I have been unable for the past month plus now to figure out how to describe Boston. It went beyond my expectations in so many different ways, but every time somebody asks me how the race went I am not sure if I am supposed to simply say amazing, or if I am supposed to give details related to my own run. Most likely sane people care very little how somebody in the middle of the pack's race actually went . . . but, shocker, I am going to do a quick paragraph summary before actually talking about the experience of Boston 2014:
I went out as close to 3 hour pace as I could, and pretty much ran my planned splits till about mile 18-20 when things gradually ground to a halt. Ironically, it came as little surprise to me that my body/mind shut down in the final 10km - I felt it coming from early on in the day. Although I was able to maintain pace for the first half to 3/4s of the race, it was pretty clear from the outset that I was working harder than normal and my self talk was more negative than normal. My strategy then became one of simply trying to maintain pace as long as I could and see if my body/mind might bounce back in the later miles. No such luck. Not sure if my struggles were related to getting older, loss of fitness from being injured, loss of energy from having run harder than expected the month before at Antelope, having an off day, dehydration, playing too much prior to the race, or some such combination of said factors. In either case, I was able to hold on just enough to qualify for Boston next year and genuinely felt like I left what I had out on the road but missed my personal time goals by about a dozen minutes - and running goes on.
As far as the experience itself, Boston was in a class all its own. The crowds were amazing. The city was amazing. The stories were amazing. The simple fact that the race went on as grand as ever was amazing. And so here are a few of the images and or scenes that have stayed with me (and what I want to get down so that in a few years I can recollect them through the haze):
A crazy sort of silence as we walked downhill toward the starting corrals from the pre-race grouping area. I am not sure if other runners experienced this, or if I just ended up in a weird group, but it was an intense moment as a few thousand people walked together in relative stillness.
A boy standing in the crowd with his family cheering as loudly as possible and holding a sign that said, "Thank You - thanks for being here."
A phone conversation overheard the night before in which a mother talked about her daughter returning to all the places she had struggled to forget/remember from last year's race. Her daughter had been fine, had just finished her first Boston Marathon and was recovering in the medical tent when the bombs went off. The day and her memories completely changed in an instant, now she was back ready to run again.
The pre-race excitement Bostonians seemed to have in abundance this year. I got to hang out a good deal with Rick and Elizabeth (Alta friends who live in Boston most of the non-snow part of the year) before the race and it was so cool to hear their stories about the race, their strategies for watching on race day, and about the city in general. It gave the crowd a much more personal feel. I have to say in general the crowd this year was not only bigger than I remember from the other time I ran Boston, but also seemed more focused on the runners and the race - instead of the race simply being an excuse to party (which I completely understand and appreciate) it seemed like the race itself was the celebration. I am not quite sure how to put that into words, but I have never been in a race (road or trail) where there was such synergy between the participants and the audience. It was almost like the spectators themselves were actively participating in the race - this was of course nowhere more true than going through the Wellesley Tunnel of Sound.
The constantly shifting memorial(s) on Boylston street. The crowd's energy on Boylston street. The fact that reaching the finish line was a struggle this time round added something to this experience for me . . . I felt engulfed.
Sightseeing along the coast with my old man. He is the one who got me into running some 30+ years ago and it felt right touring around with him prior to this race in a whole assortment of venues my mom would have loved to visit - in fact, in retrospect, I am shocked this was my first time to Harvard Square since we had all done the east coast as a family trip years ago and the area around the campus would have certainly been my mom's kind of venue. (Note: I am trying hard to keep myself from pointing out how the PAC12 schools trump anything on the east coast in terms of not simply academics but also sports and lifestyle).
Hearing that Meb won the race upon finishing. I know it's silly-sentimental-foolish-patriotism but there was something genuinely cool about having an American winner and for that winner to be Meb downright unreal awesomeness.
All of the people who were running/walking different events after having been injured last year.
The courage showed by so many families to return to where they had been standing the year before to once again cheer on a bunch of screwballs running in short-shorts. In hindsight it's pretty easy to say how safe everything was going to be this year, but that doesn't mean fear couldn't have just as easily won out. I mean this with all sincerity and with a real push at trying to explain how such a simple act as standing along a race course carried so much more weight on this one day. It was just 100% awesome. On the plane ride out I met a person who was specifically heading back from SLC to be with her family for the week and stand in the same place she had every year since she was like 8 or some such thing and hand out orange slices.
Rushing to make my flight home, and then have it delayed. The beer on the plane - delicious.
In short, road races are fast, hectic events and often miss out on the personal touches that come on the trail; however, it was amazing to see so many people come out for such a silly thing as running. Thanks Boston.
Alright the cheese is over and now back to the trails . . .
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
Boston Marathon Thoughts and Pre-flections
I am struggling with the concept of running . . . running shouldn't have to mean anything . . . we (all of us) should be allowed to run with the act meaning nothing . . . nothing beyond the physical-emotional release and joy that is running . . . but obviously that is not the case this week . . . running Boston will necessarily take on a different meaning this year . . . and I have been trying to figure out what that meaning is as I prepare to fly out east . . . or at least, what does running Boston mean for me this year - this time around?
"Did you hear what happened at Boston?"
"Don't tell me, I have the race recorded for later."
"No, it's not really about the race. You need to turn on the news."
And another moment in our world turned upside-down . . .
I am not one of those Boston people - you know the one's that run Boston every year and seem to live/breathe the course: they know their mile splits, they know when to expect the tunnel of sound called Wellesley, and they know where on the course heartbreak hill lies - but I did grow up aware of the Boston mystique. It was the marathon I always wanted to run as a kid, and a few years ago (2008) I got the chance to play out that childhood daydream. I didn't plan on returning: it was cool, goal accomplished, on to the next thing. But the mayhem of last year changed that for me. Something about last year's attack really hit me . . . hit me more personally than I might have expected.
Look, I tend to be pretty cynical and tend to emotionally distance myself from a lot of the stupid crap that goes on in this world, while simultaneously being fairly aware of how much stupid crap goes on around the world. I sometimes think our species is an evolutionary dead-end with violence being its chief fault: bomb this country, burn that village, kill this believer, desecrate that church. In the global cycle of humanity's violence Boston was unfortunately nothing all that out of the ordinary . . . but it struck me. It was not a distant enough event for me to rationalize away the images. It didn't simply feel like another piece of digitized news on the screen, it felt like an attack directed at people I knew.
In a world closer to the ideal, we would have all long ago joined a movement of pacifists and shut down the global industrial-military complex; stood as a human barrier on the border of one country or another putting an end to war as tanks were halted in their race from one flagged capital to the other. But instead we get caught up in simply trying to make it through life and the heroic notions of our childhood fade away. The adult infused wisdom that tells us the world will always be this way becomes our forgetful mantra. I would go so far as to say, it often feels like there is little/nothing we can do to fundamentally change the world for the better.
Last spring, I sat there watching the images of a joyful day thrown asunder wondering what in the world was wrong with our species. Are we destined to never move beyond this point in our global history? The point in our history that finds violence the answer to so many things? How long has this moment lasted? The entire 20th century? The past few millennium? Since Lucy?
And one of my students asked me, "Aren't you afraid to run Boston?"
It hadn't really occurred to me. I am more afraid to not run Boston than to run Boston. I am worried/scared that maybe the world really is changing. I want to return to childhood daydream's of peace and security. I grew up in the heart of the Cold War, as an American living on the western side of Germany's divided border, and strangely my childhood and the world around me felt more secure and peaceful than the one most of my students see as representing life today.
Sadly, running Boston isn't going to change the world. It's not going to stop the next terrorist attack or war from happening. It's not even my "A" race for this spring. I could simply continue sitting on my couch, or in a bar in Boston nursing the ankle I sprained at BoSho last weekend, and watch the race on teevee and the world would be just about identical. But instead, I will be lining up and chasing after another sub-3 . . . and yet I would suggest if ever time has meant nothing in a race to me this would be the one.
I simply want the chance to be out there on the course again, stating ever so simply/quietly that the world must become something different. The reason I want to run hard is because that is what Boston deserves. That is what the people who didn't get a chance to finish last year deserve. I need to suffer a little bit in that good-ole-fashion way that pushing yourself in a race lets you suffer. I try not to cry in public, but any starting line tears will be about trying to both remember and redefine what took place last year.
I am a runner. We are runners. And so I will run.
I am not one of those Boston people - you know the one's that run Boston every year and seem to live/breathe the course: they know their mile splits, they know when to expect the tunnel of sound called Wellesley, and they know where on the course heartbreak hill lies - but I did grow up aware of the Boston mystique. It was the marathon I always wanted to run as a kid, and a few years ago (2008) I got the chance to play out that childhood daydream. I didn't plan on returning: it was cool, goal accomplished, on to the next thing. But the mayhem of last year changed that for me. Something about last year's attack really hit me . . . hit me more personally than I might have expected.
Look, I tend to be pretty cynical and tend to emotionally distance myself from a lot of the stupid crap that goes on in this world, while simultaneously being fairly aware of how much stupid crap goes on around the world. I sometimes think our species is an evolutionary dead-end with violence being its chief fault: bomb this country, burn that village, kill this believer, desecrate that church. In the global cycle of humanity's violence Boston was unfortunately nothing all that out of the ordinary . . . but it struck me. It was not a distant enough event for me to rationalize away the images. It didn't simply feel like another piece of digitized news on the screen, it felt like an attack directed at people I knew.
In a world closer to the ideal, we would have all long ago joined a movement of pacifists and shut down the global industrial-military complex; stood as a human barrier on the border of one country or another putting an end to war as tanks were halted in their race from one flagged capital to the other. But instead we get caught up in simply trying to make it through life and the heroic notions of our childhood fade away. The adult infused wisdom that tells us the world will always be this way becomes our forgetful mantra. I would go so far as to say, it often feels like there is little/nothing we can do to fundamentally change the world for the better.
Last spring, I sat there watching the images of a joyful day thrown asunder wondering what in the world was wrong with our species. Are we destined to never move beyond this point in our global history? The point in our history that finds violence the answer to so many things? How long has this moment lasted? The entire 20th century? The past few millennium? Since Lucy?
And one of my students asked me, "Aren't you afraid to run Boston?"
It hadn't really occurred to me. I am more afraid to not run Boston than to run Boston. I am worried/scared that maybe the world really is changing. I want to return to childhood daydream's of peace and security. I grew up in the heart of the Cold War, as an American living on the western side of Germany's divided border, and strangely my childhood and the world around me felt more secure and peaceful than the one most of my students see as representing life today.
Sadly, running Boston isn't going to change the world. It's not going to stop the next terrorist attack or war from happening. It's not even my "A" race for this spring. I could simply continue sitting on my couch, or in a bar in Boston nursing the ankle I sprained at BoSho last weekend, and watch the race on teevee and the world would be just about identical. But instead, I will be lining up and chasing after another sub-3 . . . and yet I would suggest if ever time has meant nothing in a race to me this would be the one.
I simply want the chance to be out there on the course again, stating ever so simply/quietly that the world must become something different. The reason I want to run hard is because that is what Boston deserves. That is what the people who didn't get a chance to finish last year deserve. I need to suffer a little bit in that good-ole-fashion way that pushing yourself in a race lets you suffer. I try not to cry in public, but any starting line tears will be about trying to both remember and redefine what took place last year.
I am a runner. We are runners. And so I will run.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
BRYCE 100
Remember this moment! Do not forget this feeling! I need to figure out a way to remember exactly how shitty this feels. NO MORE POST-RACE AMNESIA. NO MORE POST-RACE EUPHORIA. Euphoria? Let's be honest -- the feeling after an ultra is typically different from the high sane people get after a marathon, it's more like exhausted relief followed by some bonding with a bunch of other weirdos over the suffering just experienced. Deal: get through the next 30-35 miles and you never-ever have to do this again. No Wasatch. No Whiteriver. No more running?! Just walk your ass to the finish line, throw away all your running gear, and take up a sensible hobby like brewing beer for the rest of the summer.
Help: I want to start by thanking both my pacer and crew. Pete and Cara were awesome. I say this with only a little shame, but this was one of those days that sans pacer, I would have probably bailed at some point. Actually, I know the exact point -- well, too be honest miles 60-75 are such a blur that I don't really know the point -- when I would have bailed. But the moment -- whenever and wherever it was -- came when I looked at Pete and said, "Do you think I should DNF?" Thankfully, he lied to me and said, "No way." I know he was lying because around mile 90 when things were going better and the question was no longer about finishing, but rather about how much of the lost time we could make up during the final miles, Pete told me there had been a few moments during the night when he kind of figured we were going to have to bail on finishing.
Course: Wild, rugged, and beautiful. Before the race (this is a brand new course) there had been some discussion and general confusion about how tough a course this was going to be -- in particular elevation numbers were bouncing all over the place from 18,000 to 26,000. I would suggest the best way to describe the difficulty and vertical in future course descriptions would be to simply say there is enough of both and to not worry about the actual numbers. I am guessing everyone that ran with some sort of GPS got different data when trying to track the vertical, so the truth might as well be told: the course goes up, it goes down, and it swings around. But in either case, the terrain was amazing. There were some epic desert moments as well as some solid mountain running periods; there were pretty tight sections of single-track and some faster pieces of dirt road that threw one into the mode of Fire on the Mountain's loneliness of the long distance runner. Maybe the best word to describe the sum of the whole would be variety.
First 50: Patient. Solid-pacing. Group running. Music. Consistent eating. I full-on enjoyed the first 50 miles and felt like I was running well and with a good amount of intelligence. One of the early highlights for me was running in a train of about 15-20 runners through some of the coolest single-track I have ever run on during a race. The course does an amazing job of letting you experience the rugged scenery of the Utah desert right from the start. The pace was perfect and I knew to a greater or lesser extent about a half dozen of the other people in the group, which made me feel both comfortable and silently social. Almost the entire way to the turnaround point at mile 50 went as well as any race can go with me simply stoked to take in the views and to run either solo listening to music or in a small group that included John and Matt from just north of here in good old northern Utah -- I have run with John at Squaw Peak a couple of times before.
Vomit: I threw up so many times between mile 50 and mile 75 that Pete and I sorta lost track, but there were at least 10 individual sessions (2-3 times per session) with the final one taking me momentarily over the edge. I don't think I cried, but I sure wanted to curl up in the fetal position and just pass out. My pre-race plan had involved ignoring all stomach issues and to just keep running. Not to stop in any aid stations and wallow about my tummy feeling sickly. Just keep choking down clifshots and everything will eventually work itself out. That was the plan and I was sticking to it. The fact that I was in the Top 10 at the turnaround added some stubbornness to this strategy. I was still running fairly well and didn't want to give up on a solid finishing time/place -- I even passed a couple of people on the return climb up to Pink Cliffs. The only problem was that more was coming out than was going in and the longer this continued the more trouble I was going to eventually be in . . . I don't remember which aid station finally saw Plan A thrown out the window and received the extended pleasure of my company, but I do remember it was dark and cold. It took a while, but Pete nursed me back to some semblance of sanity as I sipped on broth, nibbled away at potatoes, and ate some noodles. A fellow vegan even gave me some papaya enzyme pill to help the digestion process get started again -- he gave me his holistic assurance it was safe. My only thought as I swallowed was that worse case scenario the night might change completely if it weren't safe.
Death March: I wandered from aid station to aid station getting in whatever calories I could. Realizing that the pace we were moving at could mean a long-long trek ahead, I simply forced myself to forget we still had more than a marathon ahead. At one point, I swear to gawd 100 people passed us in the blink of an eye. Were we standing still? One-foot, one-foot.
Racing: When we left the Proctor Canyon Aid Station (mile 81) I fully intended to walk to the finish. Up-down. Technical. Easy. Who cared? It was going to be a long walk, but we were obviously going to finish. And then all of the sudden, we were running again. And not only running, we were actually starting to pass random stragglers here and there along the way. Strange moments of recognition caught before and shortly after the sunrise made it all the more special. We were all on the trail together: physically and emotionally raw to the world. What a most excellent experience shared with strangers and friends alike.
Data: 27th place. 26 hours 50ish minutes. And I now have 6 100 mile finishes. And 6 fancy belt buckles. No belt. But lots of cool buckles.
Help: I want to start by thanking both my pacer and crew. Pete and Cara were awesome. I say this with only a little shame, but this was one of those days that sans pacer, I would have probably bailed at some point. Actually, I know the exact point -- well, too be honest miles 60-75 are such a blur that I don't really know the point -- when I would have bailed. But the moment -- whenever and wherever it was -- came when I looked at Pete and said, "Do you think I should DNF?" Thankfully, he lied to me and said, "No way." I know he was lying because around mile 90 when things were going better and the question was no longer about finishing, but rather about how much of the lost time we could make up during the final miles, Pete told me there had been a few moments during the night when he kind of figured we were going to have to bail on finishing.
Course: Wild, rugged, and beautiful. Before the race (this is a brand new course) there had been some discussion and general confusion about how tough a course this was going to be -- in particular elevation numbers were bouncing all over the place from 18,000 to 26,000. I would suggest the best way to describe the difficulty and vertical in future course descriptions would be to simply say there is enough of both and to not worry about the actual numbers. I am guessing everyone that ran with some sort of GPS got different data when trying to track the vertical, so the truth might as well be told: the course goes up, it goes down, and it swings around. But in either case, the terrain was amazing. There were some epic desert moments as well as some solid mountain running periods; there were pretty tight sections of single-track and some faster pieces of dirt road that threw one into the mode of Fire on the Mountain's loneliness of the long distance runner. Maybe the best word to describe the sum of the whole would be variety.
First 50: Patient. Solid-pacing. Group running. Music. Consistent eating. I full-on enjoyed the first 50 miles and felt like I was running well and with a good amount of intelligence. One of the early highlights for me was running in a train of about 15-20 runners through some of the coolest single-track I have ever run on during a race. The course does an amazing job of letting you experience the rugged scenery of the Utah desert right from the start. The pace was perfect and I knew to a greater or lesser extent about a half dozen of the other people in the group, which made me feel both comfortable and silently social. Almost the entire way to the turnaround point at mile 50 went as well as any race can go with me simply stoked to take in the views and to run either solo listening to music or in a small group that included John and Matt from just north of here in good old northern Utah -- I have run with John at Squaw Peak a couple of times before.
Vomit: I threw up so many times between mile 50 and mile 75 that Pete and I sorta lost track, but there were at least 10 individual sessions (2-3 times per session) with the final one taking me momentarily over the edge. I don't think I cried, but I sure wanted to curl up in the fetal position and just pass out. My pre-race plan had involved ignoring all stomach issues and to just keep running. Not to stop in any aid stations and wallow about my tummy feeling sickly. Just keep choking down clifshots and everything will eventually work itself out. That was the plan and I was sticking to it. The fact that I was in the Top 10 at the turnaround added some stubbornness to this strategy. I was still running fairly well and didn't want to give up on a solid finishing time/place -- I even passed a couple of people on the return climb up to Pink Cliffs. The only problem was that more was coming out than was going in and the longer this continued the more trouble I was going to eventually be in . . . I don't remember which aid station finally saw Plan A thrown out the window and received the extended pleasure of my company, but I do remember it was dark and cold. It took a while, but Pete nursed me back to some semblance of sanity as I sipped on broth, nibbled away at potatoes, and ate some noodles. A fellow vegan even gave me some papaya enzyme pill to help the digestion process get started again -- he gave me his holistic assurance it was safe. My only thought as I swallowed was that worse case scenario the night might change completely if it weren't safe.
Death March: I wandered from aid station to aid station getting in whatever calories I could. Realizing that the pace we were moving at could mean a long-long trek ahead, I simply forced myself to forget we still had more than a marathon ahead. At one point, I swear to gawd 100 people passed us in the blink of an eye. Were we standing still? One-foot, one-foot.
Racing: When we left the Proctor Canyon Aid Station (mile 81) I fully intended to walk to the finish. Up-down. Technical. Easy. Who cared? It was going to be a long walk, but we were obviously going to finish. And then all of the sudden, we were running again. And not only running, we were actually starting to pass random stragglers here and there along the way. Strange moments of recognition caught before and shortly after the sunrise made it all the more special. We were all on the trail together: physically and emotionally raw to the world. What a most excellent experience shared with strangers and friends alike.
Data: 27th place. 26 hours 50ish minutes. And I now have 6 100 mile finishes. And 6 fancy belt buckles. No belt. But lots of cool buckles.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Spring: Up and Down
I am not sure how reliable my memory of previous springs stands up to reality, but I pretty much feel like this has been a tough one . . . injuries, being sick, and whininess have made the past six or seven weeks a roller coaster of pseudo-training, which wouldn't have me too freaked out except for the minor detail that the Bryce 100 is less than four weeks away . . .
In the early part of March, about 2 weeks before the Buffalo Run, the trail jumped up and tweaked my ankle while I was busy daydreaming about warmer weather -- I still had about 17 or 18 miles of running ahead of me and didn't feel like calling for help so I told myself that if I could run the rest of the way it would surely speed up the recovery process. Apparently my ankle did not agree with my "judgment call" and swelled up to the size of a bowling ball by the next morning -- bowling bowl might be an exaggeration, but suffice it to say I was pretty whiny and felt picked on by the running gods. I am not a fan of being injured. I bicycled, I rehabbed, I started running again. But in an effort to prove my world class intelligence, the night before Buffalo in an effort to make sure my ankle was going to be able to hold up for the full 50km I decided to run some technical trail with a bit of snow cover and eventually found myself hobbling back to the car . . . I was not as upbeat and positive the second time around -- Oh, why have you forsaken me!
A few weeks later, my running was finally coming back together. My confidence in foot placement and such was starting to return, and technical-vertical was rejoining my vocabulary . . . then a friend of mine gave me his bib for a road race . . . I know this kind of behavior is reprehensible, but I decided to run a local race for free. Let me explain my criminal behavior by explaining that I really did not have the money to spend for a last second registration and it was the weekend immediately following Boston and I needed to run something with other people and wasn't in any danger of accidentally winning some sorta age group award under the wrong name . . . well, the race proved to be a hypothermic experiment in drowning rats and I may have recovered with the wrong electrolytish beverage . . . so by the end of the week I was good and full-on sick, which has been lingering with me since . . .
On the other hand: the trails have been beautiful lately! I am whining about running, which means that life as a whole is going well and despite my general state of weariness with this cycle of training there have been some pretty solid moments of mountain time spent above the city. Struggling to get some good training in during the past couple of months has reminded me how lucky I am to simply be able to run and (knock-on-wood) I still have enough fitness and time to feel excited for Bryce . . .
In the early part of March, about 2 weeks before the Buffalo Run, the trail jumped up and tweaked my ankle while I was busy daydreaming about warmer weather -- I still had about 17 or 18 miles of running ahead of me and didn't feel like calling for help so I told myself that if I could run the rest of the way it would surely speed up the recovery process. Apparently my ankle did not agree with my "judgment call" and swelled up to the size of a bowling ball by the next morning -- bowling bowl might be an exaggeration, but suffice it to say I was pretty whiny and felt picked on by the running gods. I am not a fan of being injured. I bicycled, I rehabbed, I started running again. But in an effort to prove my world class intelligence, the night before Buffalo in an effort to make sure my ankle was going to be able to hold up for the full 50km I decided to run some technical trail with a bit of snow cover and eventually found myself hobbling back to the car . . . I was not as upbeat and positive the second time around -- Oh, why have you forsaken me!
A few weeks later, my running was finally coming back together. My confidence in foot placement and such was starting to return, and technical-vertical was rejoining my vocabulary . . . then a friend of mine gave me his bib for a road race . . . I know this kind of behavior is reprehensible, but I decided to run a local race for free. Let me explain my criminal behavior by explaining that I really did not have the money to spend for a last second registration and it was the weekend immediately following Boston and I needed to run something with other people and wasn't in any danger of accidentally winning some sorta age group award under the wrong name . . . well, the race proved to be a hypothermic experiment in drowning rats and I may have recovered with the wrong electrolytish beverage . . . so by the end of the week I was good and full-on sick, which has been lingering with me since . . .
On the other hand: the trails have been beautiful lately! I am whining about running, which means that life as a whole is going well and despite my general state of weariness with this cycle of training there have been some pretty solid moments of mountain time spent above the city. Struggling to get some good training in during the past couple of months has reminded me how lucky I am to simply be able to run and (knock-on-wood) I still have enough fitness and time to feel excited for Bryce . . .
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Reflections
At the end of December I wanted to take a few minutes to reflect on how my running had gone during 2012, but instead I procrastinated away all of January and am instead now fascinated by how pretty much wretched the winter has been for running in SLC. Smog, smog, and more smog.
We have been thrown into a perfect cycle of inversion style running this year, which seems to be all about running on snow and ice high enough in the foothills to avoid at least some of the bad air -- and ironically this means driving to trailheads and thus adding to the pollution levels in the name of getting some fresh air. I don't mean to sound whiny, but I have even gotten into the habit of running on a treadmill when the opportunity arises. Oh, world, please give me some wind to push all this gunk away.
Instead of reflecting on last year, and rather than continuing to grump about the reality of the past month, I am beginning to look forward to the next year of running. During the past few weeks my race plans have been shaped by a combination of lottery gets, lottery misses, and the fact that I can't surf the internet for more than about five minutes without looking at race calendars. In addition to running a handful of races, I am hoping to spend as much of the summer as possible in the high country. Ideally, I am going to spend the month of July running in the mountains of Colorado with my main goal being to not get struck by lightning.
Race Calendar:
Antelope Island 50km (March)
Double BoSho (April)
Bryce 100m (May-June)
Wasatch 100m (September)
Tentatively I am also thinking about running a 50 mile race toward the end of July -- perhaps the Grand Mesa 50 -- and may round out the year with a trail marathon in Moab.
P.S. It has once again occurred to me that I might be able to improve my running by reducing my beer drinking, but it has also once again occurred to me that it probably isn't worth it.
We have been thrown into a perfect cycle of inversion style running this year, which seems to be all about running on snow and ice high enough in the foothills to avoid at least some of the bad air -- and ironically this means driving to trailheads and thus adding to the pollution levels in the name of getting some fresh air. I don't mean to sound whiny, but I have even gotten into the habit of running on a treadmill when the opportunity arises. Oh, world, please give me some wind to push all this gunk away.
Instead of reflecting on last year, and rather than continuing to grump about the reality of the past month, I am beginning to look forward to the next year of running. During the past few weeks my race plans have been shaped by a combination of lottery gets, lottery misses, and the fact that I can't surf the internet for more than about five minutes without looking at race calendars. In addition to running a handful of races, I am hoping to spend as much of the summer as possible in the high country. Ideally, I am going to spend the month of July running in the mountains of Colorado with my main goal being to not get struck by lightning.
Race Calendar:
Antelope Island 50km (March)
Double BoSho (April)
Bryce 100m (May-June)
Wasatch 100m (September)
Tentatively I am also thinking about running a 50 mile race toward the end of July -- perhaps the Grand Mesa 50 -- and may round out the year with a trail marathon in Moab.
P.S. It has once again occurred to me that I might be able to improve my running by reducing my beer drinking, but it has also once again occurred to me that it probably isn't worth it.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
BEAR . . . the monkey is off my back . . .
WOW!
I am not sure mother nature could have worked things out any more perfectly for some pretty top notch scenery: fall colors at their peak, a full moon for the night hours, and the weather was downright perfect. Definite awesomeness . . .
Heading into this race, I pretty much had one goal -- finishing . . . I avoided all the normal temptations to create pace charts, figure out who else was there, do some speed/tempo work, and trained less than normal heading into the couple of months preceding race day . . . since the Black Hills in June I hadn't run more than 80 miles during any given week (hit 80 twice) and only had a couple of runs -- including El Vaquero -- that hit or went beyond the 30 mile mark . . . and as race excuses went, the week or two preceding had found me dealing with a cough and sore throat . . . hell, I only decided about a month ago to run this race for certain.
Anyhow, I went into the starting line way mellow and felt genuinely relaxed (kinda unusual for me when it comes to 100s since I tend to get myself too wound up and all gooey-eyed about the distance and the race, which is kinda silly for a middle of the pack runner anyhow). My relatively calm mood was probably helped by the fact that I missed the pre-race meeting and such because I worked late thursday night finishing up parent-teacher conferences at school . . . and boom the gun went off . . . oh, wait there was no gun . . . I think it was a more typical Bear 100 start, "You guys might want to start running now."
I had a lot of fun on the climb up to the first aid station at about mile 10 hanging out with a number of familiar faces from the Salt Lake area and just kinda enjoyed being in the mountains while my legs/body warmed up . . . shortly after the summit is when the basic story of the first 52 miles (Tony Grove Campground) started to get written as some decent running/hiking got mixed in with a lot of time dashing off towards the bathroom at pretty much any aid station, forest service campground, and/or trailhead toilet I could find along the way . . . I don't know if it was how the bug that had been traveling around inside me decided to manifest itself for the race or if it was something I ate but despite the toilet issues I thoroughly enjoyed the first half of the race and found myself at Tony Grove campground mentally fresh and pretty much smiling. The next 10 miles of running from Tony Grove to where I met my pacer Ed at mile 62 were equally awesome as the scenery continued to be lights out beautiful and I finally found myself able to simply run (despite being pretty conservative and not being too aware of pace, I actually think my time at Franklin -- mile 62 -- wouldn't be an entirely crazy way to shoot for a sub-24 on a different kind of day) . . . anyhow it was nice to meet up with Ed since I had spent most of the miles between 25 and 62 pretty much solo . . .
The night was pretty typical of a race gone rough: I had a hard time getting much of a pace going and seemed to cycle from bad to worse for most of the last 25 miles. I set a personal record by only throwing up twice (well at least only 2 cycles) mixed in with a little bit of dry heaving and was able to keep eating from time to time although strangely enough drinking water wasn't working as well. Despite the fact that my time for the night section might suggest otherwise, I was able to run a decent amount of the flats and most of the gradual downhills -- steeper sections were proving too much for my legs -- but I did find that whenever the pace started to pick up my stomach would get pretty sour and/or I would become dizzy . . . in fact I had a couple of dizzy spells that were a bit overwhelming and even took to sitting down from time to time when things became too swimmy. Anyhow the night was good-ole fashioned plug along running-hiking with existence being simplified to the next step forward and the mantra became make forward progress whenever possible. Yeah, in that sick twisted way memory fuzzes everything and despite my rational side reminding me otherwise, I kinda liked the darkness of the night both figuratively and descriptively.
But the highlight of the race came at about mile 98 when looking out at Bear Lake I took in the world around me and simply perceived as much of the pain and beauty as possible.
I am not sure mother nature could have worked things out any more perfectly for some pretty top notch scenery: fall colors at their peak, a full moon for the night hours, and the weather was downright perfect. Definite awesomeness . . .
Heading into this race, I pretty much had one goal -- finishing . . . I avoided all the normal temptations to create pace charts, figure out who else was there, do some speed/tempo work, and trained less than normal heading into the couple of months preceding race day . . . since the Black Hills in June I hadn't run more than 80 miles during any given week (hit 80 twice) and only had a couple of runs -- including El Vaquero -- that hit or went beyond the 30 mile mark . . . and as race excuses went, the week or two preceding had found me dealing with a cough and sore throat . . . hell, I only decided about a month ago to run this race for certain.
Anyhow, I went into the starting line way mellow and felt genuinely relaxed (kinda unusual for me when it comes to 100s since I tend to get myself too wound up and all gooey-eyed about the distance and the race, which is kinda silly for a middle of the pack runner anyhow). My relatively calm mood was probably helped by the fact that I missed the pre-race meeting and such because I worked late thursday night finishing up parent-teacher conferences at school . . . and boom the gun went off . . . oh, wait there was no gun . . . I think it was a more typical Bear 100 start, "You guys might want to start running now."
I had a lot of fun on the climb up to the first aid station at about mile 10 hanging out with a number of familiar faces from the Salt Lake area and just kinda enjoyed being in the mountains while my legs/body warmed up . . . shortly after the summit is when the basic story of the first 52 miles (Tony Grove Campground) started to get written as some decent running/hiking got mixed in with a lot of time dashing off towards the bathroom at pretty much any aid station, forest service campground, and/or trailhead toilet I could find along the way . . . I don't know if it was how the bug that had been traveling around inside me decided to manifest itself for the race or if it was something I ate but despite the toilet issues I thoroughly enjoyed the first half of the race and found myself at Tony Grove campground mentally fresh and pretty much smiling. The next 10 miles of running from Tony Grove to where I met my pacer Ed at mile 62 were equally awesome as the scenery continued to be lights out beautiful and I finally found myself able to simply run (despite being pretty conservative and not being too aware of pace, I actually think my time at Franklin -- mile 62 -- wouldn't be an entirely crazy way to shoot for a sub-24 on a different kind of day) . . . anyhow it was nice to meet up with Ed since I had spent most of the miles between 25 and 62 pretty much solo . . .
The night was pretty typical of a race gone rough: I had a hard time getting much of a pace going and seemed to cycle from bad to worse for most of the last 25 miles. I set a personal record by only throwing up twice (well at least only 2 cycles) mixed in with a little bit of dry heaving and was able to keep eating from time to time although strangely enough drinking water wasn't working as well. Despite the fact that my time for the night section might suggest otherwise, I was able to run a decent amount of the flats and most of the gradual downhills -- steeper sections were proving too much for my legs -- but I did find that whenever the pace started to pick up my stomach would get pretty sour and/or I would become dizzy . . . in fact I had a couple of dizzy spells that were a bit overwhelming and even took to sitting down from time to time when things became too swimmy. Anyhow the night was good-ole fashioned plug along running-hiking with existence being simplified to the next step forward and the mantra became make forward progress whenever possible. Yeah, in that sick twisted way memory fuzzes everything and despite my rational side reminding me otherwise, I kinda liked the darkness of the night both figuratively and descriptively.
But the highlight of the race came at about mile 98 when looking out at Bear Lake I took in the world around me and simply perceived as much of the pain and beauty as possible.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Mind
I wanted to jot down an idea about running and awareness before I lost it once again in the haze of my brain . . .
Perhaps I want to call this concept, the "emptiness" of consciousness. There are a few races (and of course training runs) in which my mind has been able to become more intimately connected to my body and escaped for at least a period of time the narrative of individual consciousness. It's almost like in the sensation of running (and realization of breath) my mind becomes temporarily aware of the whole. I remember experiencing this almost accidentally during the Salt Lake City marathon a few years ago, but the point of this entry is to explain the purposefulness of finding that (dare I say) zen kinda place during El Vaquero over the past weekend.
Early on in the race, I was way too inside my own head and wasn't letting myself enjoy the race as much as I wanted. In fact part of the spinning going on inside my head focused on the question: Why am I not enjoying this race more? I could see how beautiful everything was and wanted to enjoy it completely, but instead I was focusing on the miles ahead, the competition around me, the training both behind and in front of me, and finally the struggle of climbing and descending. If I couldn't get out of the "race" and into the experience of the mountains, why in the world was I here? Might as well be at home on the couch, or running on a treadmill somewhere . . .
Finally, I decided I wanted to experience the race differently and made a conscious decision to shut everything else out and simply focus on each step as it took place -- not the next step, this step. Well, not really each step, rather it was as if I focused on each breath. The inhale-exhale relationship of each breath became my necessary focus point. Lacking discipline, flexibility, and belief I am pathetic at things like yoga; however, I found myself swallowed up at this point in the race by the process of breathing (a concept I recall from my very limited, sporadic, half-hearted attempts at things like yoga. And through the act of consciously breathing, I discovered a wild awareness of the race going on around me. It was almost like I found myself running (and only running). There was nothing else going on in my consciousness. I wasn't daydreaming. I wasn't contemplating. I wasn't analyzing. I wasn't rejoicing. I wasn't complaining. I was simply running.
And through the act of running, I was experiencing the trail, the mountains, and ironically enough the race.
Don't get me wrong this section of the race didn't last forever -- can't really say when I went in and out of awareness -- but even when the feeling faded away there was a piece/peace remaining.
Perhaps I want to call this concept, the "emptiness" of consciousness. There are a few races (and of course training runs) in which my mind has been able to become more intimately connected to my body and escaped for at least a period of time the narrative of individual consciousness. It's almost like in the sensation of running (and realization of breath) my mind becomes temporarily aware of the whole. I remember experiencing this almost accidentally during the Salt Lake City marathon a few years ago, but the point of this entry is to explain the purposefulness of finding that (dare I say) zen kinda place during El Vaquero over the past weekend.
Early on in the race, I was way too inside my own head and wasn't letting myself enjoy the race as much as I wanted. In fact part of the spinning going on inside my head focused on the question: Why am I not enjoying this race more? I could see how beautiful everything was and wanted to enjoy it completely, but instead I was focusing on the miles ahead, the competition around me, the training both behind and in front of me, and finally the struggle of climbing and descending. If I couldn't get out of the "race" and into the experience of the mountains, why in the world was I here? Might as well be at home on the couch, or running on a treadmill somewhere . . .
Finally, I decided I wanted to experience the race differently and made a conscious decision to shut everything else out and simply focus on each step as it took place -- not the next step, this step. Well, not really each step, rather it was as if I focused on each breath. The inhale-exhale relationship of each breath became my necessary focus point. Lacking discipline, flexibility, and belief I am pathetic at things like yoga; however, I found myself swallowed up at this point in the race by the process of breathing (a concept I recall from my very limited, sporadic, half-hearted attempts at things like yoga. And through the act of consciously breathing, I discovered a wild awareness of the race going on around me. It was almost like I found myself running (and only running). There was nothing else going on in my consciousness. I wasn't daydreaming. I wasn't contemplating. I wasn't analyzing. I wasn't rejoicing. I wasn't complaining. I was simply running.
And through the act of running, I was experiencing the trail, the mountains, and ironically enough the race.
Don't get me wrong this section of the race didn't last forever -- can't really say when I went in and out of awareness -- but even when the feeling faded away there was a piece/peace remaining.
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