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.

Yes — I intend to go to Sacramento.

I wasn’t sure how well I could run. I had done only one long run at faster than 6:50 pace, and on that I couldn’t keep up with Lauren.

I had decided a while ago that if I could do the half at faster than 86, I would run Sacramento. If I were slower than 90 min. then I wouldn’t. And if I were in between then I’d decide depending on how I felt.

If I’m not in good enough shape to break 3 hours on a marathon I’d rather wait, get better, and train — and if I can’t break an hour and a half on a half-marathon there’s no way I could break 3 on a full.

At first I was sure I’d never break 90 minutes. But I slowly got better until I could run with Lauren at about a 90 minute pace (6:50/mile).

Then I was sure I’d be just under 90. And that wasn’t really appealing either.

A week and a half before the race Rusty said he thought I would be under 87. That sounded a lot better. I wasn’t sure I could, but it was encouraging to think so.

Then a week before he told me to try for between 84:30 and 85:30. That seemed unlikely to me — I’d had a hard time keeping the faster pace for just 4 miles — I checked with him to make sure and that was what he meant. In fact Rusty seemed a little annoyed with me for doubting both myself and him. He then told me to run what felt good.

(I’m afraid I’ve been rather a depressed wet blanket recently — to all those who have put up with listening to me, my sincere apologies).

The weather predicted Santa Ana winds. Hot. Dry. Windy. Perhaps (worst of all) more fires and smoke. Instead the day started — I hesitate to use the word, “dawned” — with a dense layer of fog. Chilly. Wet. Still. (foghorns in the harbor, but no smoke).

In the past, the half has been the week-end after the end of daylight saving time, but because of the new law it’s now the Saturday before the change, so it’s much darker than I’m used to. Especially with the heavy fog. Even though we started at 8:30 instead of 8 this year, it’s still dark.

I got to the start too early, and chatted with people while trying to stay warm. Then it was time to do a warm up run (2 miles — down to the State St bathrooms and back — the local bathrooms having a ferocious line in front of them), change into my magic shoes (would they help today?), eat a GU, and head to the start.

Everyone else was very humble this year, and I was the only one near the front for a while. Then Travis and Jeff and Lauren and Melissa M. and Melissa G. showed up. More chat while we wait for the latecomers to register.

Bang!

Off up hill. Last year I went out at a 6:11 pace. Not a good way to begin a race where I averaged 6:30s. I was determined not to do that again. Rusty suggested 6:45 for the first two (up hill) miles.

After half a mile or so, the guy beside me joked to his friend that they’d do the first mile at a seven minute pace, and then pick it up to 5:20s later. That was a little dismaying — if we were doing a 7 minute pace now, then I was doomed. I thought I was going faster.

At the mile mark I saw: 6:22. Well, better than last year, not quite what I had planned. I slowed and a crowd of people passed me. I’ll catch some of you later, I thought.

I hoped.

On, and up. We pass the first walkers — they start half an hour early. They are being pretty good about not spreading out all over the lane. That’s nice. We also pass the first speed-walker, on his way back down.

As we turn on to Elise Way, I hear Maggie cheering me. Poor Maggie, she injured her calf Thursday and had to give up her plans to run with us today. It’s really good of her to be out here cheering… I’m not usually willing to do that when I can’t run myself.

And then there’s the 2 mile mark. Hmm. 6:51. I slowed down a little too much. Still that’s pretty close to 6:45, and this last mile is always surprisingly hard. Not too concerned yet, but I pick up the pace a bit.

We wiggle around on the mesa. It’s very wet under the Eucalypts on Mesa Lane. Eucalyptus leaves condense the fog and the droplets roll off them and onto me. It’s chilly.

6:31 on the three mile mark. Perfect. And there’s Jeff. We run together. Then into the road of Oliver ran we two, slower runners to the right of us, walkers to the left us, walkers in front of us (volleyed and thundered) with little room for us. We get to the 4 mile mark (6:22, but that’s ok, it was a downhill mile). Jeff wants to run a little faster so he moves ahead. I remind him that I told him last year he’d beat me in this time. He laughs and says “It’s a long race yet.”

And, indeed I pass him shortly after the 5 mile mark (6:23). Now we’re down on the flat again, and I’m worried about slowing too much. But the next mile (6:26) is still on the fast side. I begin to speculate: Could I actually get a PR this year? That would be rather amazing.

Me, about half way Photo Dennis Mihora

But the next mile, mile 7, is slower (6:35) — still — my average pace is probably under 6:30… And mile 8 seems to bear that out (6:27). Maybe a PR?

Then the long slog up around the cemetery. Mile 9 is 6:40. Ug. But I’m passing some people, so I’m not doing too badly.

I see Travis, and then Melissa and Martin. All looking good.

And here’s the turn-around — I’ve just passed Ricki, but he passes me back (what nerve:-), but not for long, I catch him again.

I see Lauren just as I loop back to the other side of the 9 mile marker. I’m 1:47 ahead of him, not much. Wow, he’s doing really well. (Ricki’s doing well too, he’s gotten quite fast this last year).

I see various other people I know, cheering them on when I have breath for it. And I slowly realize — I haven’t seen Jeff — where is he? Hmm was he right behind me at the turn, or am I blind?

Mile 10 proves little better than 9: 6:36. Now I’m running against the oncoming hordes and they are pushing me out into the street as they try to pass each other. I can’t really blame them, but it is annoying.

I see a break in the hordes, and zip across to the sidewalk, just before mile 11 (6:33) and then on to the bike path. I’m feeling pretty tired; I’d really like to stop now. As mile 12 approaches I tell myself I should not look at my watch.

But I do. 6:39. Damn. I thought I was going faster than that.

Something in me gives up. I’m going forward doggedly now. I’m not racing. I’ve passed my last person (it turns out). I watch the woman in front creep slowly further off and I know I can’t catch her.

I’m in the final parking lot — AND WHAT HAVE THEY DONE!!!? THERE ARE CARS DRIVING THOUGH HERE!!! THERE’S NO ROOM FOR THAT. NOT WITH RUNNERS. And then just at the narrowest point, where there really is no room, there is a car motionless, completely blocking my route forward. I muster what breath I’ve got left and roar at it to MOVE OUT OF THE WAY!!!

But it doesn’t.

And then I can see the finish line, and I’m in the shoot and — what? Jeff just passed me! Good for him I told him he’d beat me this year.

I finish. 1:25:50. Just under my 86 minute cut off. I didn’t think I was going to do it. Yay!

Having done it, I start to complain to myself “Why couldn’t I have beaten last year’s time?” There’s just no pleasing some people.

However… I’ve gotten older. My age graded percentage, is exactly, exactly the same: 76.71% both years. So, in a sense, I’m no worse…

Satis

Queen Elizabeth, I, in Rochester

---

But I’m not done yet. Not a perfect race, but, as the queen said, good enough. If I’m running Sacramento (and I am now) this isn’t a race day, it’s a marathon training day, and I’ve got another 5 miles to run. I drink my recovery drink, then head over to the food tent. They won’t let me in. How unfriendly. I decide it isn’t worth asking them for? What? one muffin and a cup of soup? Pathetic. I’d like a banana, but I don’t see any. Don’t see much of anything really. I walk off. Someone hails me. It turns out to be Garrett’s mom — she wants to tell me she enjoys reading this blog. (It always amazes me the other people actually want to read this). Says I look just like Garrett. Poor Garrett, to be compared to a balding man twenty years his senior. She wants to know — Will I run Sacramento?Yes.I check with Lauren, who has also finished now; does he want to cooldown with me? Assuming he has the same schedule (he does). Nope. He’s got to tend his family. So I head out on my own.

At first I think I’ll run back to the cemetery, but then I’d be running upstream against many runners. I do the Mesa Loop instead. I’m moving v e r y   s l o w l y. But I’m feeling surprisingly good. It’s very calm here now. There’s no one else around. The fog gets denser again as I climb up to the Mesa.

I’m pretty tired when I get back. As I head for my bike I see a guy with a tee-shirt on which reads
My girl-friend can run a marathon.
Can yours?
This amuses me. Then I notice he has no racing bib on. Perhaps the real question is Can he?

Folly

3 Nov 2006

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun, it shines everywhere.
Twelfth Night, III, i

Some might argue that I was foolish to start intense training after only two months of running following knee surgery. But I checked with my PT and he thought I was ready (and as he was one of my coaches and would be keeping an eye on me).
Some might argue that I was foolish to join a marathon training group when I wanted to run a half-marathon. But that’s where all my friends were, and no one seemed to be doing training for a half-marathon.
Some might argue that I was foolish to join a marathon training group 5 weeks before the marathon (at the time when they were working their hardest). That didn’t occur to me until afterward.
Some might argue that I was foolish to ride a double century two weeks before my race. But back when I thought I couldn’t run again, I had promised Kathy I’d do it with her, and I could hardly back out now. In retrospect, even I will agree that this was foolish.
Then Rusty (my coach) reminded me that I had not intended to push hard for this race, not yet, not 6 months after my surgery. Oh yeah, I’d forgotten that — I had become fairly serious about it — at least in my mind. Time for a little bit of sanity, perhaps.

One day I’d just finished a training run over the half-marathon course and bumped into Dianna. She looked at me, and asked “Why?”.
Of course she had just finished an 11 mile run herself and was then going to starve herself for 3 days. So I felt the question was rather the pot calling the kettle black. She was training for a marathon, I was only trying for a half.

The SB half marathon course starts on the waterfront but almost immediately climbs up to a mesa, about 100ft in the first ¼mile, then up another 200ft in the next mile and a half. After that it bumps around on the mesa with small ups and downs for about 2½ miles before heading back down to the waterfront (down the same hill). It continues along beside the water for another three miles, makes a short loop up a hill, into Montecito and back, and returns for a final three miles beside the water finishing where we started. In other words a big figure 8.

A week and a half before the race I got a bad cold. Doubtless from being drained by a 200mile bike ride (Kathy got one too). Ha! It’s a good thing I wasn’t trying to take this race seriously.
I spent much of the two days before the race working packet pickup — making sure everyone gets their chip, their bib, their tee-shirt and all the other flotsam and jetsam associated with a race. And then making sure that a couple picking up their stuff together knew which went with whom (If a man runs with a woman’s chip the race director has conniptions as the man will probably get an unreasonably fast time for a woman).
I checked in one woman from Reykjavik, Iceland. Hadn’t realized we pulled people from so far afield.
We registered about 1700 half-marathon runners and we had 1446 finishers (I’m not sure how many missed the race and how many could not finish). Another 250 finished a concurrent 5K, and 250 walked the half-marathon course.
I checked to see what fast people were in my age group, and was delighted to find that none of the names I expected might beat me were registered. I neglected to note that Fred had had a birthday and had reentered my age-group.

The day of the race dawned bright and sunny. Chilly at my house, but warm by the time I got to the race start. The sun flirted with some cloudy wisps off to the east, and my hopes rose for a cool race, but the clouds dissolved before the race start.
We were all lined up at 8, and ready to go — when they announced that the registration lines were so long we were going to be delayed by 10 minutes or so (It was a chip race… surely the late runners could just start late? But I guess there is a boost in running with everyone else).
Jeff DeVine and I had planned to run together — last time each of us did this race we got within seconds of each other with 1:28:??, and we were both hoping for around 1:25 this time, aiming for a 6:30 /mile pace. But I couldn’t see Jeff. Oh well, I’d do what I could without him. I lined up in the second rank of runners. Last time I’d done this race I’d come in 30th and I figured that was about right for 30th. I was right behind Garret, whom I knew would be faster than I.
There was a elder gentleman beside Garret who didn’t look as though he could even hold my pace. It is courteous to line up approximately in expected finishing order, since it’s a chip race you won’t lose the time it takes you to reach the start, but if you are stuck behind someone moving slowly it can eat into your running time too. But you can’t force someone to reestimate their abilities. Garret certainly belonged in the front row, he wouldn’t slow anyone down. I felt pretty confident that I belonged near the front, and by being behind Garret I knew I wouldn’t be slowed down by anyone.
Bang!
And we were off. Over the chip mat and up the hill. The field thinned pretty quickly. I dropped back from Garret instantly of course, but there still weren’t many people around. I felt good going out, a welcome change from the way I’d been feeling since the bike ride. After a bit I noticed that Annie wasn’t ahead of me. Worrying, as she’s 15~20seconds/mile faster than I. Am I going too fast? But she passed me near the top of the steep bit. I kept hoping Jeff would catch up too. But he didn’t and when we got to the first mile mark I saw why — I was going far too fast. I’d run a 6:11 mile, and that uphill — more folly. I slowed down immediately.
On a clear day (which this was) there are great views of the SB Channel Islands from here. But I wasn’t noticing anything except the race. Perhaps I had pushed too hard on that mile to notice anything. Perhaps, as this is a route I take every day, its novelty has worn off. So I did not look at any views during this race. My loss.
We are running west, and our shadows stretch out in front of us. I am being overtaken by a shadow with a very peculiar hair-do. I can’t quite make it out. Eventually he passes me and I see he has something like a mohawk. As he passes me, someone else passes him.
At the second mile mark with a 6:39 time, I see I’ve slowed a little too much. I pick up the pace a little to stay with the two who have just passed me. I run a little behind them until just before mile 3 where there is a little hill, and I manage to pass mohawk again. I see that my third mile was again too fast (6:17) so I slow again, rendering my passing triumph short-lived as he passes me just before mile 4. After that no one passes me for the rest of the race.
We are now in the middle of a bunch of walkers. The walkers got a half hour head start on everyone else. Some of them are actually joggers and we haven’t caught up with them yet, but here we have walkers. I worry about walkers. Some of them don’t pay attention. They tend to walk in large clumps, chatting to each other, sometimes blocking the entire lane. Last time I did this race I ran past a walker who chose that moment to gesticulate to her companion, spreading her arms and whacking me firmly in the chest as I went by. There aren’t many runners ahead of me (about 20 was my guess), and the walkers aren’t used to people coming up behind, and many aren’t paying attention. We have reached a spot now where the course has doubled back on itself. On one side are the slow runners, on the other side and taking up all of the lane, are the walkers. I have to run out onto the wrong side of the street into the oncoming runners to get around these walkers. Grumble. But this is the worst of it, and after this I won’t have to deal with them again.
I reach mile 4 with a 6:29 time. Perfect! A fairly level mile with the right pace. I hope I can keep it up now.
I can’t, of course. We now head downhill and I get to mile 5 in 6:12. So I slow a bit.
I’ve returned to the start, and there’s another chip mat here. Hmm. Do they clock us in here too?
At mile 6 my time is 6:33. Pretty good for me. But we’re done with the downhill now, so I put a bit more effort into running now, and am going too fast for the next mile (6:23).
Now my legs are starting to feel tired. It’s flat here, it should be easy, but that first mile, going too fast up hill burned me up, I guess. I get to mile 8 with a 6:42 time. I try to speed up a bit, but mile 9 is 6:41. The lead runners have doubled back and a few have trickled by. Garret is about fifth. Mile 10 is our final hill, and it’s even slower 6:47.
Now I’ve doubled back too, and I’m seeing some friends, trying to cheer them on, but I don’t always have the breath. We are supposed to run on the left side of the lane (which comes unnaturally to most of us), but the great mass of runners heading towards me is incorrectly on the right. I try yelling at them, but it doesn’t work — there are too many of them, they are tired too, they probably don’t understand what I’m trying to say. I give up and run on the right.
We have one lane of a busy boulevard to run on, and the oncoming runners are taking up almost all of it. I’m forced out into traffic several times. I’ve managed to catch up with my mohawked friend, and pass him. The last person I manage to pass — I think — though I may later pass the guy ahead of both of us when he didn’t take the bike path and I lost track of him.
I see at mile 11 that I’m back on pace! 6:30! Yay!
A little beyond mile 11 is the reason we are supposed to be running on the left: We return on the bike path which runs parallel to the boulevard and about 30 feet closer to the sea. I’m on the wrong side of a river of runners as I approach this. The guy ahead of me missed the turn. The volunteer at the corner gestures me left — and at just the right moment there is a 6 foot gap in the river, I zip across. The guy in front of whom I’ve just crossed wakes up from his running reverie and says “what? hunh?” indicative of confusion and annoyance, but I’m safely on the bike path now.
There’s no one in sight on the bike path.
This was what I was supposed to do — wasn’t it?
I miss having someone 100 yards in front of me. I can see the guy who used to be in front on the road. I seem to have gained on him a bit (odd, since I have run a little further). It’s hard to run. I’m quite tired now. The empty bike path stretches in front of me. I don’t have any way of estimating how fast I should be running. My legs are tired.
I keep on.
Eventually I see the 12 mile mark. That’s a relief. I am on the right route. And I even managed a 6:26. No wonder my legs are tired.
Now they’ve pulled us off the bike path onto the sidewalk. Which is lined with spectators, who have no inkling that they are smack in the middle of the race route and no intention of moving out of my way. Grumble. Back into the street.
Why do I have to face all these obstacles when I’m tired?
Off the side-walk and onto the bike path again. Only about half a mile more to go. I think I must be slowing. It’s really hard to force myself to keep going. What does it matter after all? Who cares if I’m a minute slower. I could slow a little.
I don’t (my last 1.1 miles was run at a 6:31 pace)
I start to speculate. Now it’s possible I might win my age group. I know there aren’t many people in front of me. I don’t know their ages, of course, but it’s possible. I can hope.
I can see the finish line now, but it’s so far away. It’s also about 100yards beyond the point where we normally stop our Sunday runs. It’s going to be hard to do that last 100 yards — I’m used to stopping earlier.
There are a fair number of spectators here… and then there’s an incredulous shout “It’s George!” (from Dianna, I think — thank you whoever it was) and the rest of the crowd roars in sympathy.
It becomes a tiny bit easier to keep going.
And I’m in the finish shoot. There are two clocks in front of me. One reads 1:18:?? that can’t be right. The other reads 25:??. That can’t be right either. I’ve been pretty close to 6:30 all along, I know I haven’t picked up 7 minutes on 1:25. I could believe 1:24, I could believe 1:26 but both these clocks are wrong.
As I’m puzzling over this I cross the mat, and …
Good heavens, here’s Nirmal, what’s he doing here? He said he couldn’t run because it was his anniversary, but here he is taking my finishing tag off, and then they take my chip off.
And then I remember I should have stopped my own watch. Oops.
So I have no idea how long it took me to finish. My watch reads 1:25:24. How much of that time was spent seeing Nirmal, and getting my chip off?
But …
It doesn’t matter. It’s going to be right close to 1:25! A PR of more than 3 minutes. Just what I wanted!

I find water, and more water, and gatorade, and more water, and a banana, and a bunch of oranges quarters.
And here comes Leif a minute or so after me, and then Jeff 30 seconds after him. I go over to talk to them. More friends come in. I have some more water and fruit and a bran muffin. I don’t want to eat that muffin, but I know I should, I need the calories.
I go to the FRS tent and get a bottle of their elixir — this time the full calorie version.
It is interesting how differently tired I feel after a 200mile bike ride and a 13.1mile footrace. On the bike I think my primary problem was a simple lack of calories, I just couldn’t digest enough. Here food wasn’t an issue, I had a good breakfast, had some gel before the race, never felt hungry. But my legs… I could really tell my muscles had been working.
They haven’t posted the results yet.
A fog has started to roll in. It was a little too warm in the sun on the course, now it is a little too cool in the fog when stopped.
I decide to go off to the farmers’ market and come back and look for the results later.
I return in about 45 minutes. The results are up. There’s a large crowd in front of them, of course, and at first I can’t see. Ah. I finished 17th over all, with a time of 1:25:07, I was third in my division (rats, oh I see, Fred Mellon is older now, and there was someone from out of town). I averaged 6:30 exactly.
And then, off in the distance, I hear: “Men 40-44, third place”… oops, I have an award to pick up! So I move in that direction and get there just as they say “Men 45-49, third place: George Williams.”

Creeping, like snail, full willingly to top

3 Sept 2006

I started worrying about the weather in July. Stupid really, it may be swelteringly hot in July (and it was, oh it was), but that has no bearing on Labor Day weekend. Then the fog rolled in and much of August had lovely cool cloudy mornings. But my glee at that was almost as foolish as dismay in July. Toward the end of August the fog dissolved, but the Thursday before the race it rolled back in, thick and cold. “Hurray!” I thought, “this might be meaningful.” Unfortunately it wasn’t, and today, Sunday, dawned with clear skies.
Pier to Peak is an extraordinary half marathon that starts at the wharf down by the beach and climbs (almost uninterruptedly) to the top of La Cumbra Peak, the highest in the area. 13.1 miles with ~4000ft elevation gain. Not a fast race, but a good race for me since I still don’t want to go too fast after my knee surgery.
The first mile is coastal plain, pretty flat (except for where we duck under the freeway), then it starts to climb. Slowly at first. By mile 3 (just beyond the Mission) we’re about 350ft above sea-level. At mile 4 the climb really begins — going up roughly 400ft/mile from now on — as we head up into the mountains.
I’m not sure how to train for this race. Unlike any other, it only goes upward. Lots of hill work seems the obvious answer, but Mike Swan warns me that he’s gotten his best times when he didn’t do much hill training.
Oh well, I like hills. I’ll do them anyway. I start doing one trail run a week (Kornell encourages me in this), lengthening it week by week. I continue to do tempo runs, a 12 mile run with 6 miles at pace, slowly building to a 6:30 pace. I do a long run, ~15miles and Martin and I push each other to a 7min pace. Three weeks before the race I organize a run up the last 9 miles of the race. This is the steep bit.
Now how to race it. The last time I ran it I went out too fast, and had to start walking about mile 8. I don’t want to repeat that. On the other hand I’m in better shape now than I was then. I figure I’ll start out with about a 7 minute mile pace for the first 3~4 and slow down to a 9min pace going upward. My training run told me I could hold to a 9 min pace (except for one 10 minute mile on the really steep bit above Flores Flats). That gets me to the top around 1:51. Well, we’ll see.

I set out from home a little after 6. The sun isn’t up yet; it’s twilight, but fairly dark. I have my bike lights on. By the time I get to my planned parking spot it’s light. There isn’t a good place to park (a bike with a backpack attached) near the start line, so I lock the bike about a mile away — I’ll do my stretches here and then take a warm up jog to the starting line. I’ve got about 25 minutes. No rush.
I dither about taking dark glasses. Hard really to believe the sun will be an issue when it hasn’t even risen yet. I decide against them. Probably a mistake, but not a big one.
I jog over to the start line. I feel stiff. Maybe I’ll be slower than I hoped. Hanging over the mountains on the other side of the bay are thin lines of clouds, lit up from the sun underneath and brilliant yellow. There’s Shigy. Well, no chance of being first in my age-group — not that I really thought I would be. I greet various friends. The temperature is quite pleasant. That’s alarming. If it feels warm before 7 when we’re standing around doing nothing, what’s it going to be like running in full sun, half-way up the mountain (where it’s always hot) an hour from now? There’s only one solution to heat: finish quickly.
I see sunlight on the ground, and turn and look. The sun is just rising over the mountains. “Sunrise,” I cry, but only the sand-sculpter who makes mermaids on the beach pays any attention.
Carrie and I worry about Nirmal, and Martin. Both, we think, are planning to do the race, both are missing, both are perennially late to our Sunday runs. I was hoping Martin would help pace me, and Carrie probably hopes the same for Nirmal. We are called forward to the starting line, and there is Nirmal. Just in the nick of time.

And we are off. I didn’t push through to the front, so I’m about 3 bodies back when we start, and as we squeeze down to fit in the lane I find myself trapped behind some slower runners. I have to run sideways to get around them.
It feels good to be moving. Under the freeway and then up the other side. The really fast people are pulling ahead, maybe 15~20 of them. I’m in the middle of the second pack. Seems a good place to be. Not too fast.
At the first mile mark I check my watch. The guy beside me asks what it was. 6:26. Too fast. I slow down a bit and let some other people pass me.
Someone has chalked “Go Don” in the middle of the road. A car has driven over it and the “Go” got imprinted on the tire, and now there is a fading series of “Go”es leading us up the road (Don did not get repeated).
I don’t see the 2 mile mark somehow. Reach the Mission at about 17 minutes. There’s a really steep bit just after the Mission when we turn onto Mountain Dr. and I start passing people again. I also pass my first walkers, who started earlier.
And I don’t see mile markers 3, 4, 5 and 6 either. But mile 4 is near the old reservoir, and I get there about 28 minutes. So I’ve done the first 4 at about 7min/mile. Good. Now it really gets steep. Up Gibraltar Rd.
Someone has chalked “Good Views” on the road here, I look off to the right, but everything below is wreathed in haze. How can I notice this note and not the mile marks? I’m looking for the mile marks.
Another chalked comment “Ah shade”, and yes, we have just entered the shade, and it is very welcome. The road is twisty now, and we switchback around till we are looking out over the city, and the ocean. The view is good. I think the chalk writer should have pointed this one out, much better than the last, and then I find she has. The message is just a little after I looked out.
And a little further on, I find the chalker herself, writing another message in the middle of the road. “Car back,” I warn her, but she has time to finish her message before the car arrives. This one I don’t see (she was in the way), and after that I’m ahead of her.
Someone is running down Gibraltar, really fast. As he gets closer I see it’s Rusty (what’s he doing? I know he wasn’t planning on running the race. Did he start really early and go up and down?). I yell at him “You twit, you’re going the wrong way.” It turns out he was pacing the lead runner for a mile or two on the steep bit.
At the next water stop the guy ahead of me slows down to a walk to drink his water. I pass him as he does so. I’ve now repassed all the people from my pack of runners. The fast guys are far ahead, out of sight on this windy road.
It is hot now. The shade didn’t last. We move in and out of patches as we head across gullies with a few trees and then into the sun as the road snakes back around an exposed edge.
I pass a couple of walkers. The guy cheers me on. The woman says “13.” Hmm. Are there only 13 runners ahead of me? I’d have thought there were more than that. Or did she mean something completely different.
At the U-turn with all the “no-shooting” signs, which have been shot to bits, is another water station. I think about the guy I just passed. I’m probably not going very fast. I’m not going to lose much time if I slow to a walk. And I need the water. It is hot. My scalp prickles the way it does when I’m mildly dehydrated. I don’t want water slopping out of the cup as normally happens when I drink on the run — especially with these tiny cups. So I slow, drink, and run on again. I’ve never done that before. It doesn’t make sense when doing 7 minute miles or faster, but at a 9 minute pace in the hot sun, I don’t care.
And finally I see a mile marker. “7″ chalked on the road.
At the rock of Gibraltar there are some people parked to watch the race. They have an unleashed dog with them who also wants to watch, and trots up to me. But he is friendly and just wants to sniff and doesn’t get in the way. I must be rather rank by now.
I’m passing a lot of walkers. Are any of these people who were ahead of me and went out too fast?
I see the “8″ mile marker. Good heavens, I did an 8 minute mile? I’m going that fast? Wow.
Let’s see. It’s 1:03 now. If I keep going at an 8min pace that gets me to the top at 1:44. That’s ridiculous. A 9min pace 1:49. Even that seems unlikely. Well, we’ll see.
I can see La Cumbra Peak. It looks really close. A mile? It looks a long way up though, and the road snakes around so it’s 5 miles the way I’m going.
I pass someone I think is a runner. But the walkers who are up this far are often part-time runners, so it’s hard to tell.
A bit after mile 9 we come to Flores Flats. A little community of a few houses off the grid. There’s a small stream here (or there was a few weeks ago, I don’t notice it today). My friend Bob lives here and I hoped to see him, but I don’t. I check my watch 1:16:?? from the start, so it’s 8:15 or so. I guess sane people are having breakfast.
Flores Flats has the distinction of having a small downhill section (the first in a long time, nice!) as we dip down to the stream. This is followed by a really steep half mile or so as we climb out of it.
I think of Jacques’ schoolboy, “Creeping like snail, unwillingly to school,” as I try to push on. I’m doing this willingly of course, But I sure feel as if I were creeping.
Mile 10.
And then we are at the end of Gibraltar, and turn onto Camino Ciello. The road to heaven. There’s more water here. I really need it. I slow down to a walk to drink it. The rest (walking) feels good too. The guy behind me (whom I have just passed) passes me. But I pass him again soon after.
Mile 11.
Another downhill stretch. Maybe half a mile. This is where I was hoping to have Martin, he runs this faster than I would normally. I push myself.
Only two more miles. It’s up again now. My legs are tired. They didn’t like running fast just now. I’ve slowed, of course, but not enough, and now I make a conscious decision to slow further.
After a bit I feel a little better and can speed (ha) up again.
A cyclist zooms down the hill and yells at me “George, you’re number 10 now.” Wow.
I can’t see anyone ahead of me, so I doubt I’ll become number 9. I can’t hear anyone behind me, so maybe I’ll stay number 10.
Another water stop, or water slow, the last. I really need the water. It’s hot. But now there are again patches of shade from the pine trees along the ridge line.
Two guys are trotting down from the top, looking all rested. I feel a little demoralized. I’m not rested. I’ve still got — what? half a mile? more? to go.
And I’m under the radio antennae that mark the peak. The road snakes though and I’ve got another .2 miles to go (or so). And I turn off Camino Ciello onto the fire road that runs up to the peak. Ogg. It’s steep. There’s the finish line. 1:47:?? I can’t be running that fast… but I am, and I cross 1:47:26 by my watch. 1:47:27 by Wally’s clock.
Where have they hidden the water. Damn it. I don’t want FRS. I want water. Where is it. Oh behind me. Three (small) cups of water later I feel much better. Lemonade. More water. a banana.
Garret’s up here, of course, Arren, Shigy.
Wally congratulates me. I’m really pleased, faster than I anticipated. Let’s see, that’s about an 8 minute mile… why that’s almost reasonable for a flat half-marathon.
And my knee feels fine! (my other knee feels fine too, as does my achilles and all other potentially ailing bits of me).
After a bit I see Martin. I ask if he were late for the start? “I was on time,” complains Martin, “The race started early.” I really have no idea, I had my watch set to stopwatch paying no attention to the time.
Fifteen minutes later I’m feeling human again. Sort of. There’s shade up here, and the temperature is pleasant. I’m standing beside Barbara waiting for Stu. She’s worried about him (he had a broken leg not that long ago). I say I’ll walk down and look for him. I start to, but here’s Carrie coming up, and she looks drained, so I turn around and run beside her cheering her on, and she perks up a bit.
Then I think… When I was coming up this would I have wanted Garret running beside me pushing me to go faster? Probably not.
I head down again, and see Debra. And she’s walking. So, having learned nothing, I turn round, run beside her and cheer her on. And she, too, perks up and runs again.
And I head down once more and get almost to the road, and there’s Stu. And I run beside him cheering him on.
When I get back they’ve posted a provisional finishers list. I am, indeed, #10. I’ve never been tenth in any real local race.
It’s kind of amazing. I’ve only been running for 2 months after a hiatus of almost 4 months and knee surgery, and yet I’ve come in tenth.
I’m fourth in my age group. Rats. I had hoped for second, but some guy from Ojai ran almost as fast as Shigy. Oh, yeah, 10 year divisions.
Oh, who cares. I got up there at 1:47:27 PR (8:13min/mile), far faster than I dared hope I’d make it. That’s great!