006. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but it takes most of the excitement out of it.

Initially, I had no designs on running the 2nd Rock 'n Roll Half Marathon in San Jose, instead planning on recovering (and catching my breath) after completing the Lake Tahoe Marathon. But by Wednesday of the week after Tahoe, I felt 100% recovered, since my legs hadn't been taxed nearly as much at altitude as would have been the case at sea level. So on Thursday I registered, thinking to take advantage of the fast, well organized race and go for a PR. It doesn't hurt that I can get to the start in 20 minutes by car.

Then, the following Friday morning I went running and somehow strained/tweaked/pulled my left Achilles. Stupid Murphy's Law. I took it as easy as I could the last 9 days before the race, because I am too cheap to not run in an event I've paid for. Injury be damned, I was going to go for it. Now that it's over (and I am OK) I can shake my head but it still seems risky to hammer out a hard run on a bad Achilles. If that tendon goes... not good.

I don't really have much to say about the race itself because it was identical to last year. Really. Even the bands were the same, and I figure if I keep coming to this race, in 5 years I might finally have heard at least one of their songs completely. As it is, it's just little snatches of music, unless the wind is right and you can hear them for longer.

My Garmin managed to keep track of me the entire race, so I promptly converted the output to GPX and plugged it into Google Earth for the below picture. As one can see, the course looks like a hyperactive ant crawled over a map of San Jose, but that's the course, for better or worse. I actually heard someone complain that the race had "too many turns". It's still the fastest course I've ever been on.

My heel held up fine until about the half-way point, at which point I started feeling some discomfort. I didn't let it slow me down, though. Racing can really change my priorities, and I just kept motoring on. By the time the 10 mile marker showed up, I figured I had a PR locked in, but made sure to push the pace as much as I could. Everyone around me had the same idea, but with the exception of one or two runners who had obviously really saved their strength, I kept up with the field around me.

Around this time, a man I think of as long-haired-surfer-dude showed up, as always easily recognizable by his locks flowing half-way down his tanned, shirtless torso. "You again!", I exclaimed (having seen him at a) 2006 SJ RnR, b) 2006 CIM, c) 2007 Morgan Hill 10K and d) 2007 SF Marathon). He joked that everyone always recognizes him, but he doesn't recognize them in turn!

With the finish nearing, I made myself stay mentally tough, having been overtaken in the home stretch the last two races. "Don't let anyone get ahead of you!", I thought, which is easier said than done as everyone started to accelerate. Rounding the final corner, me and a tall guy (= long legs) were outpacing the rest of the pack. He steadily sped up, and I opened the throttle in turn, until we were "flying" (relatively, that is... say a little under 5:00 min/mile pace) down the finishing lane. I had lost all semblance of control, legs gyrating widely, doing all I could to stave off that damn lanky guy, and finally, thank God, I dropped him about 10 yards out.

I did set a new PR (1:25:23), but I am much happier about having finished strongly, and relieved as hell that I didn't blow out my Achilles. I finished up the morning with breakfast with my parents, and was home before 12:00, a luxury for me on race days.

Will I be back next year? Hard to say... hopefully something changes by then, even if they just switch out some of the bands!

Posted by Michael at 8:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

I had to keep thinking about that nugget of wisdom from Rob de Castella, who said of the marathon: "If you feel bad at 10 miles, you're in trouble. If you feel bad at 20 miles, you're normal. If you don't feel bad at 26 miles, you're abnormal." OK, but what if you feel really bad at mile 4? Any pearls of wisdom there, Mister Smartypants?

I'm running south on Highway 89. I've lost all feeling in my hands and my face. And that's the good news. The bad news: My left hip socket feels like it has been filled with shards of glass. The pain there merges into the beginnings of a side stitch in my midsection. Off and on, I slip on the ice on the road, which stresses my hip and slows me down. But worst of all, someone's turned down the O₂ supply, and my 2-2, 2-1 breathing rhythm is barely sustaining my progress. I am four miles into a 26.2 mile race, and I can't help but think: "will this be my first DNF?"

A couple of hours earlier, I had woken from a broken sleep, opened the door of my motel room and found about an inch of snow on the ground. Surprise! I quickly packed a long-sleeve shirt (living in NorCal, this is the extent of my winter gear) and warmed myself up by scraping the ice off of my car's windshield. A short drive to the Horizon casino, and an hour-long bus ride around the east side of Lake Tahoe took me to the starting line in Tahoe City.

A thermometer announced the temperature as 35 degrees. All the runners huddled in a small area right next to the lake, stomping their feet in an effort to warm up. After hitting the porta-pottie (let me tell you, dropping your pants in near-freezing weather will wake you right up), I found the start-time approaching fast. I lined up near the front of the pack, and at 8:30am we were sent on our way by a shotgun blast. Lake Tahoe is a small marathon, and maybe 400-500 runners set off on their journey towards South Lake Tahoe.

Very heavy mist is wafting up off of the lake, almost as if a hungry mountain god is preparing breakfast and has turned on the burner under Tahoe, maybe to boil an egg. Apparently this phenomenon occurs when the lake is warmer than the surrounding air, as is the case this morning. It looks very strange, but soon trees separate us runners from the view.

The course follows Highway 89 south, and we alternate running on the northbound (lakeside) lane and the bike path. Early on, the bike path is quite icy, and it clearly slows everyone down. Luckily, the sun is shining strongly and an hour into the race, the ice is all gone. In the meantime, everyone does the best they can. Although there is less ice on the highway itself, there is another obstacle to contend with: cars. Even though the lane we're on is officially closed, vehicles keep showing up. As one of the race directors said at the start: "Don't play chicken with the cars. Because you'll be the chicken." Compared to the cell-phone-yakking, coffee-slurping, makeup-applying maniacs I see in San Jose, everyone is driving slowly and carefully, and the traffic turns out to be no problem at all.

We are surrounded by pine trees, and although the scenery is pretty, it doesn't change for the first 17 miles of the race. Maybe it's for the best, as I have to concentrate on breathing the thin mountain air. My hip loosens as I finally warm up, but there's nothing I can do about the oxygen. On the first downhill section of the course, I try to let myself roll down the hill but quickly have to stop myself as I start panting like a dog in 120-degree heat. There's nothing for it but to control the pace, and concentrate on breathing.

Nobody runs a marathon without expecting some sort of discomfort, but this is not what I had in mind. I can deal with burning muscles, with bad knees and hips, with heat or cold. But not getting the air I need is a particularly icky feeling, one I could do without. It feels a little like claustrophobia, or like someone has put a plastic bag over your head.

I am humbled by some of the other athletes out this morning. For one, my marathon is the last leg of the Tahoe Triple. As hard as it is for me, for others this is the third marathon in three days. Then, I pass two ultra-runners. These animals started their odyssey at midnight, traveling through hail and snow, a low of 24 degrees, and are completing the last 26 miles of their 76 mile journey over the same course I am complaining bitterly about to myself. I pass the second of the two, staring at him slack-jawed, and he actually encourages me, saying something like "good job". Wow.

Around mile 15, the course starts to change. The discomfort I've been enduring hasn't gotten better or worse so far... but that's about to change as a little sign warns us of the "Hill from Hell", and shows the elevation as 6,300'. (some pictures on Scott Dunlap's blog.) I've studied the course map, and what's coming is only a 400ft climb over two miles. This should be a blip on the radar. But once again, the high altitude strikes and attacking the little incline is really tough. My breathing turns into some sort of ragged, 1-1, just-sucking-for-wind thing but it keeps me running.

Little signs along the way inform us of our progress. The first one says "What... you were expecting a 'Get out of hell free' card?'". Soon, we've reached "Purgatory" and finally, "Heaven" at 6,700'. An aid station greets us at the top, but I feel curiously like I am either going to burst into tears, or hurl the contents of my stomach. The feeling follows me all the way to the finish, but I thankfully do neither.

The next section of the course takes us around Emerald Bay, and the view is quite spectacular. The sky is clear, visibility is unlimited and out in the distance we can spot the beach in South Lake Tahoe which is our ultimate goal. First, we descend again into the far recess of the Bay, which lets us take in the little island and Vikingsholm. The descent is followed by another climb, but it's the last one for the day. Around mile 20, we leave Emerald Bay and start a steep descent into more populated areas.

As we follow the switchbacks down, I feel like I am moving (relatively) fast, but am passed by another runner who I never see again. I have no idea of my speed because my Garmin watch called it quits just before mile 20. Still, I feel about as good as I am going to feel during this race. My legs aren't tired at all, which just goes to show that the bottleneck for me in this marathon was oxygen, not glycogen depletion.

With about three miles left, the course veers onto a section of walking paths near the lake. The course isn't marked well, and at least once I see a runner slow down and curse because he doesn't know where to go. All the trail racing I've done this summer has prepared me well, though, and I keep me eyes peeled for the painted arrows. Another runner passes me, but only manages to stay 10 yards ahead of me, and by the time we hit the 26 mile marker, I've caught up to him again.

There's a crowd of spectators, and my rabbit surges ahead again. I try to keep up, but at this point I don't have much left, either physically or mentally. I let the other guy go, content to just jog in, but he slows in turn, and we end up crossing the finish together, stride for stride, as the clock shows a time of 3:21.

Posted by Michael at 3:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

There's nothing quite like standing in the drizzly San Francisco fog at 5:30am on a Sunday morning, staring down the throat of a 26 mile footrace. The predominant thought in my mind was "what am I doing here?" The theory sounded great: run the marathon at an easy pace, treat it as a long training run.

Then reality came crashing down. Maybe some marathons can be "training runs", but not San Francisco, with its hills and wind. And only five days of tapering also sounded better in my head than in real life.

Nevertheless, when the starter sent off the second wave at 5:32, I shuffled my feet right along with everybody else. The first quarter of the race is the easiest, along the Embarcadero, through Fishermen's Wharf and out to the Marina. I fell into a comfortable pace around the 3:10 pace setter. I certainly felt capable of running faster, but didn't let myself get carried away.

Once we hit Crissy Field, the wind started blowing in off the ocean. I actually picked it up during this portion of the race, moving up the field from runner to runner in search of some cover. Soon, we started our climb up the hill to the Golden Gate Bridge, and that's when things started to deteriorate.

Besides the hills, and the incline of the bridge itself, the wind really picked up. My past experience has been that the subtly rolling terrain and the wind can really drain you if you're not careful. I let my pace drop back down, and a couple of people passed me, including a guy I had met at a trail race a couple of weeks ago. We talked briefly -- he was trying to BQ, but had thrown up the previous evening's meal at 2:00am. I was thinking, "that sucks, at least my stomach is holding up."

And of course, that's when my guts started to cramp up. I blamed the cold wind that was blowing right through my little shirt, but for the most part it wasn't too bad. I was hoping it would let up once we got off the bridge, and it did, although my problems came back on again, off again while we wound our way through the Presidio into Golden Gate Park. Shortly before that, the 3:10 pace group caught and passed me.

I was banking on the park being wind protected, but it wasn't really. I was tempted to make the time-swallowing pit stop, but kept putting it off in the hopes that things would improve. I definitely lost time whenever my stomach cramped, but it came and went in waves, so I tried to tough it out.

Finally, at mile 16, I had a particularly bad episode and decided to give in. I made my first pit stop during a race, ever, and looking on the bright side, I figure it's a valuable experience for future races. Maybe I should practice pit-stops the same way triathletes practice transitions? I figure I lost two to three minutes, but what the hell... not like I was going to PR. Not by a long shot.

Even afterwards, my guts didn't feel 100% but they made it through the rest of the race. Despite my fairly conservative pacing, I felt pretty tired by the time we left the park at mile 19. Unlike last year, when the last 10K of the race were just a (painful) blur, I took in the sights and sounds of Haight street, and even spotted a drag queen crossing the street. Vintage San Francisco.

The last part of the marathon is through some pretty decrepit parts of town, with some hills thrown in. I managed to keep running through it all, although going downhill proved to be tough on sore legs, as I remarked to another runner. It really is a difficult course: by the time you get some nice downhills, you can't take advantage of them.

I played a mental game, not letting myself count down the miles until I hit the 23rd mile marker. Almost there! The sight of the ball park sped me up, and by the time I caught my first glimpse of the Bay Bridge (which is where the finish is), I knew the end was near. As the crowds grew in the last half-mile, I found the strength to speed up a little bit and caught another runner about 100 yards out.

Final time: 3:17, my second worst marathon time ever (but still 8 minutes faster than my 2006 time). I found the guy trying to BQ at the finish line, and he hadn't made it. We agreed that San Francisco is a deceptively difficult marathon course.

I now have exactly six days to recover and put Humpty Dumpty together again before I jump right back into regular training with a 70 mile week.

Posted by Michael at 8:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

It was like a retirement party for my running shoes. Their last hurrah, so to speak, a way to go out in style. After 445 miles, taking me through a 10K PR, an encounter with a mountain lion and up Mount Diablo, these shoes have noticeably lost their cushioning and support. I figured a trail race in the Santa Cruz Mountains would be the perfect send-of into old-age (i.e.: only good for short recovery runs).

Of course, now they look like they should be taken out behind the barn and shot, like a lame horse.

(For those of you wondering, these shoes were sold to me in the color white)

What happened? Well, any trail run is going to leave a mark on your shoes. This one would be rougher because it had a river crossing in the middle. The river crossing is why I signed up, of course. These little gimmicks are all it takes to lure me in. River crossing -- cool, I'll do it! Like a co-worker who did a sprint triathlon called "See Jane Tri". Why did she do it? "I liked the name," she said.

The weather was cloudy and cool, perfect for running. Unfortunately, I sustained an injury within the first 200 yards of the event.

A bruised ego.

You see, I tripped over something (still don't know what) and fell flat on my face. And because it was so close to the start, there were plenty of people around to see it.

The course turned out to be fairly easy, mostly flat with only a few hills in the way. After about 5 clicks, we came to the crossing. Some people took off their shoes, but I just waded across. The water came up to my thighs and barely touched my running shorts. Actually a nice way to cool down. At the finish, one guy confessed to tripping and going for a swim!

Once on the other side, we had to climb a little (not too easy with waterlogged shoes), but by the time we were headed downhill again, my shoes were mostly dry. The course led us alongside a river to the only aid station on the course. After stocking up, everyone turned around. We 29K runners had a "lollipop" loop to run, which took us up another hill with an observation deck (nothing to see in the clouds) and right back to the aid station.

After stocking up again, we headed right back the way we came. The course became a little more crowded as many 21K runners were out and about. The second time I crossed the river, I collected enough stones in my shoes to start a rock garden. This go-around, almost everybody kept theirs on. Soon afterwards, we found our way back to the finish line.

One thing I like about trail running is that everyone has time for a chat. I spent time talking to two ultra-runners (they were doing the 50K) as well as another guy I had met at the start. It turned out he lived near where I work, and we chatted most of the return leg of the race. In retrospect, I wonder if I could have squeezed out another ounce or two of speed if I'd shut up, but I figure I'm "racing" for training, not for time. It was much more enjoyable that way anyhow.

After staying remarkably on-course for most of the race (I had my bacon saved by one guy early on!), I took the wrong turn trying to drive home, and lost time stuck in traffic when I doubled back. Lost Runner indeed -- I'm just the Lost Everything.

Posted by Michael at 2:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

On the drive back, I started thinking about the name of the race. Mount Diablo. Mount. Diablo. Two words that don't exactly conjure up happy thoughts in conjunction with running.

Certainly "Mount" is bad news -- I don't know if there's an official cutoff height for a hill to be designated a "Mount", but I do know I run hills all the time, and they can be bad enough. On the bright side, at least it wasn't high enough to be designated a Mountain. Is a Mount an adolescent Mountain? How does that work?

Then the word Diablo. Also not a happy thought. Why couldn't it have been "Mount Pleasant"? "Mount Angel"? The reference to the Devil reminds me of another formation, all the way across the country in Virginia, named The Devil's Marbleyard. I've hiked that, and it wasn't easy.

What was I thinking when I signed up? Mostly it's the fact that I can see Mount Diablo every time I walk out the door at work. There it is, beckoning. "Come on, run up me. I'm not very steep. It'll be fun! And the view is fantastic!" So I couldn't resist when I saw that my local trail run dealer, Pacific Coast Trail Runs, had a 25K race to the summit and back.

Did I say trail race? Well, that's how it started. Within about two miles, though, my calves were toasted and I went from trail racing, to trail running, to trail shuffling, to... hiking. I felt pretty pathetic, but most people around me spent a lot of time just walking, so I didn't feel too bad. The course was tough, as it was an almost uninterrupted uphill for the first half of the event. I forced myself to alternate 20 steps of running with 20 steps of walking to at least maintain an illusion of taking part in an athletic event.

We ended up at the very top of Mount Diablo, on the top level of the observation center. There was a spectacular view to the east and north (I swear I thought I could see Sacramento), but unfortunately the west was still shrouded in fog. I checked my watch. It had taken 1:40 to travel about 7.5 miles.

You'd think the way back would have been easier, but it was quite a pounding for the quads, as the course was almost continuously downhill. I decided to be a little careful (I almost fell twice even so) and didn't push the pace too much. About half the time we were running over the bare, brown California hills which afforded some nice views across the Bay Area.

I spent most of the last quarter of the race by myself, rolling down the hills and longing for the finish line. With about a mile to go, things finally flattened out and I tried to pick up the pace as well as I could. I picked off one guy, and caught up with a group of three just as we entered the finish area.

My time was about 2:50, and after eating some food, I made my way back to the car. I got a fright when I caught a look at myself in the mirror: My entire face was encrusted in salt, as it had been hot and I had been sweating buckets. I looked like a pretzel!

Pretzel or not, I'm happy I took on the Mount Diablo challenge -- but I am also happy to be sitting down right now.

Posted by Michael at 7:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

San Francisco's Bay to Breakers is a race that should be run at least once, and walked at least once. After having done both, I think walking is better than running.

Unlike last year though, none of my friends were doing the event, but I signed up anyway. It's one of those races you feel obligated to do if you live nearby. So, instead of sleeping in, I dragged myself out of bed at 5:10 and drove to Daly City, where I rode the BART in the rest of the way.

I was at the start about 50 minutes before the gun went off, which was fine. When a race is 45,000 runners strong, it doesn't hurt to be there early. I placed myself within the first hundred or so of the unseeded runners and waited patiently for things to get started.

A couple of minutes before 8:00, I looked behind me. Howard Street was packed all the way to the Bay with people, and dancing above the crowd were beach balls as well as a continuous rain of soft-shell tortillas people were using as Frisbees. I wish I'd had a camera. It looked like so much fun!

The women started first, followed by the rest. I can only imagine what it looks like when thousands of runners stream through the streets of San Francisco. Despite the crowds, I found running room in a reasonable time and was moving at "race pace" within half a mile or so.

There were many spectators around, some of them getting ready to "sneak into" the race. Bandits are an accepted norm at this event. I didn't see many people in costumes (or naked), and I assume those crazy people were far behind me.

It was fun to run right down the middle of San Francisco, in an area that's usually packed with cars. The infamous Hayes Street Hill around mile 2 had my legs feeling a little rubbery, but after having tackled a 500ft climb 10 miles into a marathon three weeks before, the 200ft there seemed like a minor obstacle.

After descending the hill, we entered Golden Gate Park, which is the setting for the last 3.5 miles of the race. Things really loosened up there, and I had room to run (what I thought was) a strong pace. This was the first time I had worn a heart-rate monitor in a race, and I was hovering around 170bpm, which is a good 15-20 beats more than in normal training. Of course, a level of exertion that would be unthinkable on normal runs feels comfortably hard in a race.

After mile 7, the course winds north, then curves right back around onto southbound Highway One at the ocean (the "breakers"). I found I still had a little gas in the tank and managed to speed up enough to pick off one runner a mere yards from the finish line. The clock showed 49:37, but thanks to chip timing (first time for Bay to Breakers), my official time is 49:07.

Posted by Michael at 11:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I hurt myself today /
To see if I still feel /
I focus on the pain /
The only thing that's real
-- Nine Inch Nails

I had this going around my head as I was running the Big Sur International Marathon two Sundays ago, for the obvious reason. How to sum up this race? Brutal, brutal, brutal. And beautiful.

Big Sur is a perfect race for me, the "Lost Runner". Why? It's impossible to screw up: The course is a straight shot north on Highway One. You couldn't get off the course if you wanted to! If you've ever driven the stretch from Big Sur to Carmel, you know that the views are spectacular. Majestic hills to the east, pounding Pacific surf to the west. The drive is a tourist attraction in and of itself. Which is why I think it's so cool they shut down a 26.2 mile section of road once a year to let runners and walkers alike enjoy it.

2:00am: Alarm goes off. I get up, get ready and jump in the car for the 1-hour drive south to Monterey. I've adjusted my sleep schedule the last few days so the early time is not as bad as it sounds -- I probably ended up with 5 1/2 hours of sleep.

4:15am: I board the bus for the start. I sit at the very back of the bus, which isn't packed completely full, and I end up with the bench all for myself. I promptly use my sweats as a pillow and get some shut-eye. The bus ride takes about 1 1/4 hours. Apparently driving the stretch isn't much fast than running it.

5:30am: General milling about at the start area. The place is packed (not meant to handle thousands of people), so I try to find a place to stand where I won't be in the way, but it's not possible. It's like being at a rock-concert, seriously. Except with no music.

6:45am: People get lined up. The national anthem is sung, a flock of white doves is released into the crisp morning air (awww), the starting gun sounds. We're off! I have placed myself too far downfield in the pack of runners and feel like an NFL tail-back picking his way through the secondary. I almost get knocked down, too, by a girl with some erratic moves. All's well, though, and I find open space within a half-mile or so.

Mile 3: Despite the initial downhill and the shade of the redwoods, I have some trouble with the slanted road surface. I am well below 7-minute mile pace, but am breathing quite comfortably. At this point, I discover a woman running in a one-piece bathing suit. Bizarre. She might have been a relay runner. Her motion was causing the suit to... err, creep up on her. And unless you're 21 or younger, this is not flattering. She's not 21.

Mile 5: We break out of the forest and find ourselves right on the coast. Despite the conditions being "optimal" for the Big Sur Marathon, the wind is blowing quite strongly from the north. I try to stay with a pack of runners, but only do so for short periods of time.

At this point, I discover I've screwed up my carbo-loading. To get to bed early, I ate my pasta meal around 4pm the previous day -- 13 hours back. I usually really gorge myself, but didn't that day because I was afraid of upsetting my stomach. Big mistake! My legs feel much more tired than they should, and I scale back my pace a bit, thinking: "This is going to be a battle."

Mile 10: The past miles have been windy and hilly, but know comes the "highlight" of the course, the two-mile, 500ft climb to "Hurricane Point". I find myself getting passed, but feel being conservative is warranted. The view is nice for a while, but soon we're shrouded in fog. The climb continues for a long time, but isn't really too bad in the end. It does suck some strength out of me. The crest of the hill is followed by a one-mile descent to the Bixby Bridge.

Mile 13.1: The runners cross Bixby Bridge. On the north side sits a grand piano played by a guy in tails! Not a combination you see everyday: A grand piano, the Pacific ocean, marathon runners.

Mile 15: The descent gives way to more hilliness. Even though the wind has died down at this point, my legs feel tired. Too tired -- more like 20 miles than 15 miles. I try to run a comfortable pace and to keep myself hydrated. At this point, we're still running right on the ocean. Besides the relay runners, 21-mile walkers are on the road. It's a little cluttered, but there's more than enough room for everybody if you're not intent on cutting every little corner.

Mile 17: I hit The Wall: My hamstrings tighten up and start to ache, and my pace slows some more. I feel like I should after 22 miles, not 17. I flashback to the San Francisco Marathon last summer, where my legs were so beat up I had to walk down the steepest hills sideways. Well, if worse comes to worse... not like I was going to PR on this course anyway.

Mile 18.6: My Garmin GPS watch hits The Wall, too: it's unable to find a signal and remains on the fritz for the duration of the event. Maybe it doesn't react well to traveling far away from its starting point? With the pace I'm running, I don't really care.

Mile 20: I pick up a GU (Espresso) at the aid station, and find that the pain in my legs has subsided. Am I through the wall? I hang on to the next person who passes me and find I am moving much better. I'm not going to break the land-speed record, but I at least feel like I am back running, as opposed to shuffling my feet down the course.

Mile 22: The highway has moved away from the water and back into a little bit of shelter. I see the sign proclaiming "Carmel Highlands". Not words you want to see in a marathon. Luckily, the highland hills aren't too high, although they are fairly steep. Worse though is the slant of the road; it seems I can literally feel my tendons stretching due to the unnatural motion.

Around this time, I get some funky vision and the colors around me seem too bright and vivid, like on an acid trip. Not a good sign. I make sure to load up on both water and gatorade at the next aid station, as well as a wedge of orange. Things seem OK after that.

10 and 5 mile walkers have joined the group, and the road is pretty full at this point.

Mile 26: What cruel course has a 90ft hill on the last mile? Well, Big Sur does. Christened "D-Minor Hill at D-Major Time", it's not a hill I'd avoid during normal training. But the timing of this is miserable. I crawl up the hillside, barely passing walkers.

Cresting the hill, the finish comes into view. I keep moving and somehow find the strength to put in a finishing kick for the last 20 yards or so, and cross the line in 3:14:10.

Continue reading "Big Sur International Marathon" »

Posted by Michael at 3:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

First time I've tried racing on two consecutive weekends... and I don't recommend it. Even taking it easy after my half-marathon, my legs felt like they were just coming around for race weekend. I had wanted to run this race in 2005 but was hurt. I went for it this year to make up for it, and because I hadn't run a 10K in almost two years.

The race being at the local school, we all had a chance to warm up on a track. I usually never warm up, but seeing how short the race was, I figured it couldn't hurt. After two or three laps I strolled the 50 yards down to the start, and soon the race was underway.

Once we were off, a bunch of youngsters blazed on ahead (damn kids!) and were soon out of reach. I ended up falling in with a lady who was running the same pace I was. Soon I passed her, but she passed me back. As we ran along the course, I started getting a little short of breath. Straining to stay close to her, I saw a sign up ahead. It came into focus, and I read... "Mile 1".

Uh-oh. Went out way too fast.

I backed off, and the lady pulled away easily. She ended up 1st OA female with a time of about 1 and a half minutes faster than me. I guess I have trouble judging the pace for a 10K race. After a first mile at 5:55 minute pace, I spent the rest of the race somewhere between 6:20 and 6:30.

The course was rural, and pretty deserted. Each turn was attended by a volunteer to ensure nobody got lost (perfect for me!) Besides a small number of cars on the street, I spent nearly the entire race from mile two to the finish by myself. I only passed one guy as well as two kids who were doing a 2K and felt obliged to high-five me as I went by.

I finished in 39:27, and I was pleased to have broken the 40-minute barrier. Despite my erratic pacing, I was within 10 seconds of the time predicted for me by a chart in Daniel's Running Formula (based on my half-marathon time). Those charts are eerily accurate.

Since the day was so nice I stuck around for the awards ceremony. I even ended up winning a door prize/raffle bottle of wine.

Posted by Michael at 10:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

And the winner for "Longest Title for a Race" is... the City of San Ramon! Congratulations, come on up!

It was good to get out and run a "real" race again. So far in 2007, I've been racing on trails. And my experience has been that those events are more of a survival struggle than competitive running. Which can be fun too, it's just different.

Luckily, I knew the course like the back of my hand, seeing how I work in San Ramon and do my long run there once or twice a month. In fact, I bet you could blindfold me and set me anywhere on the course, and I could tell you exactly where I was based on the grade and the feel of the pavement under my shoes.

I can also tell you that the course was not "fast". There were two significant climbs along the way, and most of the rest was rolling terrain.

I felt like I ran the race well. I mean, no pacing mistakes; I felt fairly strong most of the way, no aches or pains or anything. Yet inexplicably, I kept getting passed and I can't figure out why. It's not like I was running out of gas and slowing down. But every ten minutes or so, someone would stroll on by and I was incapable of hanging on.

The finish was on a straight downhill, and I could see the clock from far off. I thought I would manage a 1:26 time, but it wasn't to be. As I realized I wouldn't make it, I dropped a fairly loud f-bomb amidst many children with their parents, which caused some angry glares from the crowd.

I rolled on in at 1:27:08, and spent a long time trying to figure out if I had had a bad race or a good race. It felt like a good race, but the evidence -- an unspectacular time and the many people who passed me -- suggested otherwise. I've decided to write this one off as a "tie".

The winner -- who I had seen coast to a 100-yard lead within the first mile -- clocked in at 1:12. That is insanely fast! I placed third in my age group, so I ended the day with two medals: one for that, and one for just finishing. I also got an extra souvenir in the form of a blood blister on my left foot, which I could do without. I just hope it heals up fast enough for a 10K I am running next weekend.

Posted by Michael at 10:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

There's something wrong with my memory: I have trouble remembering pain. Surely it can't be genetic -- if my ancestors had been afflicted with this disease, they would have exterminated themselves well before procreation, perhaps by slamming their heads against a cave wall repeatedly because they had forgotten the discomfort this causes. Either way, this condition has landed me in many a pickle. It struck again this past Saturday as I found myself at the start of a 30K trail race a scant four weeks after another one had hobbled me for days afterwards.

Of course, one of the reasons I was back was the excellent race put on by Wendell and Sarah of Pacific Coast Trail Runs. Even though a couple hundred runners were milling about the start area, everything was under control with short lines for race number pickups (and bathrooms). Unlike other events where the nervous energy is like electricity in the air, everyone seemed entirely laid back and calm, looking forward to a little Saturday morning run. For some of these guys, "a little run" would be 50 kilometers.

Once we got going, I found out again about trail running. It's hard. Not only do you have to contend with the rough terrain, the courses are much hillier than your normal road race. Not long into the run, my calves were on fire and painfully tight. Soon I found myself getting passed by a bunch of people, especially on the downhills. I was astounded at how fast some of those guys run -- it looks like they're completely out of control, rolling down the steepest of inclines. Yet I saw nobody fall (although I found out later that at least two runners had twisted/sprained their ankles).

Humbled by the competition, I opted for a conservative pace, even walking up some of the steeper hills along the way. Mindful of my penchant for getting lost, I kept my eyes peeled for the pink ribbons that marked the course, and except for a brief 20-yard mistake (the runner behind me said "I didn't say anything because I couldn't believe you missed that turn!") I managed to stay on target.

Unfortunately, there were no really spectacular views along the way. Most of the race was in densely wooded areas, and at one point there was even a fully-grown bush on the trail that we had to force ourselves through. The real highlights were the aid stations that were stocked with all sorts of goodies ranging from trail mix, to sports drinks, to oranges and cantaloupes, to PB&J sandwiches all the way to Sprite and Coca-Cola.

Nearing the end of the race, I was taught the lesson in pain that I have forgotten over and over again as my hamstrings and calves tightened up and started to ache. I am not sure if it is glycogen depletion, lactic acid buildup or something else entirely, but it's no fun at all. Even though I was slowed by this, I managed to drop a lady who had been around me for most of the race, but who evidently was hurting more than I was. I ended up limping in at 2:55, well behind the winner (2:14!), a 52-year old man (2:45) and the female winner (2:43).

I gorged myself on the snacks around the finish and the complementary bowl of chili. As the pain dissipated, I caught myself wondering whether they would be putting on any other trail runs in the next couple of weeks. I hope eventually I'll learn -- but the lesson hasn't sunk in entirely yet.

Posted by Michael at 9:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This past weekend, I hit the trails for my first race of 2007. I signed up for the Pacifica 30K Trail Run in December, with the intention of keeping my mileage up in the meantime. Unfortunately, Christmas and general slacker-dom took over, and I showed up last Saturday in Pacifica crossing my fingers that I would have enough residual fitness left to complete the course. It's not like I had stopped running completely or anything.

The race was put on by a couple who organize events year round. They bill them as "Runs that aren't races in beautiful places", so I was hoping for a relaxed, casual run. Not so casual was the sign I noticed advertising that the 30K had a 4,100 foot total elevation gain. A little scary, but I told myself it was just a number (it would get personal soon though). In total, about 200 people showed up -- many of them running the shorter 9K and 21K distances, and some going for the full 50K.

The 30K course consisted of a 9K loop, an 11K out-and-back section, then the 9K loop run in reverse. Once clear of the congestion at the start, there was enough room to run, as the trails were well kept. I found myself climbing immediately to the top of one hill, then descending to a gravel trail. Non-competitive -- yeah right! There were people flying by me on the descent, and it felt a little like those dirt bike races you see on TV, with me as the unlucky competitor getting overtaken by everyone.

The gravel road was followed once again by hill, longer this time, at the bottom of which we were dumped out back where we started. I filled up my water bottle (newly bought the night before) and started in on the out-and-back part of the course. I ended up running much of that part with a 15-year old who was doing the 50K. Even though my calves were on fire, I found I wasn't really out of breath and managed to hold up my end of the conversation. The "kid" was a veteran of a 50 mile race, and was looking ahead to a 100 miler. I asked him if he was interested in doing the 'States 100, but apparently they have an age limit, so he can't go. He considered the 50K a smaller training race for the "real" races of 50 or more miles. Pretty impressive in my opinion.

The climb was brutal, but we were rewarded with some spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean and the forest. We were told at the start to "climb until we can't climb anymore", and we ended up at the highest point far and wide. According to the elevation profile, we were up at about 1,800 feet. Our organizers had placed a little sign at the turnaround which read "That was easy!" Hardly. But worth it.

On my way back down I started daydreaming. It was hard not to -- most difficult part of the course done, breathtaking scenery (pretty, and you could see for miles and miles!), still somewhat fresh. And so I missed a turnoff. I was so happy with myself as I rolled on down the wrong path (loosing feet and feet of elevation that I would have to earn back) that I noticed my mistake much later than I should have. Once I did, I started swearing like a sailor. All in all, I probably lost 10-15 minutes. Worse than that, I just felt like a fool.

Back at the start point, I contemplated calling it quits (after 21K), but the anger at my mistake pushed me on to complete the distance I signed up for. At this point, my legs had gone quite tired, but so it goes. I had to start walking off and on over the first hill, and by the time I reached the second one, I was pretty much done in. That last climb I walked completely, my only consolation being that I wasn't the only one at the end of his rope. In fact, I donated my GU gel pack to a guy who looked pretty beat. He took it -- then overtook me.

I was relieved and hungry like hell when I made it to the finish. The course took me 3:20, longer than some marathons I've run. In retrospect, I don't feel as angry about my coming off the course, especially since it gave me a great view. I would definitely recommend this course to anyone interested in it (and masochistic enough). In fact, I am planning to run the Sequoia race put on by these same people.

Posted by Michael at 6:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"You have to forget your last marathon before you attempt another. Your mind can't know what's coming."
-- Frank Shorter

I guess I really am a glutton for punishment. One year after completing (surviving?) my first marathon, I returned to Sacramento for a rematch with the 26.2 mile monster. Despite having a solid 15 weeks of training under my belt, I was not looking forward to the race. I think I remembered the pain of my marathon debut too well.

After a night short on sleep (mostly due to drunk kids yelling near the hotel pool), I crawled out of bed at 4:30am, got ready and hopped on a bus to the starting line. Mindful of how the jabbering of people on the bus got me nervous last year, I brought along my iPod to tune everybody out and focus on the race. I settled in for the ride and felt fairly relaxed... until there was a commotion at the front, and someone started calling "Is there a doctor or nurse on the bus?"

It turned out a lady had a seizure / passed out / became unresponsive, and the bus stopped to call 911. We had a paramedic on board who checked her out, and luckily the patient came out of whatever condition she was in, no worse for wear except for some lingering dizziness. We drove on to the starting line, where she was seen to by EMTs. I felt bad for her -- what a way to drop out! -- and it just seemed like a bad omen for the race.

I do like the CIM course. I think it has a great mix of rural stretches interspersed with little urban clusters. What this means for running is that you spend long stretches in peaceful scenery with few distractions, but still have the benefit of spectators cheering you on in specific spots. And the spectators have all the more impact when they come in concentrated doses.

I remember two areas in particular with great support: one of them being Fair Oaks (I think), and the other around mile 20. I'm talking about people with signs, clanging cowbells, cheerleaders, the whole nine yards. At mile 20, the spectators were crowding onto the road, making for a more intense experience.

They also set up a "Wall" there that you can run through. It is mean and funny at the same time. Really, I think it is a great touch.

In another spot, I had the... unique... experience of being personally cheered on by a clown. He was looking runners up by their bib numbers and yelling encouragement to them. I did appreciate the gesture, though why this guy made himself up as a clown is beyond me. I guess it's not just the 26.2 mile runners who are a little cuckoo.

I spent much of the race with the 3:00 hour pace group, although I wasn't planning an assault on the 3-hour barrier. But I wanted to at least try the speed on for size, just in case. The downside was that the course got pretty crowded around the pace setter. And to be honest, it felt a little too fast. In fact, I was pretty uncomfortable right from the start. Now, usually I have the "Never, ever again" thought somewhere after mile 20. This time, I felt that way almost all the way. It is not pleasant to feel demotivated only a couple miles into a marathon, knowing that things are going to get much worse before they get better.

I held on to the pace group until about mile 17, at which point I acknowledged that 3:00 hours was out of the question and took my foot off the gas a little to save my strength for the end stretch. I watched the little red 3:00 hours sign start to pull ahead slowly. But soon, it stopped and kept steady. Maybe I had caught my second wind and was speeding up?

Not according to my GPS watch, though. As time went by, the sign curiously started drifting back towards me. Then I could hear the pace-setter calling "Keep going guys! Keep going!" I passed him, and that was the last I saw of the guy. I asked some people further along the course, but nobody really knew what happened. Looked like he just couldn't hold the pace himself. I imagine this happens from time to time -- I can't imagine running a marathon while holding a sign. I guess sometimes, it's just too much to ask.

Saving my energy was a new experience for me. I have hit the wall hard in the past. Last year, the stretch of the CIM past the H Street Bridge up to the finish line is nothing more than a blur. This time around, I was much more lucid, and felt like I still had a semblance of control over my pace. That doesn't mean it didn't hurt like hell (as usual). But I think my higher training volume, and different tapering strategy (I ran 5 and 4 miles in the two days leading up to the race) might have helped me.

Around mile 22, I felt my hamstrings tighten and my pace dropped about 20 seconds. With a BQ-time for 2008 well in hand, and still not feeling very excited about the race, I decided not to try to push myself harder, but to continue at my current level of effort. As the miles wound down, I found myself mostly alone. As I passed the 26 mile marker, I realized I would need to pick it up to finish in 3:03:20 -- which corresponds exactly to a 7:00 min./mile pace. Luckily, I found my last gear and rounded the final corner with enough time on the clock. I finished in 3:03:13 -- about 10 minutes faster than last year.

Now my muscles are sore but all in all I am in pretty good shape. I have a medium-sized blood blister on one foot, and a really tight and sore muscle along the bottom of my left shin, which probably happened when I slammed my foot into a pot hole on the course. I have no complaints though and am looking forward to recuperating before looking for new targets for 2007.

Posted by Michael at 11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I guess it had to happen eventually. I finally won a race! It took a rinky-dink trail race for it to happen, but I'll take it.

Following the directives of the almighty schedule, I needed an "8-10K" race last Saturday. I had my eye on a Turkey Trot in Monterey, but discovered the night before that its webpage hadn't been updated in three years! Ack! Not a good sign. I quickly checked the site I usually consult for an alternative. The best I could find was a set of trail races near Saratoga. Not much in common with the road marathon I'm running in two weeks, but I figured it couldn't hurt.

I was surprised by how different the event was from road races I've entered. First of all, everybody at the event looked intimidatingly fit. You show up at a local 10K, you'll find your share of overweight people, old people, walkers and the like. The people at this race looked like they could run the course, then jump in kayak, row to a cliff, climb it, base-jump back down to a waiting mountain bike and ride to, oh I don't know, maybe Las Vegas. Outdoorsy folk too.

In keeping with the outdoorsy theme, the whole event was very laid back. Some 10 minutes before the start the race director sauntered up, stood on a bench and gave a brief description of the course. Made a couple of jokes. Warned about the bee nest at the first aid station. He then proceeded to ask who had traveled the furthest to come to the race. People called out: "Michigan"... "Ohio"... finally a young couple: "New York City!" Finding no further contestants, the race director smiled and said: "You win! You get to lead us in the national anthem!" He wasn't kidding either. I laughed pretty hard at this.

There were three separate races: a 10.5 miler, a 10K and a 5K. The groups started 5 minutes apart, in that order. I proceeded to get a crash course in trail racing.

The first thing I figured out was to start as close to the front of the group as possible. This helps in a road race too, but over the first couple of minutes I seriously wondered if we were going to run the entire race in single file. The path we were on was rarely more than two feet wide. Being new to this whole trail thing, I wasn't sure what the etiquette was for passing. Thankfully the guy behind me encouraged me to go, and people moved aside a little. From then on out, I alternated cries of "heads up" with "coming through" when I needed to get by someone. Which was often, because we soon caught up to the 10.5 mile runners.

I also noticed there was no way I could find my "rhythm" in a trail race. I had to contend with tree roots, rocks, loose soil, hairpin turns and steep downhills. Consequently, I was running at low-intensity for large parts of the race. Even in flat, empty sections I just couldn't speed up because I had to watch my footing (I saw one guy finish covered in dirt. I can guess what happened to him!)

I mentioned downhills. Since this was an out-and-back, there were consequently uphills too. This turned the race into something like an interval workout: hard uphills followed by downhill/flat sections for "resting". I quickly learned to catch my breath in these places instead of going for maximum speed.

At the turnaround point, I surveyed the situation. There was one guy wearing an iPod about a minute ahead of me, who looked so fast I assumed he was the leader of the 10.5 mile race, already on his way back. Then there was a lady about 10 seconds behind me. So I figured I was in the lead! I have to admit I was pretty excited. I had never won any sporting event in my entire life. The best I had done was second -- in a card tournament. This was my chance!

They say it's lonely in the front. It's also kind of frightening. One the one hand, I had to cope with my fear of getting lost (a fear all too real when running through the woods). There was actually a point where the course crossed a road, and I couldn't find its continuation on the other side until a helpful bicyclist showed me the way. On the other hand, the lady behind me kept coughing, which made me worry about her. Was she just biding her time? Was she toying with me, planning to blow by me when she felt like it?

Eventually the course reached a long climb, and although I didn't feel very strong myself, my pursuer dropped well back in this part of the race. Maybe her cold did her in? I also caught up to the iPod guy, who turned out was running the 10K when I asked him. He was walking at this point, however, so I passed him and went from thinking I was in the lead to actually being in the lead.

The rest of the course was clear sailing. I returned to the starting point, which was manned by two people collecting bib bottoms, who informed my I had won the 10K. Again in keeping with the casual nature of the event, it turned out they were out of first-place medals, but had plenty of second- and third-place ones. Ha!

I don't think having run this race is going to help me at all in two weeks when I'm running 26 miles to Sacramento, but it was a nice change of pace from my usual training routine. I am still not sure if I actually liked the experience or want to do it again. I think all in all, I am happier being in a race where I can just flat-out run, without all the overhead of watching my footing, passing people or keeping my eyes open for bees. Many people did get stung, by the way.

The weather was so nice I stuck around for some time to watch the rest of the runners trickle in. Nobody ended up jumping in a kayak or climbing a cliff, although I did see some people leave on mountain bikes!

Posted by Michael at 10:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The worst race I have ever been in. I'm not even sure what to call it. Officially, I was at the US Half Marathon. However, I was running the 12K event, not the half marathon. Then, the 12K turned out to be a little short. Or a lot short. Like over a mile short. In effect, I ended up running a 10K. So I'll just call it the "US-Half-12K-10K" and be done with it.

I can't say I was really exited about this event, but my training schedule called for an 8-15K tune-up race, and this was the best I could find. The route for the 12K was basically an out-and-back, from Fisherman's Wharf, through Crissy Field to the base of the Golden Gate.

So Sunday morning, I forced myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 5:20am to drive the hour north to San Francisco. I arrived maybe 15 minutes before the race. The half-marathoners had left at 7:00, and the rest of the participants -- 12K and 5K runners -- would be off at 7:30. Looking around, it was a smallish crowd of maybe 150-200 people.

I lined up and was surprised to see that there was no timing mat, despite this being a chip-timed race. It turned out they only had a timing mat at the finish. Now, why would you do that? A mat at the start benefits back-of-the-pack runners who get off late. The mat at the finish does nothing, except eliminate the need for timers. I wonder if the half-marathoners had a mat at the start?

The gun went off, and I fell in with a number of people without feeling crowded, forging ahead at a decent clip. I was feeling pretty comfortable with the whole thing until the 5K turnaround point appeared and nearly everyone headed back. Looking ahead, I could only make out two other 12K runners. What the hell?

I caught up with the first runner within a couple of minutes and thought I was going to leave him behind, but he hung on and we ran the next two or so miles together. We exchanged some words (to the effect of Where is everybody?) and just concentrated on staying on course. While the 5K turnaround had been clearly marked, the subsequent course sported at best a couple of red cones every once in a while. I had gone from running a 12K to orienteering.

Luckily, we found the next water stop and the 12K turnaround point was just after it. As we were trekking along the northern part of Crissy Field (close to the ocean), my companion -- who had started to breathe quite hard by that time -- suddenly fell completely off my pace. I slowed, but he was gone.

I think every runner has that nightmare of oversleeping and missing the bus to the starting line. Like in that Seinfeld episode:

- "He overslept and missed the whole race. Isn't that amazing?"
- "I'll tell you what happened. I bet he got the AM/PM mixed-up."
- "My money's on the snooze. I bet he hit the snooze for an extra 5 and it never came back."

Well my nightmare involves running a race and coming off the course. I lived that nightmare on Sunday.

The second 12K runner I had spotted at the 5K turnaround was long gone. The first one was far behind me. Instead, I had hundreds of casual runners and walkers all around me. Then, I looked at my GPS watch and realized that it was too early to be on the return portion of the course. Had I missed a turnoff somewhere? Had I cut a corner and unwittingly overtaken the other 12K runners? And where the hell was everybody?

Once I left Crissy Field I found some more red cones to follow. As I was weaving in and out of dog-walkers, tourists and 5K walkers (who were also sharing the course), I almost jumped out of my skin when a police siren went off right behind me. Turned out the half-marathon leader was nearing the finish, and his escort looked ready to run over anybody who got in his way. The guy cruised on past me, and there were a couple of awkward moments when it seemed as if the spectators thought I was the second place guy! Unfortunately, as soon as the leader passed it was back to orienteering as I searched for red cones. By this point I had slowed well below what should have been my race pace. I even stopped completely at one point to get my bearings.

Eventually I made it back to Aquatic Park and cruised through the finish, not sure if I had inadvertently cut the course (my GPS watch read 6.3 miles), not sure what place I was in, just happy to be back. My confidence in the race organizers dropped further when one guy stopped me to frantically scribble my bib number on a piece of paper. What was that for, when they had chip timing?

I conferred with some other 12K'ers, and they confirmed that the course was way short. So either all of us missed a turnoff, or the organizers have a bad tape measure. I had half a mind to demand $6.67 back from my entry fee (the same percentage the course was short by). How can you screw the distance up that badly?

I must have run pretty fast though, because I beat my sweats to the finish. They did arrive within a couple of minutes, and I tucked the medal I got in the bag and headed right back out to get in some more miles. I jogged east through Fisherman's Wharf and on the Embarcadero, which was actually much nicer than any of the race I had just finished. There were a ton of runners out, too. I am always surprised to see that when I am in San Francisco.

I am going to hang the medal I got up at work, so if people ask me, I can tell them to avoid this event. In all fairness, I have probably been spoiled by the impressive organization that is apparent in most of the races I have run so far. Also, this was the inaugural 12K for these guys. But they sure left a lot of room for improvement.

Posted by Michael at 11:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

6:00am this morning my alarm goes off, and I roll my tired body out of bed. That first moment, sitting on the edge of the bed all fuzzy-brained, bleary eyed and cold I always wonder "What is wrong with me that I'm doing this instead of sleeping in?"

I had other reasons to hesitate. I have a number of little aches and pains that I worry could explode into full-blown injury given a push in the right direction. On Friday, a new problem-spot joined the parade: a sore left hip! Old people always tell me, "just wait til you're my age," but I think I'm getting a bit of a taste already. I mean, come on! My hip? Next thing you know I'll be on a walker.

No matter: I drove the 20-minutes out to the city, thankful that I didn't have to treck all the way to San Francisco as I often do. The start was crowded, but well organized. I suppose you do get a little bit extra for the exorbitant entry fee of $75.

I moved to my corral and watched a cluster of elites warming up for the race. The announcer called their names, and I was blown away to hear that Meb Keflezhigi -- the 2004 Olympic silver medalist -- would be running the event. Of course, that would be all I saw of him. The guy was probably in an airplane on his way home when I crossed the finish. I still think it's very cool I ran the same race as him.

So what about me? I got off to a fast start. Too fast, I thought: My GPS watch reported a pace from 6:10 to 6:20. My goal for the race was to equal or better my last race at the distance, which I finished in 1:29:32 (6:50 pace). I was going to back off but then I thought, what the hell: 13.1 miles is short enough that even if I fall apart later, I can still finish decently. Also, I think there is a tendency for marathoners to run conservatively (as they must for their distance) but finish with a lot of gas left in the tank in half-marathons. And more importantly, I hate getting passed, so I just kept going.

I wish I could have checked out the bands properly, but all I got were snatches of their music as I passed. I almost enjoyed reading their names more than the music. One band called themselves "Inspect Her Gadget", which sounds very dirty but doesn't seem to mean anything. Besides the bands, there were cheerleaders as well as a surprising number of locals out supporting the runners. There was a stretch where the course winds west, past I-880 into a residential area, that was a little quiet, but other than that it was pretty much a full house.

As the race unfolded, we got split times at the 5K mark (~20:00) and the 10K mark (~41:00), both of which were faster than my PRs over those distances. That worried me, but I wasn't going to back down. The further I got, the more confident I felt that I was indeed going to be able to hold the pace, and a PR was certain barring a catastrophe. It got to be tough sledding around mile ten, but nothing out of the ordinary. I switched to my grunt-and-moan breathing rhythm, where I embarrass myself by grunting and moaning like I'm about to die, but it really helps me.

I passed mile 13 and rounded the last corner. There were tons of people out cheering, and I was pumped as I crossed the finish line with a 1:26 time. Guess getting up at 6:00am was worth it after all. Even if I end up getting hurt in the next couple of weeks before the California International Marathon, I can still look back on this result with the knowledge that my training to date paid off in the form of a half-marathon time I didn't think myself capable of.

Posted by Michael at 2:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)