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.