All the running I can do—to stay in the same place

Today is my forty-nineth birthday.

Now 49 is not a number which inspires much excitement among most people (unless they happen to be missing three fingers). I haven’t found any 49 mile races. But next year I will be 50, a number which somehow seems more significant.

So next year I would like to do a 50 mile race to celebrate my new age-group. I’ve never done an ultra, so I asked Mike Swan and Stu Sherman for advice, and both suggested the White River race up in the Cascades. It’s in July, so not exactly on my birthday, but close enough.

I think 30 miles is about the longest run I’ve ever done, and a marathon is the longest race. This is an experiment.

But the point of this message is to ask: “Would you like to run with me next year up in the Cascades?”

Over the hills and far away…

Santa Barbara Wine Country Half Marathon

The town of Santa Ynez is about a 40 minutes drive from the barbarian city, up over the mountains and down into the river valley on the other side — probably far away by MacHeath’s standards. There is no safe bike route there so I don’t know it well.

I thought I’d visit it the day before the race to look at the course and mark out the 1/4 and 1/2 mile points. I inveigled my friend Kathy into joining me on a bike ride to go over the course. It was cold and overcast in SB. We drove out with bikes and measuring wheel. It was warm and sunny in SY. I measured out and chalked in my marks (Kathy waiting patiently as I did so) and we set out.

I stopped immediately, to take a picture. I ended up doing that quite a lot. Kathy was very patient with me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it during the race.

The route starts in Old Town Santa Ynez and heads through fields and farm land to Los Olivos (roughly parallel to Hwy 154) (a long uphill), then it leaves 154, climbs a very steep hill and goes down Ballard Canyon to Solvang (a nice long downhill). Just before Solvang there is another steep hill — not as long, perhaps not as steep, but I was expecting to be tired by then. Intermittent rolling hills through-out. The finish was somewhere in Solvang, I didn’t bother to find it on the bike.

It’s actually quite pretty — prettier now on a warm sunny afternoon than a chilly overcast morning in the middle of a race.

Rusty had told me to try the same strategy as I had on the 10 miler — go out at 6:15 pace and try to pick it up on the way back. As always this seemed as though it would be a stretch. Run a longer race at a pace that was hard for a shorter one? I was concerned about the hills — more concerned once I biked them. Rusty argued the course was easy because last year everyone had PRed on it. We discovered that one reason the course was easy was that it was a couple of hundred meters short — but even accounting for that Rusty said everyone had PRed. I managed to talk him down to a 6:20 pace — and then immediately decided that I would try to run 6:15s anyway.

This is what passes for wisdom in my brain.

I was up long before dawn race day morning. I did my stretches and had a light breakfast. I checked the weather — there’s always the chance Santa Ynez will be hot at this time of year, previous weather reports had predicted it would be cold (41°F). If cold I’d want layers, if hot I’d want sun-screen. NOAA predicted that it would be 40° at 5am, even though it also said the current temperature was 49° (at 4:50am). A 50° temperature would be perfect. I’d want layers while I was waiting, and maybe gloves for the run, but a singlet would be fine when running.

Into the car and off. Pitch black when I set out. As I headed up the pass I started to see the mountains and the clouds bumping into them — pre-dawn light. On the other side the fog/clouds were blowing up the Santa Ynez river from the sea alternately covering and uncovering bits of the valley below.

I parked about a mile from the start and took a shuttle bus to it. Then I went out on my warmup run. This had a dual purpose: 1) the chalk marks I made the day before were only at the side of the road and I wanted to make them more visible, 2) I needed to warm up. Just after I passed my 1/8 mile mark I saw chalk arrows coming in from the side.

The start of the course was completely different from last year. I knew the old course was short and they were going to fix it — but I hadn’t thought they’d fix it here. Damnation. I didn’t have my wheel, I couldn’t remeasure things. I’d just have to do without, and correct my pace at the first mile mark, just like everyone else. Fufbiggles!

Still, I needed to continue my run as a warmup, so I did that and looped back to the start.

Yup. The start was essentially at the same place, but it was facing the other direction. We were to run into town, take a side street, twist around, and run out again rather than running directly out of town as they had last year. Oh well.

Time to get rid of my warm layer and take it over to the bag drop off. I couldn’t find the drop off. I wandered all over the place. Eventually Heather told me to ask the MC, he pointed to the “saloon” and said over there. I went inside. Everyone seemed to be lined out going to the bathroom. Eventually I asked again. Just out front. I went out front. Not on the porch. Eventually I found them and left my stuff.

Did my strides.

The Barbarian contingent started to coalesce at the start line around Micah and Aaron (our fastest runners). Teage, Leroy, Ricky, Jeff, Mariann, Monica, Melissa. M. (and me). All of us are fast enough runners to claim a spot near the start. I figured I’d stand in the second row behind Micah. Wasn’t sure what this crowd would be like, I might not deserve a spot in the front, but definitely in the second row — and standing behind Micah meant I knew he wouldn’t slow me down

Mariann asked how I’d gotten there, and when I said I had driven she berated me soundly for contributing to global warming. As she should. I had tried to car-pool, had asked three people, but none wanted to go with me.

I did some more strides.

It was now past 7, the supposed start time. We were starting to get cold. It’s one thing to run in shorts and a singlet in 50° weather, it’s quite another to stand around chatting.

Tum-ty-tum-tum.

Quite a long wait. What’s the good of warming up if you just have to stand around and get cold?

They are saying something on the loud speaker, but it’s completely inaudible here at the start line. The police car in front starts to move, everyone crouches down, and we are off.

I don’t want to go out too fast, I have to guess my pace though. I think I have gone too fast, Ricky’s ahead of me, but he goes out even more “too fast” than I and he’s not far ahead. I slow. A bit. We twist through Santa Ynez and then are out with a straight road (and a hill) ahead of us. A few people pass me. Good. Four minutes out the lead woman passes me with a couple of male runners.

Up this hill, and down and up. Left turn, down a very steep hill and up another steep hill. Then right for some relatively even terrain. I glance at my watch: 6:40. Oops. Either I’m going very slowly or I missed the first mile marker. Damn. First I can’t use my own marks, then I miss the official marks.

Well I will do what I can based on feel and the people around me. Ricky’s ahead. So I’m not horribly fast. Lead woman is ahead, that might be reasonable, or might not, we’ll see how things go.

Slowly it dawns on me — there are NO mile marks. No kilometer marks. No indication what-so-ever of how far we’ve gone. And since this year’s course starts differently people can’t even use remembered locations of last year’s marks.

How interesting. That’s going to make pacing complicated. I haven’t raced without marks since — well, since ever. Every single serious race I’ve been in since (and including) High School has been marked. (Later Wally tells me that everyone thought someone else was doing the mile marks and no one coordinated).

Every now and then Rusty has us train without looking at our watches. Running without mile marks has the same effect — you don’t know how fast you are going and must develop an inner sense of what is appropriate. If you know your speed then you have a goad not to run too slowly, but, conversely you might miss the fact that you can actually push a little harder than you thought you could.

I’m running by myself at the moment. Am I pushing myself hard enough? Every now and then I look up and the lead woman is further in front than she was just a moment before. I pick up the pace, but I fear I lose focus again. Strangely it doesn’t seem to occur to me that she might just be faster.

After 21 minutes I pass Ricky. I hope he’ll run with me (he’s also hoping to run about a 6:20 pace), and I encourage him to do so. But his footsteps fade behind me. After the 10miler, and without any mile markers to reassure me of pacing I am desperate to have someone to run with. The clump around the lead woman is in sight, but is too far off to be very motivating.

On the bike ride the road verge was covered in California Poppies. I’m used to seeing French Poppies in the fields as I bicycle through France, but I’d never seen a stand of California Poppies quite like this. Of course this is the Wine Country half-marathon, perhaps I should expect it to look a bit like France

Today I don’t even notice the poppies as I run past. I’m too concerned about keeping up with the guy in front (who has dropped back a bit from the lead woman).

We’re coming into Los Olivos now. And the relay transfer point. In the old course that was at 5.6 miles. I don’t know what it is in the new. 5.7 maybe? my watch says 37:?? minutes (or was it 36? I can’t remember). Great. What’s 37 minutes divided by 5.7, in your head while running at race pace? remember to multiply by 60 to get seconds first. I don’t have the energy to work it out. Doesn’t help with pacing much.

Approaching the transfer point I hear a cheer go up for the first woman. I start counting. I figure when I hear a cheer for me I’ll know roughly how many seconds ahead she is. Of course no one cares as much about the 15th man, or whatever. I hear a few scattered cheers around 40. Were those seconds? Did I count too slowly? too quickly? Roughly 200m ahead — Very roughly.

A few people shout my name. Obviously none of the locals knows me, I don’t think any of my friends are doing the relay, but perhaps so. A little later it dawns on me: My name is printed on my bib in this race. In large friendly letters. They just read it.

And then a friend does come up on his bike, a guy from my pottery class, his wife and sister are running and I guess he’s here to cheer them on. He cheers me on now. (Thank you Kyle)

There’s a chip mat here. But no indication of distance.

I drink some water at the aid station. I’m not thirsty, it’s not a hot day. This turns out to be the last time I drink. It’s only a half. It’s hard to drink. I can drink ok at a 6:30 pace, but 6:15 (or whatever) just seems too hard.

We twist around a little more. And then comes

the HILL

I’m afraid I’ll lose the guy in front of me. I have lost the lead woman. We go up. I slow. He slows more. I catch him just before the top, and pass him. He cheers me on, and doesn’t try to hang with me. Damn it. I want someone to run with. As I turn the bend and head down the other side there’s a stunning view. I’m not stunned today, but I was stunned when I biked it. Kathy had to wait a long time here. On one side is a vineyard, above it a tree-lined drive leading to a winery. On the other side yellow hills covered with flowering mustard.

But today I barely glance at it. I’m more concerned with finding someone to help me with pacing. I come further round the bend — far down in the valley I see the lead woman, all by herself, but much closer to me is someone who was running with her and has now dropped back. The sight of him spurs me on and I take off down that hill in the hope of running with him.

The canyon opens up a bit and is quite lovely, with dry california grass on rolling hills intersperced by a few oak trees, some badly distorted by the wind.

Of course I’m not noticing this now. My eyes are on the guy in front. Basically we are going downhill but there are occasional small hills. I stop worrying about going too slowly, I just run.

I seem to be gaining on him.

But very slowly.

Sometimes he pulls further ahead.

It’s a real race. Of course we’re not going all out. We’re not much past the half-way point, there’s still a long road ahead, but none-the-less, it is a race. Actually, in my opinion, this is the real race. Not the final dash for the finish, but the long slow process of overtaking the guy in front.

At 57minutes from the start I pass him. The lead woman is just barely in sight on a long straight stretch. Can I catch her? I’ve caught the guys who were running with her at the start…

And then there are footsteps behind me. They’re coming up fastish. I don’t think I can stay ahead. I try to go a little faster, but I really can’t. Oh well. I guess the guy is faster than I thought and got a second wind once I was in front… But it isn’t that guy. It’s someone else. I cheer him and and he says he doesn’t really count, he’s only a relay runner (the relay runners only run half as far each, so they can go a little faster and it doesn’t really count when they pass you — or at least that’s what I say to console myself).

Whew.

I try to keep up with him. He slowly pulls away; I gain some ground on a hill, then he gains on the downhill, and so on.

At 1:03:?? I pass a mark on the road saying 5k. This is from some other race. I’m guessing it is approximately 5k from Solvang. Not sure exactly where in Solvang, but it means there’s only about 5k left. If I’m running 6:15s then 5k is a little under 20 minutes. Which means I’ll finish very close to 1:23. With luck I’ll break 1:23. Without luck I’ll be very close to it.

And then I remember there’s still one bad hill to run. This is not going to be a fast 5k. I’ll probably be just over 1:23. That won’t be bad. In fact that will be quite good, but it will be the slow end of my pace window rather than the fast end.

At the 4K mark my watch reads 1:07:?? so I’m going close to 4min/km which is what I expected. (The seconds on my stopwatch get small after an hour, and I can’t read them easily when running, which means I usually don’t. So I could be running 4:59 or 3:01 min/km. But I’m probably about 4).

At the 3K mark my watch reads 1:11:??. And then there are more footsteps behind me. It’s the number two woman (I haven’t seen the number one woman in ages). I realize that a couple of times recently I’ve heard people say “#2!”, and I’d puzzled over that. I never look back. Maybe the relay guy is #2 in the relay? Maybe I’m #2 in my age group? (my age is printed on my bib, but in small unfriendly letters — still they might have read it). Now it is clear.

And then … the second HILL.

Not as bad, but we really are tired. And I’m not catching up with people now, two have already passed me so I’m a bit demoralized — on the other hand, I’ve definitely got two people to run with! Up we go, all three of us (the relay guy, #2, and me). We seem to stay in about the same relative positions.

Finally the hill ends, and we’re in the outskirts of Solvang. Houses. Another little hill. A school. And there’s Hwy 246 ahead. A volunteer cheers us and says “1/2 a mile to go.” I’d hoped we were closer, then I remind myself, the volunteers don’t have a very accurate idea of the course (usually) he probably just means we’re close. I know that.

I worry about 246. It’s the main highway in this part of the world. I assume there will be cops directing traffic. Obviously they’ll let the lead guy through, and the number 2 woman, but I’m some distance back. Will they think they have time to let a few cars through before I get there, and will I have to slow?

I try to speed up.

Photo © 2008 by Dennis J Mihora

But 246 is completely closed to traffic. I needn’t have worried. And almost immediately we make a right turn and — there’s the finish! Perhaps 200m away. I find I have a little bit left, and for once I can kick. I’m trying to catch the number two woman, and then I can see the clock 1:22:55 (this time I do see the minutes) and I really want to break 1:23. There are two chip mats. I pass over the first before the deadline, but the second is where the finish sign is and I see 1:23 just before I get there. And on the other side of the line I pass the number two woman. Ah well.

As we are coming up to the finish the announcer is extolling the number two woman. He doesn’t even mention me until I’m well across the line. Blatant sexism. Hrumph. Why am I just an after-thought?

Doesn’t matter. I’m really quite pleased. Not sure what the exact time was, but approximately a 2 minute PR for a half marathon. That’s great.

I congratulate the woman I finished just behind, she thanks me for helping her earlier, I thank her for helping me later (that is — for being an inspiration by running ahead).

We pass into the food tent. And blink, Ricky is there. Rusty comes up on his bike (he rode beside Micah) and congratulates me and tells me Micah was second at 1:09 and Aaron finished at 1:10. And blink, Jeff is there. We complain about not having any mile markers. After a bit Melissa and then Mariann and Monica join us. We’re all amazed not to have had mile markers.

Time passes. I wander around looking for my gear bag. It’s chilly now I’ve stopped running. Still overcast. I can’t find the bag claim at first, but eventually I do. There doesn’t seem to be anyone to ask where things are.

Now I wander around trying to find where the preliminary results are posted. No one seems to know. Eventually I find Micah instead. We chat for a bit, and he suggests I go to the timing tent. I can’t figure out how to get there for a while. Eventually I figure out which back streets of Solvang are unblocked and will lead me to the tent. No sign of results — but — Oh, joy — the printer is working now and, yes, those face-down pages coming out look as though they have results on them. But — But — the printer stops, and no one picks them up. They just sit there. I am hesitant to disturb the people in the tent thinking they have important work to do.

I go looking for someone who might know something. I find Jeff. Since RoboBank seems to be the main sponsor, I think he might know. He doesn’t. But also wants to see the results. We head back to the timing tent. And — how odd — the result pages are being passed from hand to hand. No one is posting them. How extremely disorganized. Eventually I get a look at the page I want. 45-49:

“Jeff, I won!”

One of the joys of racing outside Santa Barbara is that it is possible that none of Fred, Scott, Shiggy or Travis will run. It is possible for me to win my age group. It is possible that Eric Forte and Terry Howell won’t run either and so I might even win masters (which I did). Er — Thank you for not racing today, I do appreciate it

Jeff is also pleased. He’s third in his group. (Todd Booth didn’t make it over the hills either)

No one seems to know when the awards ceremony will be. It would be kind of neat to stand on the podium in first place — but it would be even neater to have something to eat next week. After waiting around for about an hour and a half, I give up, and head back over the mountains to the Farmers’ market before it closes. Jeff says he’ll pick up my winnings — appropriately enough, a bottle of wine.

I liked the course, had a great run, and will probably do it again. But I hope it’s better organized next year.

Someone to run with!

Two weeks before the race Rusty told me to shoot for a 6:10 pace. I balked at that, I didn’t think I was in very good shape, after all I’d just done the Orchard to Ocean 10k at a 6:15 pace, I didn’t believe I’d be able to better that. So the next week Rusty said do the first half at 6:15, and then do what you can for the second (that is — go faster). Well, that seemed more reasonable.

I was concerned that I’d go out too fast. I always do. O2O hadn’t had a half mile point marked, and my first mile was 25seconds faster than my average. Not good. So I took out my wheel on Thursday, rode down to the start, and put marks on the curb to show the ¹/₈th, ¼th and ½ mile points. Or that was my intent. José had already marked the ½ mile point (Yay!)

The course runs out 5 miles along the waterfront, into Montecito, around a post and then back on basically the same route. So the 4 mile mark is also the 6 mile mark, etc.

I volunteered for packet-pickup on Friday. I like doing that, it makes me feel part of the race already and I start getting excited.

During a quiet period, a homeless guy (I assume) rode up on his bike and started ruttling around in the dumpster. Then he moved over to us. He asked if he could have one of the keychains the Addidas rep was handing out, and I let him. Then he asked what was going on; I explained there was a 10mile race tomorrow and asked if he wanted to run. Not any more, he replied, but back in the day — why in high school he’d run 10miles 1500yards in an hour and was the third best in the nation, and his best marathon was a 2:30.

Wow. I guess it had never occurred to me that a homeless guy might have been an excellent runner in his youth. And I can’t imagine that someone who wasn’t a runner would know what numbers would impress yet be believable. Rather an eye-opener for me. We chatted a bit longer, and he rode off.

Race day morning I got to the start a bit earlier than normal because I wanted to draw lines across the road where I’d previously marked only the curb (marks on the curb don’t get smeared into oblivion by traffic, but they aren’t readily visible to runners).

Two miles of warm-up. Or there-abouts. As I loop back I run through the beach-front soccer field. In the middle of the field is a sign “No parking — SB Streets Div”. This amused me all the way back to the race start. A car would have to go to extreme lengths to reach that field.

Take off my sweats. Put on my magic shoes. Um. It’s chilly. Do I want a jacket? Do I want gloves? Hmm. Probably not. I’m manage, and then I’ll warm up.

Some strides.

Time to line up.

None of the other runners seems to know where the start line is. First I see some trying to line up at the half marathon start (there’s no mark on the road for it, but there is a curbside mark); I direct them to the real start. I do some more strides, and then head there myself. No one is at the line. Everybody seems to have lined up about 20feet back from it.

I stand at the line.

I figure I’m fast enough.

Eventually other people join me.

We start.

I’m trying not to take off too fast. I let Ricky and Andrea go. But even so… at the ¹/₈th mile I’m at 41 seconds. That’s a 5:24 mile pace. I want 46 or 47 for a 6:15 pace. I slow a bit. At the ¼mile mark I’m at 85. Better, but that’s still a 5:40 pace. At the ½ mile mark 2:57, again, better, but still too fast.

Jeff has joined me. He wants to chat. We’re going faster than 6 minute pace, and he wants to chat? I didn’t even realize I could. But I guess I can, at least this early in a race. Jeff’s goal pace is 6:24 (~64min) and he is also aware that we’ve gone out too fast (but less fast than many). We joke about how we’ll pass many of them later (or we hope we will). Jeff speculates that some are only running the concurrent 5K and so can afford to go fast now.

At the one mile mark 6:16. Almost perfect for me. Little fast for Jeff. But he says he’ll run a little fast while the adreneline is up. We keep going together. At the 5K turn around (approximately 1.5 miles) I comment that very few of the people ahead of us have turned back. So let’s hope we do pass them later.

At the two mile mark I see I’ve slowed too much: 6:21. Not horrible, but it turns out to be my slowest mile. So I pick my pace a bit and leave Jeff.

I’m gaining on Andrea. Judging by O2O she’d be another reasonable person to run with. But when I reach her she’s going more slowly than I’d hoped and I pass her too. And then I pass Ricky. Ricky did the “Tough Enough” race last week — in the horrible heat, so I’m not surprised to pass him. Another half mile later I see the number 4 woman is passing the number 3 woman and the guy who is running beside #3. And I end up passing all of them at pretty much that moment. Pushes me out into the street a bit but there’s no traffic, so that’s ok.

And then I hear footsteps behind me. The woman who was #4 and is now #3 is pacing me, just off my shoulder. OK. She can try to keep up.

As we twist around the bird sanctuary my eyes turn toward the mountains (and I happen to look up). A bit of sun has broken through the cloud cover and Montecito peak stands out in the morning glow. Quite lovely. But the road twists again and it’s gone. Anyway I can’t pay it much attention. I need to run now.

At the 3 mile mark I see that, er, I was going too fast: 6:03. The combination of picking up the pace after the previous too slow mile, and the joy of passing people has pushed me too fast. I’d better slow here, especially as the first hill is around the next bend. I expect the woman will pass me as I slow, but she doesn’t. We go up the hill together.

I get a little ahead, but she closes the gap on the flat at the top. Coming down the hill, I get a little ahead again, but she closes the gap again. Neat. This is kind of fun. I can’t really see her, she’s mostly behind me, and there’s no way I’m going to turn my head and look back. She isn’t someone I know.

We both click our watches at the 4mile mark: 6:14. Perfect for me.

We both grab cups at the water stand. I have great difficulty drinking. I’m squeezing it too tight or something. I get very little into me and go off into a coughing fit for a bit. She doesn’t pass me.

The next mile is a gradual up hill that twists through Montecito. And here comes Micah on his way back, and someone I don’t know and Aaron, and a bit later Garrett. I cheer my friends. The woman seems to know some of the others, and one of them calls her by name, but I don’t catch it.

We pass the #2 woman. We reach the turn-around at 5 miles: 6:14 — total time for the first 5 miles 31:10, at home I see that that is almost exactly a 6:15 pace for the first half (5 seconds too fast), just what Rusty ordered.

Time to pick it up a bit? This is a downhill mile. We pass the guy in front. And now no one is in sight in front of us (but it’s very twisty here). Far more interesting than the people ahead are the ones behind, and after the turn-around we’re running against the main body of the race, and I get to cheer them on. And they cheer me on.

The woman says “You seem popular, George” (people have shouted it). I ask for her name, “Jen”. I thank her for running with me. It really is great. She is forcing me to work, I don’t dare slow and take it easy lest she pass me. And that’s about as much chatting as I (we) have breath for at this point.

We twist back through Montecito. Back to the water stand. Given the difficulty I had last time, I figure I’d better not try for more water. Jen, however, gets more. This proves a mistake. She drops back slightly, and she never catches up again.

At the six/four mile mark: 6:06. Nice. I did pick it up. Next mile has the hills, but it’s still 6:13. I pass some walkers. One says “16″ too me. Neat, that probably means I’m 16th over-all (I was actually 17th at that point, perhaps she meant 16th male, perhaps she miscounted). Thanks. And then behind me I hear “2″, so Jen isn’t far back and she’s the number two woman. And then — I’m out of the bendy area and I can see down the long straight section that runs for miles.

There is no one visible ahead.

Looking at the race results I see the next clump was about a minute and a half ahead of me. That may not sound like much but it’s a ¼ mile at this pace. Oh, there are faint shapes far in the distance, but they provide no inspiration — I’ll never catch them.

An’, ah look down duh roa~d–
And duh road so lo~nesome.
Lord, I gots to walk down da lo~nesome road
I gots to walk down it b~y m~yself.

Traditional spiritual from the Charleston low-country

Well, I gots to run down it, but it’s still lonesome. I was thinking just the other day that “the loneliness of the long distance runner” only really applies to the winner (ignoring all the other connotations in the store). But today it’s applying to me too. There’s too much of a gap to the group ahead.

I can’t hear Jen behind me. There is no one visible in front. It’s hard to keep going. 6:16. Ug. I can do better than that! But the next mile is similar: 6:15. Ok. It isn’t horrible, but I want to do better.

But now there is only one more mile to go. I can go a little faster now that I’m almost there. And then there’s only half a mile to go — and then I hear footsteps. Hmm! incentive? I figure that if Jen passes me, I won’t try to pass her back, but she’s going to have to work to pass me. I speed up a bit. But the footsteps get louder and louder. Hmm. Jen wasn’t that noisy. Maybe she’s gotten sloppy as she has tired? And then the footsteps pass me and — it’s Ricky.

Well I’m not going to let him pass me, but his kick is better than mine, and I can’t catch him. Then someone else passes me. Damn it. I am not going slowly, in fact I’m going faster than I was. Why is everyone passing me. Sigh. I just have no kick. I can speed up by 10 seconds, and that’s a lot for me, but Ricky is much faster than I over short distances — like 5Ks — while I’m already running almost as fast as I ever can.

Almost done now. No footsteps behind, but I must assume than Jen isn’t far back (I’ve heard people cheer her on all along — as #2 woman she gets more cheers than #16 man). I’m breathing like a steam engine, I’ve got to stop. I keep going. I’ve drolled all down my chin. And here’s the chute, I see 1:02:05 on the clock (great, I’m faster than 6:15 pace) and then the finish line. (1:02:09)

I can stop.

And eleven seconds later here’s Jen.

And now it is possible to introduce ourselves better. She’s from San Diego. Rats. It has been a pleasure to run with her. I explain why I didn’t stop for water.

I find I am 5th place in my age group. No other age-group runs that deep in age-graded percentages. Even absolutely — I would have been first place in the the 40-44 group. They are the guys younger than I who should be running faster? That just doesn’t seem fair. Why are so many of the really fast guys my age?

So my first half was 31:10 (6:14.5 pace), the second half 30:59 (6:11.8). Reverse splits. I usually don’t manage that. Thank you Jen. Thank you Ricky. I really feel I raced today (as opposed to just running fast).

And even more cheering — I ran this at a slightly faster pace than the 15k this summer. The weather was better today, but it’s a slightly longer race — so it’s roughly comparable. I’ve been so afraid, since September, that I’d never again be as good as I was last year. It’s a relief to have proof that I was wrong.

Jeff is a minute and a half behind me. And now that doesn’t seem like anything. I’ve barely started talking to Jen, and he’s here. And Kent finishes a minute later. Time dilates oddly. During the race a minute and a half is so far ahead that the people are invisible, afterwards you blink and they are crossing the line.

Andrea turns out to have been ill. She points out there will be other races.

Stu Sherman tells me some of the faster people had to wait for a train to cross the tracks in Montecito. Whew. I’m glad I’m not that fast

I cool down with Kent for four miles, and we chat about the race. I am so pleased. I can run fast again (and it’s a two minute PR too).

Yay!

But… Where’s the Orchard?

Orchard to Ocean, 2008

I set out on the bike at 5:30. It was dark. And cold. It’s ~16 miles to Carpenteria Main School and I wanted to be there at 7 to register and warm up. And I wanted to travel easily on the bike and not burn up all my glycogen.

There was a full moon setting in the west. Ah, of course, the day before easter, the day after the vernal equinox, the moon must be well nigh full.

The moon is at my back though, I rarely see it. The cold gets into my fingers and toes. They go numb by the time I’ve gone 5 miles. Summerland, at 10 miles is warmer, and the extremities start to thaw, but after a mile or two the road drops down to the Polo field and it gets cold again. Well, it will probably warm up with the sun, and even if it does not, once I start running I’ll be fine.

Many orchid and other flower farms, but I pass no orchard.

It’s lighter now. There seems to be an awful lot of traffic leaving Carp, on the frontage road (not the freeway) at 6:40am. Where on earth are they all going this early on a Saturday morning, and why aren’t they on the freeway?

When I get to the school it is definitely light.

They have maps inside showing the course route. Hmm. It’s rather different from when I last did it — good heavens — five years ago. I had intended to run the 5K loop as a warm up, and here’s even more reason to do so — I don’t want to get lost. Not that I’ll be in front.

And there’s Shiggy, well no chance of being first in my division either :-).

The map says go out Palm to 4th street and turn left. Unfortunately 4th St. does not really exist here; there is an unnamed road inside the State Beach, perhaps that’s it? There is no chalk arrow to mark the turn though, and it means running the wrong way over some tire-shredders, so I decide I must be lost already, and I go back, and try to recreate the start from 5 years ago.

I forget the route after the first few turns and spend a pleasant time wandering the dead ends of suburban Carp. When I come out on Carp Ave, I see Aaron who assures me of the turn into the park, even without chalk, even going the wrong way over tire-rippers.

We get back to the school (which is not an orchard in any way shape or form), and I have to decide how many layers to wear. It’s much warmer than it was, but still feels a bit nippy. Hmm. I’ll bet I’ll only need a singlet once we get going. But I’ll take gloves to keep my hands warm. But when I reach the start line I think even the gloves may be too much — some friends are complaining about cold hands, and I try to palm the gloves off on them — with no luck.

I do my strides.
We line up.
No, says Paul (who starts us), the line is here. We all move forward a yard.
“Two minutes.”
“One minute.”
“Ready” (we all crouch down with our fingers on our watches)
“Go”

And we’re off. About 10 people are ahead of me. I see Monica’s back and figure I can run with her (much later, at the finish line, I realize that it wasn’t Monica’s back after all, it was Andrea whom I do not know, and who is faster than Monica). Fred passes me. Oh, well, with him here no chance of second place in the division either.

N’importe.

No one’s foot is punctured by the tire-destroyers, and there are now volunteers there to show us the route (but no chalk, I wonder why not?). We run through the State Beach. The Carp Slough has formed a lagoon which does not open into the ocean. A calm spot where birds float as we thunder past over the bridge.

I’m impressed at how fast Monica is running. I thought I was faster at the moment. I guess not.

At the end of the parking lot we’re on a trail. Finally some chalk. Little white dots showing us where to go. We come to a road and turn up onto it. Such a pity, 5 years ago we ran out on the bluffs here, but I’m told that the city only lets us to cross the RR tracks on roads, and I guess I can see why they’d insist on that.

Crossing RR tracks is always dicey in a race course — the freight trains seem to have no schedule, and the passenger trains only a nominal one. You never know, there might be a train just when you need to cross. You can lose a lot of time to a long, slow-moving freight. And trains cannot stop for runners as cars will.

Today: No train.

At the 1 mile mark I look down. 5:50. Oh dear. That’s too fast for me. Certainly today. I’d said I was going to treat this as a tempo run and go out at a sedate 6:24 pace. Somehow that didn’t happen. But even if I’m racing I’ll need to slow down. I’ll have to drop back from Monica. And then Martin passes me.

We follow the unfortunately named “Dump Road” to Carp Ave, and turn onto that (Damn it, why are there cars parked in our lane? Oh. It’s City Hall, doubtless they don’t care about runners) to the Bluffs’ park, and then we turn back to the ocean. A lovely view of the Islands, well mostly of Santa Cruz Island, though later I do catch a peak of Anacapa.

And here’s the two mile mark. 6:26. Erp. That’s too slow. I’ve given up on the tempo idea, I was hoping to do better. I notice with amusement that though I have dropped back from Monica’s back, and Martin’s, I haven’t dropped back by much. They’ve slowed too. That’s some consolation.

“Correopsis has set in!” The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

And we make a sharp turn (through fine white sand that shifts under our feet, not what I want for a turn) to run along the bluffs. I can’t really see the ocean now, the purple sage, in full bloom, and some mounding yellow daisy are blocking my views

But then, from behind one large shrub, a view opens up, and there are the cliffs dropping down into the sea, with the morning mist hazing the distant ones. When I first ran this course, this view just stunned me, it’s the main reason I love this race.

But all too soon we turn away from the ocean (years before we went along the edge for much further and then scrambled up an wonderful, steep hill on which I passed two people. But no hill today, nor do I pass anyone). Back to the main road, and then we dive once more into the shrubbery (Nee!), and here’s the 3 mile mark. 6:34? Ug. I had intended to speed up, not slow down. At this rate I might not even break 40 minutes. I’m in worse shape than I thought.

Still Monica’s back isn’t that far in front, so she’s slowed too. And Martin and Ricky and Shana. Onward.

On into the brush. Hmm. Why haven’t I seen anyone returning? I’d have thought Aaron would have turned back by now. But then it isn’t Aaron, it’s someone I don’t recognize. And then Aaron, with Fred number 4. And then I’m turning. And there’s someone behind me, and Jeff passes me. Sigh. And when mile 4 comes up I see 6:27. Well, no wonder. That’s quite discouraging. And now Monica’s back pulls further away. I seem to have lost heart.

At mile 5 I see 6:12. Well, that’s a surprise. I guess it’s downhill. But even though I’ve actually sped up, the people ahead of me have sped up more.

And the ones behind too; someone else passes me. And then Joe Hilton does. We’re on the road now. Dull. At mile 6, 6:13. And then round the corner, and there’s the finish. A final burst, and I see the time ticking down 38:56, 38:57… I’m sure I’ll end up with 39:02 or something, but no, for once the second drops on my side and I sneak past at 38:59.

And then I see “Monica”’s face, and she isn’t Monica at all. How could I have confused her with Monica? She doesn’t look a bit like her. I guess I’m not very good at recognizing backs. I discover she’s Andrea.

I head for the food. But it’s all wrapped up, and they aren’t ready for people yet, and they don’t want me to pick things up with my hands. It’s not worth fighting, I’ve got my own food at the bike. Ah, the bagels aren’t protected. I grab one (they tell me I shouldn’t have). It’s stale. Well water is the most important thing. Where’s the water? Big jugs of something. Coffee??!! What stupid idiot puts a diuretic out for people who need to rehydrate? Another large jug with McDonald’s stamped on the side. I’m not trusting that. Oh. Here. A tiny 6oz individually packaged thing of bottled water in a tub of ice. I don’t really want cold water either, it’s harder to absorb cold than warm. I’ll find a water fountain.

Grumble. What’s gotten into people? Why this recent set of over-the-top sanitary rules? They just make this whole race recovery process so uninviting that I’m repelled.

Food at the bike, and water too. Change out of light trainers for normal running shoes. Get rid of the gloves.

I’ve got a 6mile cool down to run. I might as well run the course again, but this time I’ll spend more on the bluffs and cross the tracks on a trail.

When I get back to the start/finish line there is the real Monica. How could I have confused her with Andrea?

And there is Fred taking off for his cooldown, so I run with him for a bit, but he turns back and I continue.

I don’t go up Dump Road, I continue on the bluffs. Tide looks quite high, crashing against the base of the cliffs, I look for harbor seals but see none here. Then on, past the Venco oil dock, and there, on the other side is the seal sanctuary. It’s the birthing season just now, and I pause at an outlook.

There’s a couple here already, looking down at the seals. They point out two new pups. There’s still a bit of beach below, one of the pups has clambered up it and found a comfy spot, but each time a wave passes over him, he gets washed away and has to clamber up again. It’s a struggle for him, he’s very small.

A larger seal flops up onto the beach, and those already there are disturbed and there’s some flapping of flippers. The couple comment they’ve not seen seals fighting before. I hadn’t realized it was a fight, but I’ll take their word for it.

The couple ask me if the race is over. They have a big hand-held stop sign so I assume they must be race volunteers, and thank them for helping out. It turned out they were seal volunteers, and the stop sign is to keep noisy intruders and dogs away from the seals and the cliff edge.

I see a Western Grebe in the ocean. A pelican, floating calmly on the waves some distance out looks like a great boat in comparison. A cormorant zips past.

A greater wave splooshes onto the beach and all the seals arc their backs, noses up, foot flippers up, they seem to form a perfect circular arch. I wish I could do as well when I try that pose in yoga.

But I can’t stay here all day, or shouldn’t anyway. I’ve got miles to go before I sleep.

So I head away from the bluffs, and cross the tracks (at the old location) and run on the path under the Eucalyptus allée. Hunh. I’d be willing to risk crossing the train tracks here, it’s a much nicer route.

But now I can’t find a path that would lead out to the hill I recall. Sigh. I gather there is no longer a trail in that direction.

Ah well, I’m back on the new course, and just follow that again. Out, and then back.

Shortly after the 5K turn-around (well on my way back) I start passing my some 5K walkers (the 5K race started about when I began my cooldown). And at the final turn before the finish line the corner volunteer cheers me on. I find I’m, well, insulted, that he thinks I could take over an hour to run a 5K, can’t he tell from my pace that I’m going faster (much faster, even on my cooldown) than that?

But I have my bib on, and no one else seems to have run the course twice, so I guess it’s the obvious assumption.

Silly me.

I get back to the school, and I hear them announcing the results, so I wander over. I see my friends in a clump on the grass and go sit with them. I find I didn’t even get third in my division, I was fourth. Oh well.

Back to the bike, and then the farmers’ market.

(The ocean was lovely, but I never even saw the orchard).

---

I spoke to Dan Cornet, who has always helped organize Orchard to Ocean. He tells me that when the race was first run it started up in the foothills amid orchards, but they moved the start. So like Roses to La Playa the name no longer reflects the current race. Maggie suggested “Pedrogosa to La Playa” for that, which alliterates, so perhaps “School to Sea” would work here?

Dan also tells me that there is no race director for next year, and some doubt as to whether the race will continue. Saying “I hope someone turns up.” seems a bit superficial, as it begs the question of why I’m not that someone.

Hmm.

Miscommunication

Last week my PT told me to run a tempo run. I was a little surprised by that, it was faster than I expected, but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

There was no tempo workout that week, instead Rusty sent us off to the Valentine’s day 4mile race. Now a 4 mile tempo run for me is usually about 6:10~6:20min/mile, but given that I hadn’t done much for a month and a half, and the nature of the course (half trail, with steep ups and downs) I figured a 6:30 pace would be more prudent.

It was a beautiful morning, I got to Goleta Beach just in time to watch the sun rise over the ocean (with some low-lying clouds to the east lit up electric orange). The race went around the UCSB lagoon. Blue heron, snowy egrets, mallards, buffleheads, grebes, coots, comorants, seagulls..

It’s two miles (give or take) around the lagoon, I did one lap as a warm up with some friends (we had hoped to do two, but by the time everyone got out of the bathrooms there was only time for one).

When we started the race I ran at the back of the second pack, that seemed about the right amount of effort. My hip wasn’t bothering me, so either the PT was right or adreneline and endorphins had kicked in. A pleasant pace. As we ran along the ocean I saw Travis out with his surfboard. At the halfway mark I saw I was about 10 seconds faster than I wanted to be, so I slowed (but everyone else I was running with seemed to slow even more on the second lap). With about a 1/4 mile to go, I knew I could catch the guy in front, his breathing was labored and he seemed tired. I sped up a little, and did catch him, but then he sped up — again I was pretty sure I could catch him — but then it wouldn’t be a tempo run. I let him go. Not as easy a decision as it should have been.

As I got near the chute I noted the clock read 25:56. I ran a little further. The clock still read 25:56. It didn’t seem to want to move. I remembered that scene in Holy Grail where Lancelot keeps running over the same stretch of ground again and again and never getting anywhere. And then suddenly he’s at the door. And suddenly I was at the finish, and the time was 25:59.

Now my hip began to ache.

Not really badly, but it let me know it was there. I went twice more around the lagoon as a cool-down and it nagged at me (my hip, Maggie (vocative case), not my friends) . Jim Cochran, the chiropractor, invited me onto his table and cracked it back into alignment.

When I saw the PT yesterday she told me I shouldn’t have run so fast (but that’s my tempo pace, that’s a slow tempo pace) . She has a different idea of a tempo run than I do. She said she meant about 7 min pace. OK. Next time I know better.

But it was fun to run fast again.

Resolution Day 2008

For some peculiar reason I like to watch the sun-rise and sun-set on New Year’s Day. A little ritual of mine I’ve been doing for several years now. Sometimes it gets modified — last year I watched the sun-set on New Year’s Eve. Sometimes it rains. But I try.

Generally I watch the sun-rise on the way to the race. Of course for the last few years the race hasn’t been on New Year’s day, so last year I had the freedom to hike up Cathedral Peak.

This year I reached the harbor just as the sun rose.

I had no particular expectations about this race. Haven’t done any significant training since the marathon, and am still basically resting up from it. I knew I wouldn’t equal last year’s performance. I thought I might try to do the 5K at a 6 minute pace, and treat the 10K as a tempo run. I didn’t really care, I just wanted the thrill of running hard even if not very fast.

I did the first two miles a little below 6 minutes (5:55) and slowed markedly on the third (6:17). Oh, well, close enough.

The 10K surprised me. I had assumed I’d run somewhere around 6:30~6:40, but that was not too be. It was very hard to get started, and I was only running a 6:45, trying to chat with Travis, who was also taking it easy. But the third mile was above 7. Brrr. I was tired. Travis was appreciably ahead by now. I considered stopping once I reached the end of the first 5K lap. But I passed Ricky and figured if he could keep going so could I.

Ricky has very loud feet. Or perhaps his shoes are loose and slap. Or something. In any event I didn’t need to look back to tell when he started to gain on me again, and then he overtook me. We trotted on. On the slight rise by the bathhouse he faded again and I passed him for the final time (interesting that, I had the same experience when I passed Ricky in the Half).

I did not fade. I started to feel better. I think I just needed more of a rest after the 5K than I’d gotten — and somehow, 4 miles into this race I was starting to feel rested. Mile 5 was under 7 again. Then I started gaining on the two in front of me, by the time I reached Milpas I figured I could speed up a bit and take them. I presumed I’d slow down afterwards, but I didn’t seem to. Mile 6 was 6:31. Finally I was rested enough to run what I thought I should — but the race was almost over No matter.

First time I’ve put more emphasis on the 5K than the 10K in this race set. The ~26 minutes I get between races just isn’t enough for me to recover. Next year: back to the 10K!

My right gluts started to cramp up. I went for a cooldown with a couple of friends and they (the gluts) nagged at me.

I had invited people to meet me at Tunnel trailhead at 3pm to hike up and watch the sunset. When I went over to my bike to head up I realized I was in no condition to walk, much less hike. I figured I’d go up and apologize (I had no idea who would show so I couldn’t phone, I’d sent out a blanket invite).

Luckily no one else had wanted to hike so there was no need to disappoint anyone. After waiting a bit at the trailhead, I biked back down to find a sunset-watching-spot I could lurch to.

It was worth the lurch.

Not “the Wall” but “the Parabola”

“Show up and blow up” as Ms. Toth said. Meltdown, might be more accurate in my case. After mile 20 my splits got progressively worse. Indeed the deceleration between splits got worse so “cubic” is more accurate than parabola I suppose.

Up to mile 20 I averaged a 6:50 pace (well, 6:48 to be precise), which was my intent. Mile 20 was 7:01, then 7:07, 7:24, 7:41, 8:11, 8:57 and 9:20 for the last mile. I wasn’t hungry, or cold. I had none of the traditional signs of hitting the wall, I just got slower and slower and slower with each mile. My legs hurt, but that wasn’t the problem.

I hunched in on myself. I was still passing people up to about mile 23, but that changed and hordes of people started passing me. I thought about resting, but I knew I’d never start up again if I did.

---

California International Marathon. I’d never been to Sacramento before. I rather liked the city. It looks much more like the kind of environment I grew up it. They were having a real fall. That was extremely nice. Maggie and Rusty and June (Rusty’s wife) and I all flew up on the same flight on Friday. Rusty and June were doing research into how a marathon was organized. Melissa G. and her husband drove over from Sacramento, and Tony (whom I hadn’t even realized was running CIM) came up on Saturday.

On Saturday we registered, and then Rusty drove us over the course so we could get a look at it (he and June were counting port-a-potties, aid stations and similar things). The course starts out in Folsom and wanders through moderately rural countryside for a while before entering the suburb of Fair Oaks, and then on into Sacramento itself. Coming in to Sacramento was quite lovely with tree lined streets still in (almost) full fall color.

The course loses 350ft or so over 26.2 miles so it is known as a fast course (indeed, all of us got PRs, but we all paid for it — the downhills trashed our quads). It isn’t a constant decline, of course, instead constant rolling hills with each decline a little longer than the incline that precedes it.

We were worried about the weather. No rain was forecast, but it was much colder than SB. The prediction was for 37 °F (~3°C) at 7 in the morning when we started rising to a high of 50 (10C) in the afternoon, with winds. The wind sounded worrying. The course runs basically west with a little bit of southing, but it meanders. The wind was from the southeast mostly cross, but sometimes we veered into it.

Because we were heading west, I decided against sunglasses. I had a pair of throw-away gloves, an ancient moth-eaten sweater, a garbage bag, an ear-band, a long-sleeve wicking shirt and shorts. I considered tights, but decided I didn’t need them.

(Maggie and I had done a short run the day before and I found my legs were warm enough without tights).

I set four alarms for 3:30am and woke up 2 minutes before any of them. A series of buses came and picked us up at our hotel a little after 5 and took us out to Folsom. We arrived around 6. We were allowed to stay on the buses as long as we wanted in order to keep warm, however I got out immediately and went to the port-a-potties — past experience has taught me that if I wait the lines become insane.

As I was waiting, I glanced over at the next line. Someone was staring at me. “George?” he said. “Mike?”. A guy I used to work with 15 years ago was there. He and his wife, Lori, do marathons from time to time, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he might be here too. He was hoping to run it in 4 hours or so, but was injured (and unsure he’d succeed). I was hoping to run in under 3, but had also been injured (and was unsure I’d succeed). Lori was going for a 4:30 or so.

I went back to the bus (now almost empty), took off the sweats I’d been wearing for warmth, smeared my legs with vaseline (as insulation, and then loaned my container to some others who were also redressing.

My plan was to run the first mile with the 3:10 pace group (7:15 min/mile), speed up a little on the next and then start running 6:50s and try to catch the 3 hour pace group (6:52 min/mile) around the half-way point, run with them until 19 or so and then try to speed up. I had my doubts about speeding out, but we would see.

Rusty told me to start out slowly to give myself a chance to warm up, I doubted my ability to do start slowly by myself which was why I was going to run with the pace group (I get so excited at the start of a race). I was supposed to do a mile or so before the race as additional warmup, but I couldn’t find anywhere to run. In one direction was huge mass of bodies lining up, in the other a constant stream of buses and cars dropping off runners.

So I placed myself where I thought 3:10 might be (the pace leader hadn’t shown up yet), A bit back from the 3:00 sign. When the 3:10 leader did show he was well in front of me, but by then it was so packed that I could not move up. I’d wait for the start. Anyway it would mean I’d run even more slowly, which was all to the good as a warm up.

I didn’t hear the start signal. But that didn’t matter, because no one around me could move for several seconds after it. We were still stationary when I’d worked out that the leaders had started. I guessed it too me 30~40 seconds just to reach the start line (thank goodness for chips!). We were sort of running then. I could see the 3:10 sign dancing some distance in front of me, but I still couldn’t get to it.

Amusingly enough the 3:15 sign was ahead of the 3:10 sign for the first half mile or so.

The first ¾ of a mile, or so, is a gentle downhill. Then we turned onto another road and slammed into our first hill. Only a short hill. Suddenly I heard someone calling splits, and realized I most have passed the first mile mark without noticing it. 7:28 by my watch. Nice and slow.

I started moving a little faster and eventually passed the pace group. I felt warm. I took off my ancient, mothy sweater and tossed it off the side of the road (the race expects this, they gather the dropped clothing after the run and donate it to charity — though I doubt anyone would want that sweater).

Somehow I completely missed the second mile marker. Mile 3 was a small sign on the right side of the road. At that point I tore off my garbage bag, wadded it up, and, just before the next aid station, I tossed it to the ground (they didn’t have a garbage can before the water, and I wanted water, which I could not snag with a wadded up bag in my hand).

Shortly after this my cap bounced off my head and onto the ground behind me. I had intended to keep it, but I wasn’t going to stop and turn back for it.

Mile 4 had a great huge flag attached to the mark, as did all subsequent mile marks. Easy to spot. My split for that mile was 6:39. A little too fast for this early in the run. I slowed. Mile 5 was 6:51. Perfect.

As were miles 6 and 7. Quite good pacing for me. I ate my first gel pack here. Then the next two miles were hillier and were both 6:55. Mile 10 was a long steady downhill: 6:34, and that got me moving a little faster: 6:46 and 6:36 for 11 and 12. And then I realized the large clump of people a minute or two in front must be the 3:00 pace group. I wondered if I’d catch them by the half. Didn’t seem likely.

Mile 13 was 6:37, and they were still well in front. I crossed under the half-marathon marker (which had a clock) and saw that I was right on target. Even a little fast. I crossed under at almost exactly 1:30:00, but that was gun time, and I’d been running for ~30 seconds less.

So I was right where I wanted to be, the pacer was just going too fast. (not much, I guess, but I was annoyed with him). I ate my second gel.

After the half marker we turned dead into the wind. I’d been feeling pretty good about going ~6:40, speculating that maybe I’d be able to continue at that pace. Nope. 6:57 for mile 15. I picked it up again to 6:40 for the next two, but it was hard.

Another gel. Then mile 18 was 7:01. Arg! can’t have that. So mile 19 was 6:45. Whew. That averages 6:53, that’s close enough to pace.

Up to now I’d averaged 6:48.

But mile 20 was 7:01 again, and when I tried to run faster I didn’t. 7:07. There was someone at this mile marker giving splits, and I was till a little ahead of 3:00 pace. I couldn’t do the exact math but figured if I could just hold a 7:00 pace for the next 5 miles I’d still have a chance of breaking 3 hours. Time for my last gel. Maybe that will perk me up?

No. 7:24. Well, at least I was till passing people. 7:41. Ug. 8:11. Now people were passing me. Every now and then there’d be someone in worse straits than I whom I could pass, but not many, and eventually none. People were cheering us on, telling us how well we were doing. Others were doing well. I was not. 8:57 for the penultimate mile I’m slowing by almost a minute per mile. That’s really bad. I feel awful. I keep thinking of stopping and walking. But I … just … can’t … give … up. All I can do is keep pushing to the best of my ability. All thoughts of breaking 3 hours have long past. Will I at least manage to break 3:04 (7 min pace)?

(Horrible thought: Will the 3:10 pace group pass me? Will Maggie pass me?)

My heart rate monitor has also failed me. I’ve been running at about 90% heart rate, but now it tells me 41%. It lies.

Maggie said later there was a bad wind in this stretch. I didn’t even notice. The wind was irrelevant, the problem was inside me.

Slowly, slowly onward. Suddenly I hear “Keep going Georgie.” I look up. It’s June, watching. That brings a smile. I think I say something. Sadly, even at my sluggish pace, I eventually pass her.

At mile 26, I hear Rusty. I can’t see find him.

Another .2 miles. Women to the left, men to the right (why? what would happen if I went through the wrong shoot? Would they disqualify me?). Plod. Plod. On. And there’s the finish line 3:08:??, chip time will probably be 3:07:?? (my watch reads 3:07:3

Well. Ok. That is technically a PR. My best race before this was 3:13 at Big Sur. That is known as a hard course. This is known as an easy course. A ~6 minute improvement is pretty pathetic.

Well. Ok. Most people would be pleased. That would qualify anyone for Boston, it’s faster than the open men’s standard. It’s ~73% at my age. But I was expecting something closer to 2:52 just a few months ago. Then I was willing to accept 3 hours. This is a disappointment.

No one seems prepared to deal with me. I can’t find anyone to cut my chip off. Ah. There. Now I can’t find a mylar blanket. The woman who was passing them out has just turned away as I come up to her. Someone gives me a bottle of water. I can’t get the cap off. I have to take my gloves off. In doing so the mylar blanket comes off. A nice lady comes up and rewraps me and opens the water for me.

I can barely walk. My calves hurt. My quads hurt.

Where’s the food? I’m not hungry, but I know I need to eat.

Here’s a booth advertising cars. Why is that here? I think that’s … insulting to find at the end of a marathon. We’ve just been pushing our own bodies to the limit — and they want to demean that by selling cars? Feh!

Where is the food? I move further and further from the finish. (I should add, although I was in no position to appreciate this at the time, the finish is right at the state capital, down Capital Mall. A grand avenue with a grassed median leading from a beautiful bridge over to the capital building). The food is far too far away.

Finally I see someone serving soup. I take a cup. And a banana. There’s not really much here.

I grab my bag. (I realize I’ve lost one of my gloves)

Now where’s my hotel?

Oh. In exactly the opposite direction from the one I’ve been walking.

About 10 blocks from here.

Some of the slowest blocks I’ve ever walked.

I can barely hobble. The wind is bad. It blows my mylar blanket up around my neck so it’s more a scarf than a blanket. It’s cold. The sun has gone behind clouds. I have some warmer things in my bag, but that would mean: stopping, unwrapping the blanket (dealing with it somehow in the wind), bending over. It just seems impossible. Especially bending over.

Instead I keep walking.

Eventually the hotel.

The elevator.

I lean my head into the wall as the elevator goes up. It feels so nice to rest. But the elevator stops, and I have to walk some more. Then my door. The door key is in my bag. I have to bend over. I can’t find it. I dump the bag onto the floor. There it is. Open door. Go back and push the pile of clothes into the room. Close door. Draw bath. Gently, carefully, gratefully, ease myself into the water.

Ah.

---

So what went wrong?

My guess is that I still had not gotten my endurance back after my earlier collapse. I need to rest.

Good night.

Run in the Sun

4 July 2007

If I were in the desert deep in sand,
And the sun was burning like a hot pomegranate:
Walking through a nightmare in the heat of a summer day,
Until my mind was parch-éd!

The Fantasticks (Edmond Rostand, adapted by Tom Jones)

I have a superstitious dread of 15ks — the last time I ran one I fractured my pelvis. So I’ve never done this race.

Well really I’ve never done it because I thought it was too hot.

I guess I’m convinced of that now. The heat was bad — but at least I didn’t fracture anything on this race. Whew.

Jeff and I were discussing it a few weeks ago and trying to break 60 seemed like a good goal. Rusty poo-pooed that. Far too easy, try for 58. Then Travis said he’d like to run it at a 6 minute pace (~56). And Rusty thought I should hang with Travis. Ug. I should stop talking to Rusty

Last Saturday Rusty had us run the course, running every other kilometer at race pace and then jogging to rest. I’m glad he did because I wasn’t sure of the route (last year the lead pack went the wrong way and took a 40 second detour). We started our practice run an hour before the race would start, but by the end of it I was feeling overheated. Ug. I hoped the weather would cool.

It did not.

As I was finishing my warmup I came upon two cyclists unfolding a map. So I asked them if they needed directions. Then I realized they were speaking French so instead asked “Puis-je vous aidez?” One of them pointed to the race badge on my singlet and said “Nous cherchons celui-ci.” Neat, they want to race, that’s easy. So I told them how to get to registration and went off to change my shoes.

I figured that given the heat there was no way I’d manage a 6 minute pace. I thought I’d try for 6:10 (didn’t even manage that, 6:14). I wanted to be fairly controlled for once and not go out too fast — that might not be possible, but that’s what I wanted. I checked with John (the race director) and learned that he’d put back all the kilometer marks that got wiped out in the resurfacing that happened last year. Good. That means I can check my pace every kilometer rather than every mile. I prefer that, they happen more frequently and I am less likely to go astray. A 6:10 mile corresponds almost exactly to a 3:50 km.

Wally said that Anglo-Saxon two letter word and the race started. A bunch of people took off ahead of me, which made me think I wasn’t going too fast. At the quarter mile I saw I was a little under 90 seconds, a little too fast but not much. At the half mile 3:01. Better. I heard Joe Hilton exclaim “Too fast, I don’t want to be under 6″. At the 1k mark I was still doing a 6 minute pace (3:43) and I passed Joe.

Around the 1 mile mark I noticed someone whose running seemed to me totally out of control — I didn’t think he’d be able to keep the pace. He then turned to me and said “If I were breathing like that I’d be all cramped up.” Oh. Well I guess I’m not perfect either:-). Nonetheless I passed him.

At the 2k mark I saw I’d slowed down too much, 3:59 (my slowest split in the race). At least I’m still on track for breaking an hour, but I should be able to do better than that. Then a long gradual uphill to the 3k mark — 3:53 — still a little slow, but not too slow. I’m passing people now. Good.

The next km always surprises me, there’s a steep hill here and I always expect it too tell against me, but there’s also a steep down hill on the other side. It’s usually fairly fast. 3:49 today. For the first time I notice Travis about 50ft ahead of me, he turns right instead of going straight (turning right is our training route, he must not be thinking). The corner guard yells to correct him, and I yell too, but I only have breath to say “Oops!” or something like that. Not as informative as it should have been. Luckily Travis turns and joins us. I don’t want to lose him this early.

At the first water stop I have three choices: ignore it, drink, or pour water on my head. I’m not sure I can drink at this pace. I’m not really thirsty (we’ve only been running for what? 15 minutes?) but I am hot. I take off my sun visor and pour water on me. It does help.

Next km is 3:46 on a fairly flat section. And it’s sort of shady as we turn down onto a residential street. I see my first walkers who are actually on the sidewalk. Thank you! In spite of the shade and a downhill section I’m slow 3:55. I realize that Lee Carter seems to be riding beside me a lot. Hunh. He’s supposed to be with the first woman, not with me. I’m not a woman. I don’t have the energy to ask about it though. He’s right beside me and I want to cross the street… He drops back a bit and I do cross and then he’s on the other side of me. Odd.

Another uphill section 3:57. Drat. I don’t seem to be anywhere near 3:50. Oh well, Travis is still 50ft in front of me or so. I guess I’m not the only one having problems.

Good heavens, I hear my friend Christine’s voice yelling “Go George.” What’s she doing here? I don’t think she’s ever watched a race before. And then the penny drops. Christine is French and her triathlete nephew and his parents are visiting — he and his father must have been the two French speakers I met earlier.

At the next water stop I try to drink and do manage to take one sip, but it’s not easy. Most of the water goes on my head again.

We pass the 8k mark (3:54) and the 5mile mark. I hear Lee saying “It’s 5 miles”, and then a female voice asking “Does that mean we’ve got 5 to go?” Oh, well that explains why Lee seems to be with me, the lead woman must be right behind me. I realize that I never look back in a race. I can usually tell if someone is passing from their footfalls. Looking back will just throw me off balance and not give any really useful information.

Hmm. I don’t think I’d waste my breath asking that question though (even if I didn’t know the answer) — she’s probably not as tired as I. She’ll probably pass me.

The important thing now is the hill right here. This is supposed to be where I can catch Travis (I’m better at hills than Travis)… and I do get closer to him, and I pass the guy who has been running with him… but I don’t catch Travis. It’s hot.

Next km is 3:58. Oh well. Lee zips ahead of the three of us and points us down onto the bike path which is a bit hillier than the roads. A very steep downhill. I guess we passed the 6 mile mark. The woman behind asks if that was 6miles. I haven’t been paying attention to the mile markers and can only say that we’ve passed the 9k mark. Then she takes off. She starts creeping up on Travis. I cheer her on. I’m beat myself. Will I be able to hold even this (relatively) slow pace? It’s so hot. My legs aren’t a problem but I don’t seem to have any energy.

Here’s the 10k (3:51), back under the freeway, fording the stream — well I would be fording the stream if there were any water in it, but it’s dry as a bone — and up the other side. Ug. The woman has caught Travis and the two are running together not far ahead.

The last water stop. Another sip and more water on the head.

Kornell appears, he’s running against the flow of the race (I guess to look at it), but he turns and runs with me for a bit. He asks if I’m catching the two in front or just hanging with them (personally I think I’m slowly losing them, but Kornell is polite enough not to suggest that). He tells me I’m breathing too shallowly, that if I could get the breath deeper into my lungs I’d go 5 seconds per mile faster with no more effort. I try to breath deeply, but my abdominals get very tight when I’m running, it’s really hard. Something to work on. Kornell peels off.

11km: 3:54.

Hmm. I’m starting to gain on the other two though. Maybe he was right.

12km: 3:53. Or maybe they are slowing. My pace doesn’t seem to be changing much. But I don’t feel as tired. We turn onto the final bike path, heading straight into the sun. Hmm. I really don’t feel as tired. I feel better than I did on Saturday on this stretch.

I pass the first woman. 3:50 at 13km. I’m coming up behind Travis. I debate passing him. I feel he’s going a little slowly. I hang behind him. A bunch of bikers cheer Travis on. “Hey,” I think, “what about me? I’m right here with him. I’m working hard too.” For that matter “What about her?” She can’t be far behind us — I don’t look, of course. Around 14km (3:50) the route twists a bit and I figure I’ll pass him after we get on the road and things get wider. Hubris. Travis speeds up. It’s all I can do to hang behind him — and then I can’t even do that. I say something like “Go, Travis” and fall back. I really want to rest, but I know there’s someone right behind me. I daren’t slow too much. At the corner of Hollister they say “200 meters”. It feels like more… and then someone is cheering me (”What about Travis?” I think, “It’s not fair just cheering me.” I guess there’s no pleasing me). And we cross the street — will the cops hold traffic for me as well as Travis? Yes, of course.

And there’s the clock 57:50… and Travis crosses 57:57 and the seconds tick inexorably past… Can I break 58? No, there it is: 58:00 and then I cross. 58:02. (Tara, the first woman, finished in 58:13).

It was great to have both of them to run with. If you read this, thank you for running with me!

Final split 3:44. Not bad given the heat. I drink two pints of my recovery drink and a bunch of water. I look at a thermometer (in the shade) and see it’s only 71°. Hunh? Here in the shade it’s actually cool. Chilly even when the wind blows. But, but, but it was so hot just a minute ago and there was no shade. Amazing what a difference the shade (and standing still) can make.

It’s going to hurt

10 June 2007

“It’s going to hurt,” groaned Joe at SB Running when we discussed the race. “Five minutes of pain.” said Rusty, “No, make that four, the first one won’t be bad.” “It’ll hurt, you know.” said John Brennand as I picked up my race bib.

I know.

That’s one reason I haven’t raced a mile in 30 years. My best mile was a 5:07 when I ran track as a high school junior. Those races hurt.

But I wanted to see what I could do. And a downhill course sounded as though it would be less unpleasant (honestly, I now don’t know why it sounded that way, but it did at the time). I haven’t been training for a mile, of course, no real speed work, but I’ve got a good marathon base, and I expected to do, if not well, then respectably.

Last time I tried running a mile it was ~5:30. That was by myself on a bare track. I expected in a flat race I should break 5:20. On a downhill race, I wasn’t sure. I hoped I’d break my 5:07, maybe, maybe if I were lucky I’d break 5.

Rusty said he thought I’d break 5. Maybe even 4:55. Oh dear…

I was very nervous and didn’t sleep well the night before. Nervous as I waited for my heat to be called. Nervous as we lined up and waited for the start. Heart rate already high.

half-dead at ¾ mile Copyright © 2007 Dennis Mihora

Then the gun went off, and we did too. About 5 people zoomed off ahead of me. I’m not a miler, I don’t expect to place in this race. That’s ok. The first quarter was pretty good, running smoothly, and it’s neat to reach the first quarter this quickly. I could barely hear the guy calling out times at the quarter. 1:09, I think. Rather too fast that, better slow a bit. Then the half mile comes, not exactly painful yet, but the world is becoming unimportant, nothing matters but running. I can’t hear the guy calling the time. I fail to push the right button on my watch. And then that’s past.

My arms are getting tired.

My arms? what are they doing? I’m running on my legs, how can my arms be tired?

And now it feels harder and harder to continue. Not painful, just impossible. The third quarter approaches and it feels easier again, and then it passes (I forgot even to try to click my watch. What did time did the guy shout?) and it’s hard again. Then someone passes me and I find I can run a little harder but he still zooms off as if I were standing still. And the finish line is moving closer and closer. And…

Here. 5:02~5:03.

Wow, a (small) PR. And it wasn’t that bad.

And it is over so quickly!

But now the pain strikes. I can’t get enough to breathe. I can barely hold the plastic bag they have given me. I find a pole and lean on it. And then my throat starts to hurt. I stumble around for a bit with my friend Carrie (who has just won the women’s 40+ race at 5:45). She asks (jokingly, I hope) if she should call an ambulance. Now my lungs hurt. We sit down and eat some yoghurt. Now I’m coughing, but I’m starting to feel a bit better. And by the time the 50+s are coming in, I can actually stand up and watch.

Ug. I don’t like miles.

It did hurt.

But now I get to watch my friends, and that’s fun. Steve Miley (who has been injured with planar fasciaitis for months) ran the dog mile in about a 5:37. Nirmal ran about a minute faster than his mile pace at Vicki’s. Then Laura wins the elite women’s race, giving it her all. Joe came second in the elite masters (Joe is a master now!). And Magnificent Melissa comes in with a 4:47.

I remember now why I haven’t raced a mile in 30 years. I don’t think I need to race another.

Short course

12 May 2007

I was in Montréal last week-end (for a font conference) and had noticed there was a 10k run there. I liked the idea of running a race in French, was intrigued by the thought of measuring my pace in km, and thought it would be fun to run somewhere that I was unknown — so I could screw up without shame. But Montréal is bigger than SB and the race was about 30 miles from my hotel at 8am Sunday morning. Public transport didn’t seem to work on Sunday mornings and while I could easily get a taxi from my hotel, I expected it would be hard to find one at some random park out in the suburbs at 8:40 or so. (And a taxi driver might not be pleased to have a sweaty smelly George in his backseat).

So I didn’t race.

Then on Tuesday Rusty asked in passing if I were running this week-end. I hadn’t even noticed we had a 10k:-). It would not be in French of course, but it was about time I raced again. So I thought “Why not?”

It was on the UCSB bike path which Jeff and I had measured and marked last fall, and as I biked to the start I saw that the turn-around was not at the 5k mark but was a little sooner. So should I run a true 10k and get a real time? Or run the abbreviated version and race? Race.

Of course.

We’d marked the course every km and every 1/4mile… but it was only marked in one direction. If I measured my splits every km everything would work when turning at the 5k(sort of) mark. And anyway I wanted to accustom myself to running km splits — in case I ever do run a race outside the US. I figured I wanted to run 3:40s. Give or take.

We set out. I quickly took third place, which seemed about right in this field — but the amazing thing was that the guy in second place was about 10, one Sachio Badham. I expected him to fade quickly, but he didn’t — he was still ahead of me at the 1/4 mile mark. I did pass him before the 1/2, but he did not really fade even then and ran a 42:16 race. Quite impressive.

I myself was much too fast at the first quarter, 83 seconds. I was shooting for about 88, 89. So I slowed, and let Bill catch me. Bill should be in front of me anyway. Third place again.

At the turnaround I had run 18:15 — which would be a 5k PR for me (by 5 seconds, but still a PR), except the distance wasn’t 5k.

Then I had to slow. Not hugely, but I needed a rest. At about 6k two guys passed me. I was still tired and they pulled away from me. At 7k I felt more nearly rested and picked up the pace again. I passed one of them, but couldn’t catch the other (Travis). The last half mile has some small hills and at the top of the second hill I almost caught him… but he ran away from me as it leveled off and finished 3 seconds ahead.

36:37 for me. 3:40/km. A significant PR. But it was a short course.

I was fourth place overall. When the results were posted I discovered I was also fourth in my age group. That seemed unfair. Oh, they used 10 year age groups. But still — the top four runners were all in their 40s? Travis isn’t in my 5year age group (none of the top three were). Would I have tried harder to catch him if I’d known he was in my 10yr age-group? Probably not, I was tired.

Afterwards I went back and measured the distance from the turn around to the 5k mark. 192 shoe lengths. My shoes are ~11 inches. That works out very close to 178 feet or 1/30th of a mile. We missed that distance in both directions so 1/15th of a mile short. Ulp. At a 6minute pace that means I need to add 24 seconds to my total time. 37:01. A four second PR. I didn’t even break 37. Nor did I break my 5k PR. Rats.

Jim says others think it was shorter. I hope they are right. Maybe my shoes squish down when I press them end to end.

Two weeks later: I measured the course difference with my wheel and found it was even longer than I thought: at twice 188 feet. Which works out to being 26 seconds at a 6 minute pace. Still a PR, but only by a second or two