Only Half Dirty: Dirty German 50K Race Reflections Pt. 1

There’s no word to describe a run like this.  If I had to Mad Lib, “An Ultra Marathon is _______,” half of the adjectives in my vocabulary would fit, but none would come close to encapsulating the race.  A poet could spend his entire life contemplating, and still never find the perfect word to describe an Ultra.

We arrived at Pennypack Park in North Philly about an hour and fifteen minutes before race time.  The sun had already risen and the parking area was moving with nonchalant runners.  Love struck me then.

Any excitement or anxiousness I was feeling was placated by the calm, mellow tone of the atmosphere.  Chirps were more prevalent than uttered syllables, nothing drowned the whispers of the leaves, and even the waking sky seemed to be audible.

I made my way to the open-air lodge and gave them a name in exchange for my bib, shirt, and bag.  Returning to the parking lot, I collected a few strange looks as I proceeded to stretch by myself on the dated asphalt.  Was I the only one?  Thinking back, I never saw another runner stretch that morning.  But I did, in the middle of it all: runners like Buddhist monks, silently strolling through the grounds, respecting their hallowed surroundings.  There was the occasionally interruption of excitement when a runner met a briefly lot friend, but there were no superfluous words.  On this morning, nature spoke, and runners listened.

With about 40 minutes to go, I headed back to the car to Bull Frog up.  I wasn’t sure how this whole super-long distance trail run thing worked exactly, but I figured that if I used the first mile as a warm-up, then it would really only be a 30 mile race.  So I spent my pre-race time applying sunscreen, posing for a picture or two, and chatting with David and Christina, who after hearing me talk about it at a few AM runs, decided it was something they needed to do.

David and Christina are runners.  In the purest sense.  It’s very rare to catch them without an upcoming trail run (usually Marathon or Ultra) on their horizon.  They travel to almost all of their “races” together and run for pure enjoyment.  On this particular day, they were embarking on their third race of 26.2 or farther in four weekends.  David (did I mention he was in the M60-69 age group) was going for the 50K with me, while Christina was striving for her first 50 Miler.

After I introduced my companions to my mom, she kept asking the three of us, “Why is this a good idea?”  I had never had an answer before, other than “Well, it’s only a little farther than a Marathon.”  But now, just a few minutes before go-time, even that didn’t sound logical.  Spectator rule No. 1: Do NOT ask a participant “why” within 24 hours of the race.

So the three of us posed for one last picture, David and I by the “50K” arrow, Christina by the “50Mile”, and watched to the race director give his speech in full lederhosen.  When he felt that he had explained enough, he ended with a quick, “ok, go.”  We said our good-byes and started off in the same direction as our flocks were flowing.

By mile .50, my mind was struggling to record the scenes and data from the run so I might report it back to you.  I realized very early on that without carrying a recording device to voice my thoughts as I ran, detailed analysis of this thing was going to be impossible.  From the very beginning, all of the numbers - time, distance, place - were invisible.  Like the vegetable components in a V8 Splash.  These numbers were not completely irrelevant; they were affecting me, but in ways my mind could not quite understand in the moment.  It seemed the more time I knew I had, the faster my thoughts raced, leaving no room for minutes, mileage, or any other man-made thought-consumer.  That being said, keep in mind that any references to miles or times hereafter are approximations, and may be drastically wrong.

But I can tell you that that first mile was the longest.  I took in more woodsy comfort in nine and a half minutes than on an average couple hour hike.

We started in a heap, ran across an open field to the road, then found the trail.  The early stages were a bit rocky (man-laid), and David’s warning rang in my mind: “when you look up, you go down.”

After that first mile (which was my warm-up lap anyway, remember?)  The thundering herd began to spread out.  Well, they appeared to be spreading out in front of me, but somehow there was always a lengthy queue on my tail.

Aid station 1 occurred about 3 miles in, and oh, what wonderful volunteers there were.  Having only run road races, I expected drinks and maybe some food to be lined on the table, and a few volunteers to be holding out cups of water for passing runners.  Instead, I approached, opened my water bottle, and a man ran up to me and began pouring.  “Just say when,” he told me.  “Thank you.”

I was in and out of my first pit stop faster than Jimmie Johnson, or whomever your favorite Nascar driver is.  I finally had a little room to myself, and was ready to make my first mistake.

A mile or so later, I found myself running peacefully on smooth single track, enjoying the view of the backside of the brick duplexes that backed up to that portion of the park.  I heard footsteps inching closer, so I called back, “just let me know when you want to pass.”  But the girl decided she was happy to follow me for a bit, and I made my first trail friend.  She told me that her husband, who was running the 25K, had gone out too fast, and she was worried about him.  I told her that this my first Ultra, and my first time putting in more than racing or putting in more than 11 miles on trails.  “I have a pace in mind,” I spoke, “but I keep hitting well under it, and I don’t really know how to adjust.  So I’m just going to run until I can’t anymore.”  This was not my original plan, of course, but I really couldn’t figure out how to slow down when all I wanted to do was explore more of the park.

We ran single-file, and although we were talking straight ahead, I must have looked up.  Faster than you can say, “Achtung!” the ground opened up in front of me.  Managing to maintain control, I sped down the hill as fast as my feet could fly.  Anticipating a small stream at the bottom, I was distressed by the 15 foot creek I saw before me.  With little time to brake or maneuver, I took fractions of a second to scan the water for a rock crossing.  Nothing appeared, so I checked the water level, a split second after jumping.  My left foot landed in the middle of the 20 inch-deep midpoint.  Barely upsetting my stride, the right foot followed, and in no time, we were on the other bank.

Right behind me, my trail friend (no, we never exchanged names) remarked, “well, you have the right idea on the downhills.”  “Yes, I take what the trail gives me.”  We scampered over rocks and decaying mini-dams and discussed the nature of the ultra-companion himself.  “The best part,” she proposed, is that when a conversation’s over, you can just move on.”  “Yup, nice talking to you, and there’s no hard feelings about it.”  A few whatever you measure trail running time in later, I wished her good luck, and she finally passed.

Mile 7.5 (the map told me) brought another aid station.  This one boasted its plethora of food, and I had to indulge in a few PB&J sandwich pieces.  Once again, the volunteers greeted us with pitchers, ready to give us a refill.  Have I mentioned how much I loved this race and the people involved?

By this time, however, we’d reached a portion of the course that followed the park’s bike path.  If you haven’t figured out my big mistake yet, don’t feel too bad, because I didn’t figure it out until this point, either.  I had been a strict roadie for most of the time I’ve been running, but this time, it was the last thing I wanted.  Although my feet had dried a bit, the socks were still wet, and the hard asphalt was forcing even more friction upon my soles, creating a burning sensation.  The next mile and a half on asphalt felt like a 10K on hot coals.  Ultra runner rule No. 1: Keep your feet dry if possible.

Oh, the trails, such sweet relief.  But upon reaching them, I fell in with a large line that I’d be following for quite some time.  We leap frogged a bit; I sped through the downhills, they jogged past on the uphills.  The whole thing was tiresome, and try as I might, I just couldn’t break free.

Eventually, we came to another creek crossing, and as the group waited in line to cross a concentrated line of rocks, I spotted another cluster a few feet further down and dashed across.  Halfway up the proceeding hill, I realized that this was the same creek that had cost my podiatric comfort.  If only I had seen that hill coming and braked a little harder.

After another glorious aid station, the course split again, and I wandered onto a new trail with more twists, turns, and exhausting inclines than any other section.  The entire course, I found, was poorly marked.  There were arrows at every turn, and pink ribbons to guide or reassure you, but the arrows always seemed to be in the wrong place.  I hardly ever found them at the crux of the turn, but just around the corner instead.  It seemed like whoever had marked them expected runners to stop and look both ways at every intersection.  I signed up for a trail race to neglect that responsibility.

But despite my strict adherence to the course and its confusing misplaced arrows, I found myself coming up on the caboose of the group I thought I had left in my dust.  I patiently trotted behind them for a while, but when there pace put my goal of all sub 10 minute miles for the first loop in jeopardy, I had to politely excuse myself and blow past them.

The sound of polka via accordion danced in the air as signs of civilization began to pervade the forest.  I dodged, ducked, dipped, dived, and dodged a few more trees, logs, and overgrown bushes, crossed one more little stream, and the jungle finally spit me out onto another bike path.  This time, however, I could see the calm hoop-la that is the Ultra finish area.

I had supplanted my drop back with extra PowerBars, extra sun tan lotion, extra water bottles, and an extra shirt, but there was only one thing I was stopping in for: a change of socks.

Challenge Rejected: Saying "No" to Competition

I received a challenge yesterday.  The race director of the RunTheBluegrass Half Marathon offered a $5 discount to next year’s race to anyone who outruns him in this year’s Bluegrass 10,000.

I’ve been debating whether to come back to Lexington for the BG 10k this year, and this isn’t making the decision any easier.  The challenger is boasting a predicted finishing time of 45:00, which seems like a pretty good goal for me to shoot for.  But it’s a little more complicated than that.

Anyone who ran high school track or cross country knows that the goal of these races is to win the race, or at least beat as many other runners as you can.  Cross country is scored in a way that allows five runners on a team to score points, based on their finishing position, and two other runners to contribute but beating opponents, thus hurting the opposition’s score.  It doesn’t matter whether you finish 1 minute or 1 second in front of him, beating an opponent helps your team.

When I had the privilege of hearing marathon gold medalist Frank Shorter speak at the Rock ‘n’ Roll New Orleans expo, he speculated that the Olympic Trials and the Olympic games are the two races in which a runner has to stay with the lead pack in order to have a chance to win.  In other races, it may be possible, even at the elite level, to run at a pre-determined pace, but in those to races, any runner hoping for a victory absolutely has to stay with the lead pack and compete against those runners.

But for the 99%, the rules change after high school or college.  Running is no longer a team sport, and there are no longer any opponents to beat.

As the average runners, we have the luxury of being able to compete against ourselves.  Ourselves and no one else.  We don’t have to worry about any front-runners setting a blistering pace, or anyone drafting off of us, waiting to sprint ahead in the final stretch.  It is a silent competition between our body and the course.  And perhaps the clock, if we choose to allow a third entrant.

We know our opponents, we study them devoutly.  We track their progress through mile logs, Garmin times, heart-rate monitors, and empty GU packets.  This is healthy reflection.  “Nosce te ipsum.”  Know thyself.  Our limits and strengths do not come from anyone else, they come from within.

We do not fritter away our thoughts on the potential of someone whom we cannot control.  Nor do we desire to control our competitors.  When I compete against a running buddy in a race or sometimes in a friendly training run, I admit that I do want to run faster.  But not necessarily faster than him or her, just faster.  “Citius, Altius, Fortius”.  In fact, I like to see my closest running friends smoke me sometimes, because I know that if they can find that extra speed, I can find it, too.  I don’t compete against them, I compete with them.

This is the feeling that we, the average runners, are privileged to revel in.  We need concern ourselves only with our own strength, technique, and drive.  And the rewards of a valiant effort against our own fears and doubts are as good as gold.

I will admit that I have thought about the competition.  When I wrote y first race review of the Marshall University Marathon, I mused that had I gone out slower, I may have avoided quadricep failure, and possibly taken 3^rd in my age group.  I did think briefly about registering for the race this year, despite my terrible review of the race, in hopes of medaling.  However, the report concluded with my (albeit reluctant at the time) affirmation that I would not race for the medal.  If I do enter in the future, I will reach my target time or, once again, burn out trying and then limp home.

As I wrote in an earlier post, we all have our own reasons for running.  By the same token, we all have our same reasons for racing.  Some race for the time, some race for the tech-shirt, some race for the post-race alcohol, and some do race for the win.  The latter, however, are professionals, and their jobs are to beat competitors.  But for the rest of us, racing can be something more.  Steve Prefontaine said that, “I race to see who has the most guts.”  While I will always admire the man, I don’t care about the contents of his insides; just my own.

This is not to say that I’ve made up my mind about entering the Bluegrass 10,000.  But if I do run, I will be running to break 45:00.  And I wish speedy times and satisfying performances to all other runners.

The First Time- Race Review of the 2011 Flying Pig Marathon

It’s been 360 days since I ran my first marathon.  Ample time to forget, the joy, the pain, the excitement; to let the emotions wash away with all of the year’s other races.

But you don’t forget your first time.

Not too long ago, I was just a young, naïve school teacher.  Yeah, I fooled around with running sometimes, a lot of guys my age did.  It was a harmless game to me; I didn’t really know what I was doing.

When I moved to Lexington in the summer of 2010, I fell in with a somewhat mischievous crowd.  Hind sight is 20/20, but they may have had a bit of a running problem.

I submitted to peer pressure immediately.  First it was an early morning distance PR after a night of margaritas and day-old Mexican food.  Then it was my first double digit run on Lexington’s most infamously hilly course.  By the end of the month, I was taking hits of 15 milers, and paying it for it bouts of plantar fasciitis.

But I was hooked.  And I began to think: “If I can run 15, why not 26.2?”  After a successful Half Marathon that fall, I set my sights on going all the way.

Just before New Year’s, I made my resolution.  I would become a man that year.  I decided that I would give my Marathon virginity to the Flying Pig.

I was overwhelmed by the crowds before we even turned off of the highway.  The city was alive with traffic, all heading toward a central point, all with a central purpose.  We found a garage to duck in to, made the long walk down to the football stadium, and the nerves set in.

Whatever anxiety I had was only amplified by the juxtaposition of the seemingly few minutes I had to stretch and march down to the corral (start time was 6:30am) and the pouring rain, which threatened to delay the start.  I probably spent as much time making sure my gels, bars, and Band-Aids were strategically placed as I did stretching.

In a rush, I kissed my girlfriend (now wife) goodbye, and searched for the right corral.  Knowing that there was no pace group for my projected time of 4:10, I sought out the 4 hour pace group, hoping the camaraderie would give me that extra speed.

As the rain continued to pour, someone sang the “Star-Spangled Banner”, runners stripped off wet clothes and tossed them in every direction, and I stood in awe of the mess I was in.  I’d reached the top of the water-slide, and it was too late to climb back down.  During my training, I had only managed to complete one 19-miler and one 20-miler, neither one of which was as fast as I hoped to run this morning.

A gunshot rang out, and 16,000 people began moving forward like a slice of lemmings.  This has been the only race in which I found it impossible to move at my preferred pace from the start (our first mile was around 10:00), and it was immediately apparent that running an efficient point-to-point race would be impossible as well (my Garmin would read 26.50 miles at the finish).  So I stayed with my pace group, plodding along through whatever space I could find.

Despite our slow start, it was easy to enjoy from step number one.  The rain was heavy and the crowd was thick, but the people, the people were electric.  No matter which direction I turned my head, I saw a friendly face smile, I heard an excited voice cheer, I smelled… well, wet runners, but I didn’t mind.

The excitement crossed the bridge into Kentucky with us, and our group steadily picked up speed.  The first few miles went by easily, but I don’t think they were the part of the course that anyone was really thinking about.

By mile 5, we were passing back through the heart of the city.  The rain was beginning to let up, but my shirt had picked up some extra weight from the rain.  I knew my wife had planned to watch the race from this point, so I scanned the crowds as well as I could, hoping I could toss my shirt to her, but the crowds, both runners and spectators, were far too thick.  We never saw each other, but she did manage to get a picture of me (barely visible), as she blindly snapped one photo into the hoard as my pace group ran by.  The jubilant trot through downtown ended much too soon, however, and we neared mile 5.5, ready for the climb.

I have to say, that the hype about the climb up to Eden Park, which is supposedly a gain of 400ft over 3 miles, is probably over exaggerated.  Perhaps it was all of the extrinsic adrenaline, perhaps it was the sounds of a two man rap group who just kept saying, “The Flying Pig Marathon!” and “Pump it up!” over and over, but something put a charge in me on that hill.

And when we reached the overlook in Eden Park, I felt a thrill I’d never known before.  It was a combination of the beauty of the river and landscape, the energy from the crowd, and inherent sense of accomplishment that was only a few hours away.

And it was all downhill from there, in every sense.

I felt so good at the top of the hill, that I left my pace group (which may have been too fast for me to begin with) in the dust, er, puddles.  By that point we had just about caught up with our intended pace of 9:10 miles, but I kept going.  I did a few 9:05s, some 9:00s, and even went as low as an 8:45.  I felt great, but the Marathon gods would not heed my hubris kindly.

The Half Marathoners left us at about mile 8.5, but the excellent crowd support continued (something that did not happen in New Orleans).  I still have a terrible sense of location in the city, but we ran threw a few pretty neighborhoods, and the locals came out to offer their support via cheers, cowbells, high fives, shots… I’m pretty sure someone would have given me a bike if I had asked.

While the fans never let up, by mile 12, the novelty of everything began to wear off.  I felt, not alone, but more focused on what I was doing and the reality of what still lay ahead of me.  Someone had told me that, although the course is all downhill after mile 8, it doesn’t feel like it.  He was right.

After a loop around a quaint neighborhood on Murray Rd, we were finally heading back toward the finish line.  But with about 10 miles to go.

At mile 17, the first bolt came off the wheel.  I was getting tired.  My original plan for this race was to take a 30 second walk break every mile.  I was adamant about sticking to this… right up to the start of the race.  Since I had not wanted to lose my pace group in the crowd, I had skipped my walk breaks.  Even after I left the pacers, I became too enveloped by the race and the atmosphere to remember my original strategy.  I finally remembered at mile 17, and decided to take my first walk break.  It was too little, too late.

For the next few miles, I took walk breaks, but making it to the mile markers became more and more difficult.  It didn’t help that we turned on to a parkway around mile 18, and for the first time, I did not have the sound waves of a thousand screaming voices propelling me forward.

Pretty close to that unmerciful 20 mile mark, I officially hit the wall.  I was still moving forward, but my fatigue was increasing exponentially, as my miles grew slower and slower.

By mile 21.5, the 4 hour pace group Flew past me.  Flew.  I ran with them for about 30 seconds, and then could not take it anymore.  I trudged on, carrying the weight of my poor execution and even the thought that I had been over-zealous in registering for this race in the first place.

Somewhere under an overpass near mile 23, my right knee went.  Pain that I hadn’t felt since my first month of running well over a year before was back in full force.  But I kept moving forward.

Now in the final stretch on Riverside Dr, the crowds were back in full force.  Everyone was there.  A Gorilla, Spiderman, girls in Moulin Rouge-style outfits, Elvis, high school aged hippies, a guy with a green afro and a giant high-five hand, firemen, people with pig noses... I wished I was in better spirits to enjoy it.  I moved through slowly, trying my best to smile, but even those muscles were fatigued.

By this point, I had committed to a new strategy: walk the slight inclines and flats, shuffle on the downhills.  Although I averaged 2 more minutes per mile on the last 6 miles than the first 20, I still finished.

When I saw that 25 mile mark, I kept walking.  But that 25.2 mile mark, that one was inspiring.  I resolved to run the last mile.  I pushed every muscle in me, gave everything I had, and eeked out a 10 minute mile.

For months, I had dreamed about the moment when I crossed that “Finish Swine”.  I’d seen myself shedding a tear, so elated by my accomplishment.

When it actually happened, I started bawling uncontrollably.  This deluge was no act of storm fronts, but was a direct result of the joy that came from the dam race being over.  For an hour or so, I just wanted to not have to run anymore.  When my wish was finally granted, my mind no longer knew what to think about and my heart no longer knew what emotion to feel.  The result of this confusion was tears, a lot of them.

I cried my way through the recovery area, grabbing whatever food or drinks I could see between the sobs.  Friends had warned me that after the race, it may be a while before I could concede to possibly running another Marathon, but I didn’t have that problem.  Even after the anguish of that last 10k, I knew I had to run another.

Admittedly, I may have run my first Marathon too soon, but I definitely don’t regret it.  That first experience beat me up both physically and emotionally.  It would be a month before I recovered from the knee pain that began at mile 23, and another month before I regained confidence in my abilities as a runner.  But whatever I felt about myself then, I certainly gained an appropriate level of respect for the Marathon, and all of its participants.

I feel like this review became more about my first Marathon experience than about the Flying Pig Marathon, but I do want to emphasize that despite the wretchedness of my final miles, and even after two more Marathons, three Halfs, and a 10-Miler, this is still my favorite race.  So here are the reasons why I believe it to be one of the best of what’s around:

-Solid expo, good SWAG (tech-shirt, poster, backpack, finisher’s medal)

-Beautiful City with some magnificent views (crossing the Ohio River, running past Great American Ballpark, Eden Park, Riverside Dr.)

-Great support (well-manned water stations at least every mile, good variety and plenty of food and drinks in the recovery area)

-Phenomenal crowd support (packed sidewalks on almost every mile of the course)

Unlike some other races, the Flying Pig Marathon is a major event in its city.  While it doesn’t draw the elite runners that flatter and more historic race might, it is certainly a day that Cincinnati looks forward to, and the town does an excellent job of making the runners feel special.

Why We Run - What I Know About Micah True

For a few weeks now, I’ve been trying to sort through the words I want to say about Micah True.  I really don’t know much about the man, save for what Christopher McDougall wrote about him in Born to Run and a few things he’d posted to his Facebook site (which I only began following a few weeks before his passing).  But what I did learn about him was enough to change my feelings about running.

One piece of information that I’m not sure anyone can answer about him is “why?”  I’m sure many in the running community are familiar with his story - leaving the Colorado trail running scene to live in the Copper Canyons and fill his days with meandering runs through the hills – but why?  Leaving what we know as civilization to live among the Tarahumara tribes, jotting out for runs of unpredictable distances, leaving no word of where he was heading, usually not knowing, himself – why?

Most of us can pinpoint the reason why we run.  We know why we started running however long ago, we know why we took time off from it, and we know why, today, we call ourselves “Runners” with a capital “R”.

My own history can be summed up in a few incomplete simple sentences: 1) Joined high school cross country team due to boredom with soccer. 2) Stopped running once high school sport seasons ended. 3) Joined college running club to be part of a club and perhaps cope with a breakup. 4) Stopped running to spend time with a girl (Burgess Meredith was right, “women weaken legs!”). 5) Began running to cope with breakup. 6) With the encouragement of several wonderful running buddies and one incredibly supportive wife, I have continued running.  Longer distances and faster times that I never thought were possible are only the bi-products of my desire to make myself better in some way everyday, to test my own limits and discover new possibilities, and to thoroughly enjoy the intangible gifts of this life.

Although it’s not always easy to express or admit, most of us know why we run.

But does it matter?  I’ve probably run with 1/3 or more of my Facebook friends, and, I’m sorry guys, but I don’t really know why any of you run (strike that; I know Ernie’s in it for the post-run bacon).  What I do know is that every lap, mile, and water break has been more enjoyable when I’ve had the privilege of sharing it with someone.

Somewhere inside, we all know why we run.  But whether you do it to lose weight, chase a PR, or meet people who look good in short shorts, what matters to most people is that you run.

And that’s how I feel about Micah True aka Caballo Blanco.  His reasons mean little to me.  I know that he left what he knew to do what he loved and live among a people he respected and admired.  I know that he went to great lengths to organize (and sustain) a small race that would be critical in changing society’s perception of the almost forgotten Tarahumara people, fueling the Distance Running Renaissance, and providing a new outlook on the human body and its abilities.  I’m not sure if he considered all of that when he organized his first ultra marathon in the Copper Canyons; I like to think he was just chasing a dream he wanted to see come true.

I sincerely hope that during his last run through the Gila Wilderness, he went peacefully, doing what he loved.  I’ll never know why the man ran, but knowing that he did, knowing that someone like him was in this world, makes life a little more enjoyable.

For more information on Micah True (Caballo Blanco), I highly recommend reading Christopher McDougall’s Born to Run.  A must read for anyone at all interested in running, it is, and probably always will be, the best book I have ever read.  The author also recently published an article describing the search for Caballo Blanco after he went missing.  It’s an interesting piece, and his words describe what the White Horse meant to people far better than mine can.  Here’s the link: On the Trail of the White Horse

The Trails

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve run through the city that I know so well.  The familiarly dry streets of the town that introduced me to real running have not met my feet for a friendly game of man versus six miles lately.  Since my trip to DC earlier this month, it has been difficult for me to trade the generous views of the countryside for the brick and mortar sights of central and south Lexington.

With my first ultra marathon and long distance trail run only a few weeks away, I’ve made a point to get off the asphalt whenever possible.  It certainly wasn’t easy to trade my effortlessly speedy training runs for workouts on the park grass, which slowed me significantly while increasing perceived effort.  But as I wandered farther off the beaten path, I began to discover pieces of what I was unknowingly searching for.

After the Cherry Blossom 10 miler, my wife and I took the next few days to see just about everything the National Park Service makes a stamp for in DC, not to mention the zoo and a few museums.  As much as I enjoyed the city and its history, the most exciting adventures were the morning trail runs my wife which my wife generously allotted time for.

While staying with a friend in Laytonsville, MD, I was able to sneak out one morning and explore part of the Seneca Creek Greenway Trail.  The trail begins at the Potomac River and runs northward for about 30 miles, crossing roads at times, but remaining in protected forest for the most part.

Since the temperatures at home had been in the mid 80s before we left, I had not thought to pack anything but jeans, short sleeve shirts, running shorts, a light jacket, and road shoes.  When I set out on the trail that morning, my car thermometer read, “30 ICY”.

Nevertheless, my time with this trail was exhilarating.  I took off along the single-track, navigating the woods between the stream and the backyards of an upscale neighborhood, which offered only the occasional dog bark to remind me of its existence.  At times, I thought I saw a man in a white shirt darting across the trail in the distance.  By the third occurrence, however, I was able to recognize it as a deer’s behind at first sight.

As I rambled up and down the hills, I paid no attention to my watch; it was apparent that I had no say in my pace.  Speed was determined by the hills and the trail, and I went as quickly or slowly as they wanted me to.  The only constant on the trail was change and the promise of unpredictability.

About 1.5 miles through my six mile out and back, I met an obstacle.  The creek itself.  At 25 feet wide and maybe one foot deep, I viewed it as more imposing on this “icy” day than it was.  When the nearest cross-stream log appeared too difficult to cross, I took to the rocks that crossed the stream.  With a walking stick in hand, I made it halfway across before realizing that the last few rocks fell an inch or two short of the surface.  Praying for balance, I made a quick dash for the bank, and emerged safely.  But not without soaking wet feet.  No matter, another half mile of running dried my feet fairly well.

Two days later, I awoke in a tent in the Shenandoah Mountains and set out for a quick six along the AT.  Although the terrain was far more difficult in some spots, and the altitude presented a great challenge (3,500ft is high for someone who’s hardly ever been over 1,000ft above sea level), this run was just as exhilarating.

During the past few weeks, I have stayed off the roads, or at least out of the city as much as possible.  And I’ve realized that I treat road running and trail running very differently.  Last night, during an eight miler through the woods of Veterans Park, I completely lost my bearings and had no idea where I was for most of the run.  But it didn’t matter.  Eventually, the trails took me in the right direction, as I knew they would.  When I run, I see the road as my foe, and I must vanquish it through faster splits or longer distances.  The trail, however, is my friend, and I just want to hang out with her.  Whatever pace she chooses is fine with me.

Bill Rodgers: Running Forever

I expected to be writing a race review for the Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run.  The truth is, during the race I was so focused on running point-to-point while weaving through a few thousand people, that I didn’t notice much, save for two cherry blossom trees, a circular monument with columns (no idea whom it pays tribute to, though), and a slight gust coming off the Potomac that prompted me to position myself behind the runner best suited to keep the pace while breaking the wind for me.

For those who are considering this as a future race, however, I can say that it was everything it should have been.  It can’t be easy to organize a ten mile race with 17,000 participants, but the director and crew did a tremendous job.  Don’s Johns were abundant, the corral rule was strictly enforced, corral starts were spread apart to alleviate race congestion, the course, I’m sure, was very scenic, the finish chute was effective, and the post-race area was massive (lawn of the Washington Monument).

I was not quite prepared for the amount of people, but I think the enormous field only enhanced the experience.  Each heat of about 2,500 was released three minutes behind the previous heat.  I expected my heat to thin out after a few miles, but if it ever did, it was not until we caught up with the first heat.  I am used to sprinting against two or three runners in the final stretch.  In a race this size, however, about ten people crossed the line every second.

Personally, I felt this was one of my best races.  Not knowing what to expect at this distance (I hadn’t raced anything less than a Half Marathon in close to two years), I was able to coast for eight miles and pick it up for the last two.  There had to be some scientific force at work stemming from a pack that size.  I felt good, but I’m sure the pull of a few thousand people helped to ease the workload.

But I digressed from the highlight of the weekend.

Two days before the race, I found out that Bill Rodgers would be speaking at the expo.  For those unfamiliar with the name, Bill Rodgers is another one of my favorite 70s era runners.  Although he never finished better than 40^th in an Olympic Marathon, he did win Boston (setting the American record twice), New York (and is still the last American-born runner to win it), and of course, the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler four times each.  I haven’t read any books or watched any movies portraying him as a kind and highly intelligent individual (see Frank Shorter in Without Limits or Once a Runner), and he did not receive the cult following that accompanies sports heroes who die young (Steve Prefontaine), but, at 65, Bill Rodgers is alive, and he has a lot of kick left.

My wife and I spent the day before the race driving from Columbus to DC, checking into our hotel, and negotiating the Metro from Arlington.  When we arrived at the expo, Bill Rodgers had completed his fifty minute pre-race talk, and was signing autographs.  It took an hour for the line of about ten families/small groups to dwindle down to just me.

Worth the wait.  I found Bill (first name basis now) to be one of the most genuinely pleasant and um… zestful men I have ever met.  Unlike Frank Shorter, who had needed a good question before he really opened up, Bill appeared to want to get to know everyone in that line.

When I introduced myself, and my wife snapped a quick five pictures, Bill noticed the Army Corps of Engineers shirt I was wearing.  He asked if I was an engineer, and I explained that in fact, my wife is the Corps employee, working as a park ranger.  Well then Bill had to get to know her.  He wanted to know where she worked and what exactly her duties were and what the park had to offer recreation wise…

This was another one of my awestruck moments (I was mostly reveling in the fact that my wife was engaged in a conversation with a runner).  She told him about the trails near the lake, and that she would like to see all of the nearby trails to connect to the Ohio to Erie trail, and Bill listened, with great interest.  Finally, he expressed his pleasure with the idea, noting that parks like this one, which give people a place to run, bike, swim, hike, canoe (yes, he did say, “canoe”)… are essential to the mental and physical health of our nation.  This man’s eyes displayed nothing but passion for the subject.  What I admire most about him now is that even after he’s achieved his glory in athletics, he understands the plight of the common runner.  He appeared to be far more interested in talking about ways to help others enjoy their sport, whatever it may be, than recounting his own personal victories.  It almost seemed like he did not care what races he had won in the 70s, he just wanted to keep running, and help others to do the same.  After a few minutes, he signed my bib, “Let’s run forever!” and my race poster, “Best wishes for a lifetime of smooth running.”

With less than .25 left in the race, I heard spectators cheering for Bill.  I looked through the horde of runners and finally saw him, chugging up the slight incline on the outside of the curve.  With a burst of energy I didn’t know I had, I raced over to congratulate him on a great race.  I thought briefly about running the home stretch with him, but when he spoke, he said with a smile, “I’ll see you at the finish.”  On cloud 9, I glided to the finish line with a tenth mile almost one minute faster than the others.

I waited and found Bill when he crossed the line.  He looked somewhat fatigued, but in good shape for a 65 year old running a 1:18 ten miler.  He remembered me as the husband of the park ranger from Kentucky.  This time, the conversation began with the deceptiveness of the humidity, which had crept up on him during the race.  Then, he recalled some of the great Kentucky runners he had competed against, and that the state has some beautiful trails (must be in the Louisville area), but Iroquois Park (yeah, Louisville area) was always a challenge for him.  We chatted like we were dear old friends for a few minutes while making our way through the chute.  Finally, I wished him good luck in the 5k he was planning to run the following week.  He shook my hand one last time, and told me to enjoy my future running endeavors.  I guess luck doesn’t matter, as long as we enjoy it.

The Slow Mile's Payoff

A few people have asked me about the training method that I used for my last two marathons.  I can say that it is like any other training method: based on an idea or group of ideas, but tailored to and shaped by me, for me.  I knew from my first round of marathon training that plans are meant to be broken and that no one else knows exactly what is best for my body.  In short, you are the only one capable of developing the best plan for yourself.

Before I begin explaining my workout schedule for the Marshall University and New Orleans Marathons, I feel obligated to explain why I deviated from the plan that got me through my first marathon: I wasn’t having fun.

When I began training for the 2011 Flying Pig Marathon, I gave myself 17 weeks to train.  I was coming off my first year of real running, and had one Half under my belt, but several injuries forced me to rest for two months or so before beginning my Pig training.  I know that starting Marathon training after two months of inactivity was a big mistake, but I’m not convinced that is why that is why my first training program failed me.

Several of my friends had been telling me about the FIRST method described in the book Run Less, Run Faster.  The program advocates three runs per week (speed work, tempo, long run) as well as at least three cross-training sessions.  This had a special appeal to me because during the previous year, knee pain often rendered me incapable of running two days in a row, and I often rode my bike, swam, or did both on the other days.  The workout schedule, however, was not the problem.

The problem was pace.  The book provides complete 16-week training programs for races of all distances from 5k’s to Marathons and paces from elite to happy jogger.  Yes, I did choose to work toward a pace that was well beyond my capability at the time, but I still begrudge the work.

The book plans a runner’s pace for every workout during each of the sixteen weeks.  I quickly discovered that I could meet the speed work paces, flirt with the tempo run paces, fall well behind the distance paces.  At the paces I was trying to run, I had a difficult time surpassing the 12, then 15 mile barriers.  I did have to deviate because I could not keep up with the distances they were telling me to run each week.  Instead of the proposed four 20 mile runs included in the training, I was able to complete one before race day.  During the last few weeks of training, I was too burnt out from long runs that I couldn’t even enjoy the sublime running month of April.  The Marathon wasn’t something to look forward to so much as the moment I could quit this insufferable training.

I knew I needed a new training plan for Marshall in November, and I found my answer at Half Price Books.

I had heard of the “Galloway Method” before, but all I knew was that he believed in short walk breaks to re-energize during runs.  While sitting in the back seat of a mini-van on a long drive with my now wife and her family, I read Galloway’s book, Marathon! in its entirety.  He told me exactly what I wanted to hear (although probably more than I wanted to hear it).

The ideas Galloway stressed over and over:

• Run slower than you are capable of running
• Take walk breaks

He swore that runners build endurance by running the miles, not by running at a certain pace.  His theory is predicated upon the idea that athletes can build more muscle when they recover faster.  If one can recover faster from a long run by running it slower, then his body is ready to build more strength sooner.

More endurance via less challenging runs?  Yes, please!

And so my great experiment with the Gallowayan long run began.

The book had also suggested that a runner’s “wall” is equal to the farthest distance that he has run in the past two weeks.  Since most Marathon training plans (including my former one) call for long runs of no more than 20 miles, and many people (including me) claim to hit the wall at that point in the race, this made sense to me.  Thus, my long runs began at 15 miles, and I intended to increase them by two every other week, eventually reaching 27 (I say intended because a major cycling accident sidelined me for several weeks and forced a change of training plan).

A few key notes on Galloway’s plan for long runs: 1) each mile should be run two minutes slower than you are capable of!  2) minute-long walk breaks should occur every four minutes!  3) long runs should only occur every two weeks, shorter runs or tune-up races should occur on off weeks.  (I put exclamation points behind the statements he makes at least 30 times in his book.)

These ideas have been the outline to my plan, and I am a believer.  Even after missing four weeks of mid-Marathon training in the fall, I was able to show up in Huntington and run the best race my quads would allow.  I continued my training to prepare for the New Orleans Marathon 17 weeks later and ran more than 20 minutes faster (including a walk break every mile) than the Pig.  Most importantly, pre, during, and post-Marathon time, my passion for the runs never wavered.

My specific program has required a lot of time, effort, and most of all, reflection to develop.  I still continue the long runs every other weekend, and, as lonely as it sometimes gets running a distance too far for most at a pace too slow for most, it is satisfying to know that I can run 26 miles in the morning and go hiking in the afternoon, and still have pretty fresh legs the next day (I am not, however, implying that there's any such thing as "an easy 26").  My speed work is subject to what my body tells me it needs that week, from a few 400s and some 800s, to a dozen 1600s at 20-50 seconds faster than Marathon pace (the latter is what Galloway recommends, just to get the body used to running that pace).  And I still have two days devoted to my favorite activity, the familiar 6 mile run.

Whatever your target distance or pace is, no predetermined plan is perfect for you.  It takes some time to get to know your body and how it responds to different types of running.  What I can tell you with certainty is that at any level, the body needs time to recover.  The body cannot grow without rest.  And usually, the mind can’t either.

Wildness is a Necessity

My Victory over Marathon Day was not summative; it was only the beginning of the wildness.  With no more doubts about whether I am capable of finishing the race wholly, I feel free to explore whatever facets of running I choose.  It’s as if I’ve beaten an entire world in Mario, and a new world has unlocked for me.

So I am going off-roading.  I signed up for my first 50k, and I have two months to prepare.  This will not be a challenge of time, nor of distance, really, and hopefully not of terrain, either (although I have only run about 20-30 miles off the blacktop in the last 8+ years).  I hope instead, that this will be a day in the park.

Last Friday, I drove down to Raven’s Run Nature Sanctuary to get in a little trail run.  Since I feel like my trail shoes are too stiff and have too large of a heel for me, I took my old cross country spikes instead (I tried but could not take all of the spikes out, so I left them all in).  The 4 main loop (almost 4 miles) was much rockier than I remembered, and because it had rained heavily the night before, mud was in abundance.  And I loved ounce of it.

On the morning after a storm, the falls and rapids of even the smallest creeks display their wildness.  Ordinarily a sight of tranquil aestheticism, they release their roars and show their power.  And it is even more beautiful.  It is not an every-day occurrence, but it is natural.

I found myself running upstream through creeks who knew that the trail signs did not apply to them.  I delighted in every little splash that added more mud to my legs.  I counted a minor victory each time my foot missed a slippery rock.  And the water kept flowing, inviting me with its playful current, to stay longer than I had the time for.

This was not a workout, but a play-date with nature.  I’m sure the challenge of the stark changes in terrain will make me stronger, but from the neck up, this was nothing but a care-free stroll in the woods.

This was that new world.  Man’s road race had no place among these hills.  The squirrels would not hand me a Gatorade, and no trees would post my splits.  But the brooks would call out their encouragement, and the morning birds would provide the music as I ran, not raced, through this wild place.

We are in the middle of a Running Renaissance.  The American Running Boom has been reignited by inspirational record setters like Deena Kastor, Ryan Hall, and Kara Goucher*.  And this time, unlike the Boom of the 1970s, it includes a movement toward “Natural Running”.  The movement is encouraging us to return to the classic, to run the way the ancient Olympians did: barefoot (or as close to it as we are able).

But what is “natural” about asphalt, or even a composite track?

In his attempt to convince the American people of the spiritual beauty and significance of a place like Yosemite Valley, John Muir said that, “wildness is a necessity.”  Yes, we do live in a pretty tame world.  And for most of us, a good trail is not as easy to find as an open road (see: Lexington, KY).  But there is value in the path less paved.

I am beginning to explore the new world which has opened its door to me.  Maybe it’s something I’ve lost, or something I never quite knew.  John Muir believed that, "In God's wildness lies the hope of the world… The galling harness of civilization drops off, and wounds heal ere we are aware."   Perhaps I can find Muir-like serenity right here in the Midwest.  Wherever it may be, I am sure that wildness is a necessity.

“Let the wild rumpus begin!” –Maurice Sendak

NOLA, Marathon Goddess: Rn'R New Orleans Race Report

When I woke up that morning, I knew it.  Despite only a few hours of actual sleep, I was ready for this one. 

I went through my morning routine of pacing back and forth between the bed and the bathroom, trying to get dressed, double-checking my bag, reassessing my race-wear, triple-checking my bag, filling my water bottles, pulling food out of my bag, arranging gel and bars in my pockets for the race, putting food and backup shirts into my bag, and putting my shoes on, oh and quadruple-checking my bag without turning the lights on as to not disturb my wife (who lay in bed contemplating my sanity).  I stayed in the room, munching on homemade granola and rechecking/readjusting everything while she went downstairs and ate breakfast like someone who’s never been afflicted with Pre Marathon Syndrome.

When I finally felt confident with what I was wearing and making my wife carry as backup gear, we walked a few blocks to the starting line.  We posed for a few pictures, snapped a few of other runners in outrageous shorts or pants, and I got ready for the start. 

My first critique came about 20 minutes before the race (guess what it had to do with)…

Things That Could Have Been Better

Bathrooms: Yes, bathrooms.  I know that 20 minutes before the start of a race with 20,000 entrants is not the time to seek out a port-a-pot, but has the need ever struck a runner at any other time?  Near my corral, I found about 20 bathrooms, but a few minutes in that line had me quickly searching for an alternative.  I checked 1 block up, near the starting line; same situation.  I hoped I could hold it and nestled in to a spot along the edge in my corral.

After the race, I looked back at a map of the starting area, and found that there were supposedly several port-a-pots a block or two from where I’d been.  Maybe there were enough for 20,000 nervous runners, but I doubt it.  And once the horn went off, it would be several miles before I saw another one.

Already a mix of what should have been multiple corrals, thousands of us began inching toward the starting line.  Finally, someone with a megaphone said something about “Corral 5”, counted down from 5, and sat back as Frank Shorter blew an air horn with a caught-in-the-moment smile.

Mile Markers: My impression of the first mile: the measuring was off.  My plan for the race was to take thirty second walk breaks every mile, and I still had not crossed the Mile 1 marker at the end of my first walk.  I crossed that first marker at what my Garmin recognized as 1.1 miles from the start.  Immediately, a slight panic ran through my mind as I contemplated a strategy to compensate for the extra unknown distance I would have to make up in my target time.  But this problem worked itself out.  The measurements were consistent from then on.  For the next two hours, I crossed every mile marker at “__.1” Garmin distance.  I had decided at mile 3 that whatever the measurements, I would keep my ppGm (pace per Garmin mile) and give whatever I had left in the final mile.

To my surprise, the measurements actually began to fix themselves.  At mile 14, I noticed the marker was slightly closer to Garmin mileage.  One-by-one, they crept closer to me until, at mile 23, I began my walk break the moment I crossed the marker.

 
Streets: I had heard whispers that the course would be traversing some cobblestone streets.  Although this year’s course was cobblestone-free, the first half of the course was just as bad.  St. Charles and Esplanade, while possibly two of the most beautiful streets I have ever run, are not friendly toward feet or ankles.  Most of the streets looked like they hadn’t been resurfaced in a few decades, but these two featured large slants toward the outsides, significant enough to ward off any runners from taking what would have been the shortest route as we ran west on St. Charles.  Many runners, in fact, chose to run on the soft dirt of the street car track rather than deal with the holey asphalt.  We did not see a smooth surface until Lakeshore Dr. at mile 16.5, but we had to sacrifice our tree-cover to gain that ground.

Finish Area: The greatest fault of the finish area is that it was about 5k from the starting line.  My wife, who walked with me to the start, walked down to look for me in the French Quarter, walked up to the finish line, and then walked back to the hotel with me, put in a good 10 miles of her own (I was very proud of her).  Other than that, it looked to be pretty well organized.

Things That Were Better

Water Stations: I was actually pretty frustrated with the water stations at first.  I completely missed the first one (which must have been pretty small) because I was on the other side of the road.  Waterstation 2 wasn’t any better.  I called for water, got an answer, and grabbed Gatorade.  Pet peave.  Water was on the other side of the street, and it took some athletic maneuvers to get there..  After that, the stations were much better.  My volunteer of the day award goes to the little kid who was calling out “Gatorade in green cups, water in white!”  From the mouths of babes comes sanity during a marathon.  From then on, the stations were often crowded, but that stretched about a dozen tables long, and kept both drinks on the same side of the road.

 
Elevation Change:  Around mile 14, a runner near me remarked, “Oh my God, a hill!”  A moment later, we experienced a slight drop in elevation, and then a short incline as we emerged on the other side of the highway we’d just run under.  This was the first “hill” I had noticed, too.  A few miles later we made another short and certainly not steep climb to reach Lakeshore Dr. for our run along Lake Pontchartrain.  I made a mental note to use that short drop to energize me at mile 22, and continued along the flatness of the bank.  The only legitimate climb would come as we crossed a bridge just before and after mile 20.  At that point, the warmth and lack of shade were beginning to fatigue me, but I found myself climbing that hill well, and picking up plenty of speed on the way down to gain a little wiggle room for my pacing on that mile.

Scenery: But of course, the best part was the scenery.  The magnificent trees of St. Charles Ave. loomed over us, providing both encouragement and humility to all who passed under their outstretched limbs.  Their leaves remained still in the morning, almost intrigued by our sport.  And Esplanade certainly had the historic-looking vegetation to match, along with intricate and effervescent houses that could survive nowhere else.  Along these streets, there was no room to think about the task that lay ahead or the energy already spent, only to admire the beauty that architects, human and natural, had created together.

The Rock n’ Roll

When I met my cousin (who had run the Half) in the family reunion area, she confessed to being a little disappointed with the music.  “It wasn’t bad,” she commented, but she expected a little more from a series claiming so lofty a title.  I agreed, recounting that it was no better than the hubris-free Flying Pig Marathon, but there were a few moments when the bands certainly did help my energy and mind-set.

I have to give credit to the bands who took time to play songs that have sentimental value to a very small group of people, namely the band between miles 2-3.  After the frustration of missing my first water station, hearing a cover of Better Than Ezra’s “Good” was a major mood-changer.  I hummed for a bit and got right back on pace.

Other moments of inspiration came between mile 8-9 when, while trying to make up lost time from a pee break, I saw a troop of men in kilts playing “Jump”.  And I did.  Then again at the intersection that we crossed at miles 16.5, 18.5, and 22, another lively band provided a little excitement long after the initial thrill of the race had worn off.  Kudos to those guys.

Personal Feelings

This was my breakthrough marathon.   

My first two marathons had resulted in my walking a major portion of the last 6 miles, and as calmly as I tried to act, I was pretty nervous about a three-peat.

As I sat down among the roots of a tree, waiting for my wife to find me post-race, I didn’t think about the race.  I just sat, and enjoyed sitting.  There were no “what if’s”, NOLA helped me achieve peace with the Marathon.  There was closure, not just with this race, but every race that had come before.

At mile 17.5, I started getting emotional because I knew that this was it.  I felt too good not to commit to finishing with the pace I was running.  Until that moment, I had tried not to think ahead of myself, but then, I knew this would end with me running, whether or not that meant pain.

At 21, I came close to shedding a few tears.  I was farther than I’d ever been and knew that I was going to finish it.  During my first Marathon, I cried at the finish because I was so thankful it was over.  This time, I was overjoyed to be in the race.

I slowed down near the end.  After 23 miles between 8:33-8:37 pace (minus mile 8, which included a 30 second pee break in a bush in plain view of a few thousand people, and two miles after that to make up the time), the best I could do was 8:40.  Then 8:56, then 9:17.  But I kept running.  My strategy had been to take a 30 second walk break every mile, and, although my body told me to cheat at 25.7, I stuck to the plan.  When I saw that beautiful “Mile 26” sign, my body jerked to life.  I didn’t care whether the course measurements were off, I ran as hard as I could until they told me to stop.  I changed gears so quickly that my hamstrings went from undaunted to almost snapping in under 2 seconds.

I crossed the line at 3:45:57, 57 seconds behind my target time.  But it didn’t matter; I finished the race.  I finished it.

For months, while running intervals around the park in 30 degree weather, missing Ravens games to get my long run in, and leaving my wife and our warm bed to run in the rain, I envisioned what it would look like when the Marathon gods smiled on me.  There’s no picture of it, but I bet it looked good.

In the Words of Frank Shorter

On a bumpy flight to New Orleans, the site of my third marathon, I started jotting down a few notes about how I was feeling pre-race.  Let’s see, I was nervous… so I tried to think about other things… flipped through the new Runner’s World… tried to go to my happy running place… couldn’t figure out where that was…

But the marathon roller coaster changed directions the next morning.

My wife and I sat at the end of the front row of the few dozen chairs set facing the modest stage tucked in a back corner of the race expo.  As we sit discussing our plans for the rest of the day, I stop and stare with an increasingly excited look, as Frank Shorter walks from somewhere mid-expo, hops up on-stage, grabs a microphone, and climbs up the bar-stool-height chair that’s waiting for him. Then he just starts talking.  “Yeah, well…” and he’s off, diving right into his suggestions for proper marathon training.  The host of the “One-on-One with Frank Shorter” session joins him on stage, but lets Shorter do all the talking.

I had read in an edition of Runner’s World that Shorter was a very quiet and somewhat guarded man.  My first impression, however, was that if you let the man talk about what he wanted to talk about (which was usually running), he was an open book, and he loved every minute of it.

He told the growing crowd about his favorite workouts with Steve Prefontaine, Jack Bacheler, and the rest of the Florida Track Club.  “The rule for the group,” he recalled, “was that everyone ran as fast as the one who wanted to run the slowest that day.”  Shorter emphasized the his opinion that the sense of community the runners received from each other was far more important than any personal accomplishments.  “Runs that are faster than conversational pace are just to show you that you’re fast.  They don’t have any workout value… There’s a diminishing return,” he remarked.  He seemed to impress only three types of work upon his captivated audience: speed work, hill work (“speed work in disguise”), and most importantly, group work.

It became clear that Pre was his favorite running partner for two reasons: 1) on a regular run, he ran side-by-side with Shorter’s pace, and 2) during a speed workout, he “instinctively traded the lead” throughout the workout, to avoid one runner doing all of the work.  Shorter remarked that the two seemed to be so compatible because of this idea of what a workout should be and what a workout partner’s responsibilities are.  While Shorter trained for Olympic glory in the marathon and Pre trained for the middle distances, the men ran weekly 20 milers and bi-weekly speed workouts (at their 5k paces) together because they saw the value in a companion who could push their speed or endurance.

Shorter still believes utterly in his semi-passive workout methods (and who’s going to argue with him?).  He admits to being a bit of an extremist when it comes to not over-working.  For those familiar with Jeff Galloway’s training programs (most runs at 1-2 minutes slower than you could run), Shorter remarked that, “the good thing I can say about Galloway is that his methods are really our methods,” explaining that he and his running partners trained using the methods that Galloway would make popular through several books targeting non-elite runners.   Rather than running full-throttle in every workout, Shorter stresses consistency.  “The more consistent you are with your workouts, the less it means,” he said, explaining that if you are continually putting in the work you set out to do, a bad day will not hinder your progress.  He implored us to “set workout goals you can achieve even on your bad days,” emphasizing miles or training time over speed.

After he had imparted his wisdom of the practice of laissez-faire training upon us, Shorter briefly recounted his two biggest races.  “The morning of the ’72 [Olympic] marathon, I woke up, and I knew I had it.  When I started to pull away at mile 9, I knew they’d made a mistake.”  (Shorter would win the gold, the last time an American won gold in a distance race at the Olympics.)  According to Shorter, no one knows how the race is going to go the week before, the day before, or even as they drift to sleep the night before.  But that morning, they know it.  “In ’76 [on the day of the Olympic marathon], I put my feet on the floor next to the bed and thought, ‘oh God, why today?’”  “But,” he continues, “I ran faster that day, and in a way, I’m even more proud of that effort.”  (Shorter would win the silver, falling behind in the final miles.)

Shorter went on to discuss some of his work with the US Anti-Doping Agency, whether he thought anyone would ever run a sub-2 hour marathon (not legally), what the American’s had to do to medal in the Olympic marathon (stay with the lead pack no matter what), and his hand in Shalane Flanagan’s phenomenal genes (no, not that way; her parents met while working at one of his running stores).  Finally, though, the session ended.

And the host remarked that Shorter would stick around for some pictures and autographs.  And internally, I was giddier than I’ve ever seen a school-girl be (and I attended a co-ed Catholic school).  As I watched a few other runners take their photos and ask Shorter to sign their race bibs, I tried desperately for some wise question to ask him, maybe something that might unlock another one of his surprisingly humorous memories or accounts of race-day glory.  But as I stepped up and greeted him with a (let’s hope not too flimsy) handshake, my mind was blank.  He signed my bib (“Go Tom!  Run Well”) and asked what I was planning on running.  I’m still not sure whether he meant which race or a certain time, but who has time to interpret when he’s talking to Frank Shorter?  So I answered, “I’m hoping to run 3:45, but I’ve been having trouble getting past that 20 mile wall.”  Luckily, this was something Frank (we shook hands, so we’re on a first name basis now) wanted to talk about.

“Well,” Frank thought, “I always told myself, ‘at this point, everyone else is feeling pretty bad, too.’”  “So?” I wanted to question, “I’m not running against everyone else, I’m running against the clock!”  But Frank soon eased my worries.  “Slowly increase your perceived effort,” he said.  “It always feels like you’re running slower than you actually are.”  As my wife snapped about 35 pictures to make sure she got a good one, I stood and listened to the man who, 40 years ago, held the stars and stripes atop the Olympic podium after a performance that has not been repeated by an American.  I listened to every word the man said, but all I could do was nod in agreement as he spoke about his passion, smiling.  After a few minutes, he drew to a conclusion, and I snapped out of my awe-coma.  With true sincerity, he wished me luck, and shook my hand once more (definitely firm this time).

“Ok,” I said to my wife, “now I’m ready.”