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.”