I was scared.
Since my first 50-miler in 2007, I've never been scared to start an ultramarathon. But on MMT 100 eve, as I writhed uncomfortably in the slightly-too-warm back seat of my Honda Civic (now seeming much worse as "Plan B" in action than it did in my mind, when I thought that I wouldn't have to use it), I wasn't having trouble sleeping from the typical pre-race nerves, or excitement, or even bug bites. I was just plain scared.
Since Badwater last July, my races have turned out mediocre for the most part, and the one ultra that I did attempt (Speedgoat 50K aside), ended in a disaster, the way only a race like Hellgate can. So, just hours away from lining up for a 100+ mile quad-thrashing rock-stomp, I felt nothing but fear.
I was certainly in much better health than last year. Debatably, I was in similar or better shape. But not having successfully attempted this sort of distance in far too long, I had no idea how my body was going to respond. I tried to suppress visions of collapse in the woods, feeling totally broken, but I knew they were there. I didn't even want to think about what this might mean for Badwater in July.
But in other news, most other things were under control. New headlamps and new handbottles (to replace the lost and stolen ones), drop bags set, warm clothes pre-positioned at the finish line, the dozens and dozens of actual important things to do outside of this silly race at least temporarily taken care of . . . on a very practical level, there wasn't really anything to worry about. At 3 am, I made deliberate, yet efficient work of my pre-race preparations, and then it was off to the starting line with 10 minutes to spare, to mingle with 200-ish other runners and try to feel like I belonged there.
The semi-circle at the starting line, the same as in 2010, was there with about 2 minutes to go until race start. Although there were quite a few legitimate contenders (probably even more than last year), nobody wanted to take the lead. This time, I didn't either.
At exactly 0400, off we went, and I settled in with what ended up being the lead pack as we held a comfortable pace over the first few road miles. We turned off onto our first trail, I switched my headlamp to high, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I wasn't losing ground. I was also an indeterminate kind of surprised that while I was running near Jason Lantz, he brought up my New Jersey Marathon blog entry, and asked me if I was going to try to qualify for Boston 2014 again (most likely, yes). Sometimes I forget that some people read this thing.
Before I could really think too hard about anything that was happening, it was daylight, and I was motoring along a technical downhill trail section to Edinburg Gap with the rest of the lead pack. As we came through the aid station, I looked at my watch - right at 2 hours. Having studied splits from previous years, this was about on pace to go sub-20 hours, which, in my fear-filled mind, was too fast.
I backed off a bit in the next section, not as much because I had to, but because I wanted to, and a few more people passed me. I was still making decent progress, picking through rocks and enjoying the scenery that I could within the motion blur, but I was also gradually starting to feel worse. By the time I hit Elizabeth Furnace, the 33-ish mile mark, at just over 6 hours, I felt as though the wheels might already be coming off. My stomach wasn't feeling right, my legs were feeling weak, and if somebody had told me that I could stop at that moment, I would have done it without hesitation, curled up in a ball, and fallen asleep right there, on top of rocks, dirt, bugs, whatever.
People at the Elizabeth Furnace aid station were saying that I looked okay. I felt awful. As I forced myself into a very uncomfortable jog out of the aid station, distinct thoughts of "this is a cruel, sick endeavor" and "why on earth would anybody subject themselves to this?" were first and foremost in my mind. I tried to convince myself intellectually, rationally, that I could do this, but my body was protesting loudly about going beyond the marathon distance. I tried to figure out why on earth I felt this way. Had I accidentally ingested some sunscreen? Maybe something bad in last night's dinner? Lack of sleep? I had no answers, other than to keep moving forward.
I reached Veach Gap, not-so-fresh off of a gravel road slog that I desparately wanted to walk, but compelled myself to mostly run, to find Jon Loewus-Deitch working the aid station. He came towards me to give me a hug, and then, barely touching me, recoiled with an unabashed "ew, you're gross" . . . which, that far into the race, was probably pretty true. Still, the whole incident amused me enough that I was at least a little bit distracted on the ensuing climb out of the aid station. That didn't last for the entire climb, though, so the best I could do was hope that the drop down the back side of the mountain to the Indian Grave aid station would be a welcome break. And it was, if you count stubbing your toes on multiple rocks and struggling not to fall on your face a "break" from a never-ending uphill grind.
And there I was, just past Indian Grave, on an almost 4-mile road section, feeling more and more broken by the minute. The race director passed me in a truck, heading towards me. I tried to smile and wave, but my walking a flat road section betrayed the very strong instinct to beg for a ride back to camp in the truck. Matt Bugin passed me on the road section, and, in reference to the Hammer Nutrition shirt that I was wearing, quipped "C'mon! It's Hammer Time!" It was at that point in the race that I couldn't understand how anybody could do this sort of thing, let alone be so cheerful doing it. I let Matt pass, and when he said "I'll see you again later," I responded with a very definitive "maybe."
Sometimes, knowing the course is a bad thing. When the road finally ended, at Habron Gap, I knew what was next - a 10-mile stretch between there and Camp Roosevelt, the easiest drop-out point, containing dozens of nasty rock-ridden surprises. On the one hand, I wanted to drop at Habron Gap. I wanted to drop at the previous three aid stations. On the other hand, dropping at Habron Gap meant a much longer drive-of-shame back than dropping at Camp Roosevelt. The 10 miles ahead were somehow the lesser of the evils.
As I trudged up the mountain, it took every bit of willpower to make forward progress. Near the top, the only thing that worked was to focus on a patch of ground two feet in front of me, and tell myself to put my foot there, again, and again, and again. When I reached the top, exhausted, I sat down on a rock for about two minutes to collect myself. Nobody else was around. I closed my eyes and I felt my entire body tingle and buzz. I was close to blackout. I was close to failure.
But, sticking to my easy drop-out plan, I couldn't stop there, so I stood up, and somehow felt a little better, so I kept moving towards Camp Roosevelt. Somewhere on the interminable yellow trail to the Camp Roosevelt aid station, Keith Knipling, who has finished this race something like 13 times, passed me and asked how I was. I told him bad, and that I was feeling slow. He said "well, just keep moving forward," and he kept moving forward. It was at this point that somehow, the apparent pointlessness of this endeavor had lifted. Keith had done this many times before. He had most likely had bad days here. I had a bad day here in 2010. Somehow, I was going to find a way to do better, if for no other reason than for the sake of doing better. That was the logic, and that was the plan. I started to run again. Before long, I had caught Keith, passed him, and reached the aid station.
When I arrived at Camp Roosevelt, at around quarter after 5, I found myself, time-wise, in nearly the same situation as I had been in last year. And last year, I had run under 24 hours. Last year, I had come through feeling much more under control, but I wasn't totally out of this year's race yet. Mark Rodriguez said that he thought I normally came through there around 2 pm. Z said that I looked a lot better at this point in the race than I did back in 2010. It's all relative, I suppose. Being on the edge of a total breakdown, the best commentary I could manage on my condition was "hangin' in there," which became my go-to line for the rest of the race whenever anybody asked me how I was doing. And before too much navel-gazing could take place (or before Keith could beat me out of the aid station, for that matter), I was off and running again.
At this point, the race blurs quite a bit. My focus shifted from the impossible to the plausible. I had somehow come in under 24 hours last year, with a similar start time-wise, so it had to be plausible to do it again. I distinctly recalled sections of the race where I had walked when I could have run instead, and about how much time I estimated I would have saved by running. I reasoned that there was margin under the 24-hour line if I just stuck with it. And I really wanted to be under that line, because I didn't want to be out there any longer than I had to.
I kept moving forward, and I kept focused. I was going to have to keep trying things with pace and nutrition until something stuck and I didn't feel so terrible. I tried to enjoy the pleasant things - the breeze on Kerns Mountain was refreshing, and I kept both of my contact lenses this time around. At the Visitor Center aid station, Jackie Palmer and her friend found me some Listerine strips, so that I didn't have to taste stale Gatorade (at least for ten or fifteen minutes). The momentum kept building. And I kept passing people. By the time I reached the Picnic Area, Mile 90-ish, I was in the aid station with two people who were ahead of me still there. The thought of getting out before they did, and gaining ground, was too exciting to prevent me from rapidly downing two cups of water, a banana chunk, and a cup of Coke, then nearly throwing it up a quarter-mile later. (I dry-heaved three times, then rode the adrenaline surge all the way down the trail to the road crossing.)
After one more mountain crossing, as I hauled down the road to Gap Creek, just over six miles to go, somehow running comfortably, it occurred to me that this was pretty much the definition of "hanging in there," which is a thing that my Dad says a lot when somebody asks him how he's doing. I used to look at it as a way of deferring a "real" answer to the question. At that point, I had a profound realization that a lot of the time, it probably was the "real" answer to the question. "Hanging in there" is definitely a state of being, where clear "good" and "bad" don't exist, but you keep going anyway. In this case, all the way to Gap Creek, where I did actually see Matt Bugin again . . . sitting by the fire. Maybe he had gotten there ahead of me and was resting briefly, maybe he had dropped hours ago. I didn't know which. I didn't want to find out right now. I wanted to finish the race.
And, with a huge surge of energy, I attacked the last section. Up Jawbone Gap one more time, much more briskly than the first go-around, even though it wasn't very much cooler at almost 2 am, down the rocky backside, and on to the gravel road to the finish.
I hit the gravel road running strong. The night was dead-silent, save for the crunch of gravel under my feet. The only light was my headlamp. Nobody was nearby. As I scanned the horizon, looking for the next reflective confidence marker, my footsteps quickened. Impossibly, after hours of pointless suffering, I had found a way. It took only 99+ miles of forward progress on foot to re-discover the pure physical pleasure that running can be when it's done just right. And, for the first time ever in the last few miles of an ultra, I didn't really want the race to end. I felt as though I could have kept on running down that dark road for hours.
So I had to make do with finishing strong, in 22 hours, 54 minutes, and 48 seconds, nearly 40 minutes faster than last year's time, 7th place overall, with Mark Rodriguez and Chris Avedissian, who's been a fantastic crew person since Old Dominion 2008, waiting for me at the finish line. Since I was in the "solo" divison, they couldn't help me during the race, but they were immense help afterwards, even though I didn't collapse into a ball on the ground or throw up in a trash can, as is customarily the case. I tried to sleep, but all of the energy that I had suddenly found at the end of the race refused to be pent-up, so I hung out with Mark and Chris until they had to sleep, then hung around the finish line and watched more people come in - in particular, Sniper, for his 10th finish, and Shannon MacGregor, sticking out a tough race to come in under the 36-hour cutoff.
And that, I'd say, is the day that I learned the true meaning of "hanging in there." Thanks, Dad, for that one. Considering how poorly the Club Challenge 10-Miler went at the end of February, it's hard to believe that in the relatively short interim, I've been able to turn things around so much. I'm starting to feel excited about Badwater (cautiously excited, of course). The plan, as it were, seems to be working. That's the power of "hanging in there."
And finally, related to Badwater, just a reminder that you can make donations to G-PACT, my Badwater charity, here: http://www.firstgiving.com/G-PACT/david-ploskonka-badwater . . . it'd make my pointless suffering just a little bit more meaningful, and I'm sure that my little sister, who suffers from gastroparesis, would appreciate it, too!
Monday, May 20, 2013
Sunday, May 5, 2013
New Jersey Marathon Fail Report
This is not at all what I wanted to be writing right now, so I'm going to do my best to get this out of the way quickly, without terribly compromising the quality of my writing. (It probably won't turn out to be either, though.) Here goes:
First, if a picture is still worth a thousand words, then this one more or less spares you from having to read the rest of this:
(Yes, it cost $5.00 to get out of the giant parking lot at Monmouth Park after the race.)
The longer version, starting with the acknowledgments and disclaimers: Yes, it is, by many accounts, "stupid" to try to run two marathons in two weeks, even if the first marathon felt like only a moderately difficult training run. Yes, people have the right to charge whatever they want for a marathon, and since people are willing to pay a lot, registration fees keep going up. Yes, there are no guarantees that even on what you think will be your best day, you will actually perform.
All that said, leading up to the Kentucky Derby Marathon last week, and especially after the race, if you had asked me what sort of shape I thought I was in, I would have answered, in all honesty, 2:50 shape. My legs felt exactly the way they did before Boston in 2011, where I went just under 2:50 (which, at the time, I didn't think was even remotely possible). So even though I had run a marathon a week before this one, I felt that, as a "flat, fast course," this was a good opportunity to qualify for Boston. And, with my upcoming ultras, starting with the MMT 100 in two weeks, leading up to Badwater in July, this was just about the only opportunity to qualify for Boston before my legs will be too trashed from running ultras to run a fast marathon. (Remember, that qualifier has to be in by an unspecified time in early September, and it better be good.)
So even though over the past week, my legs felt just a little flat (but by no means wrecked), and I was sick on Friday with some sort of stomach bug, and I spent most of Friday and Saturday getting yelled at by somebody who will remain unspecified, which (to cut short a much longer story) culminated in $84 of tickets, and a $125 tow job (which, as an aside, makes me angrier than just about anything else on this earth, as people in the towing business are the lowest scum on earth), I still drove 4+ hours to Nowhere, New Jersey on Saturday afternoon, so I could pay $155 to register for this bad marathon. At this point, I was feeling like the whole thing was baloney. (The expo was, quite literally, as the only edible samples there were . . . bologna. Seriously.)
Outside of all of that was a lodging mess. People were in, then people were out, and I did finally find a place to stay, but they didn't need to make me the subject of derision (albeit somewhat rightly so) when they found out that I paid $155 to run this marathon to try to qualify for Boston. (As pacers, they were running for free, which is probably about what this race is really worth.)
In spite of all of that, I managed to make it to the 5 a.m. wake-up call, so that we could spend an hour and a half driving what should have been 45 minutes to the start of the race, complicated by the single-point-of-entry parking system. (In truth, we pulled some questionably legal maneuvers that shaved about an hour off of our parking time - otherwise, we would have been scrambling to get to the starting line.)
And in spite of all of that, I managed to be smiling and enthusiastic about a situation that, objectively, was pretty much bullshit. I was the only one in the sparsely populated "A" corral smiling and singing along to "Sweet Caroline," in my discarded women's sweater-shawl (courtesy of anonymous half-marathoners flush with disposable clothing). Everbody else looked nervous, scared, and cold. For me, in spite of a lot of garbage in every other aspect of my life, there was still joy in racing.
And for the first 20 miles of the race, I felt in control. I felt strong. I felt like I was really going to do this. While I wasn't out super-fast (just over 1:30 at the half, and 2:18 at 20 miles), I felt as though it was a controlled effort. The course really was pancake flat, although being near the shore, it was not without the wind-to-the-face, particularly when the course snaked in the direction of the shore, which it did quite often after the half-marathon mark, to add mileage without having to close down any more of New Jersey.
But somewhere between mile 20 and mile 22, the wheels started falling off. Things started hurting, my form faltered, my stride rate slowed, the wind-to-the-face intensified, and by the time I hit the 22 mile mark, the clock said 2:37, and I was broken. I contemplated my options, which included muscling through, maybe salvaging an 8-minute mile pace, and finishing in around . . . 3:10. As if I haven't already failed three times to qualify since October running approximately 3:10 (Baltimore: 3:09:27, NCR: 3:11:something, Rock N Roll USA: 3:07:12). This was painful. I had no gas left in the tank. This was no longer fun.
So I chose instead to reduce the pain level and try to death-march my way to hopefully less than a 3:40, but this random woman would not let me quit. She claimed to be hurting a lot, and was reduced to run-walking (how she got so far ahead of me is beyond me, although there many opportunities to cut the course, not that I'm accusing anybody of anything), but she wasn't hurting so much that she couldn't periodically come up from behind me when she was walking, push me in the back, and tell me to keep moving. She wanted to finish the race with me. I wanted to be anywhere but there. I would run ahead, get tired, start walking, and just hope that she wouldn't come up behind me again. But she always would. And it would start all over again.
As I got closer to the finish, more than enough other people came up behind me as I walked, patted me on the back, and told me to "c'mon, run." What part of "3:05 was ten minutes ago" don't you understand? I thought to myself. At one point, I said some unkind words to one of them out loud, which a couple of clearly non-runner passerbys actually smiled at. It was the first smile that I had seen from anybody all race, which made me feel a little better, until I looked down at my shirt and noticed that my right nipple had bled all over my shirt, probably the worst nipple bleed I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of them. No wonder people were giving me horrified looks all day.
Eventually, like everything else in this life, the race ended, just after the random push-in-the-back woman sprinted past me (she wanted it more). I ran a 3:25:something, but who really cares, the point was that it was over.
For my trouble, I got a huge heavy albatross . . . er, medal, hung over my neck, a bottle of water, a banana, a tiny chocolate chip granola bar, and three pieces of saltwater taffy, each of which were half-stuck to the wax paper wrapper. Pretty lame, New Jersey. As soon as practicable, I sat down on the sidewalk by the ocean, waiting for my ride, and the inevitable post-race shivers (it was windy and 50) to come. I didn't have to wait long for either, as the slowest was pacing 3:30. In the meantime, I put my head on my knees, blocking out the sunlight, and contemplated my lot in life. I drove many hours and spent way too much money on this. There was nipple blood on my shirt and salt on my face and I reeked of A&D ointment. I was a smelly, sloppy failure.
I got out as fast as I could, considering that it was a mile walk to a shuttle bus to the parking area, and now I'm here in Baltimore writing this, after a distinctly unsatisfying round of Taco Bell, the only thing that seemed appetizing when I finally regained my appetite. (I again no longer have an appetite after that.)
So I'm sure that this all comes off as a disorganized pity party. I entirely acknowledge that. But I guess that's the thing about racing. You set goals and make plans and you hope that they work out. And when they do work out, you look really awesome and you feel really great and life is beautiful. And when they don't work out, at best, you're left scratching your head wondering why they went awry, or, worse yet, you're ashamed and humiliated.
Five attempts to qualify for Boston since October 2012. Baltimore, NCR, George Washington Birthday, Rock N Roll USA, New Jersey. Hundreds of dollars in race fees, hundreds of miles of driving, over 16 hours of wasted running. So why keep trying?
Well, I'd like to go back to a sentence that you either skipped or probably already forgot by now. The one where I talked about singing and smiling in the starting corral, not because I'm always a singing, smiling kind of guy, but because of the gratitude that I had for being on the starting line, in spite of a lot of bad stuff, and the opportunity to do something really awesome. Standing there today, I secretly hoped that Boston 2011 wasn't just some sort of wind-aided fluke, and that I had the potential to run 2:50, or even faster.
Today, it didn't work out that way. And at the risk of the terrifying potential that it may never work out that way again, I stubbornly, and perhaps foolishly, choose to believe that with continued hard work, and a little luck, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow . . . it just might. (So go ahead and throw stones.)
First, if a picture is still worth a thousand words, then this one more or less spares you from having to read the rest of this:
(Yes, it cost $5.00 to get out of the giant parking lot at Monmouth Park after the race.)
The longer version, starting with the acknowledgments and disclaimers: Yes, it is, by many accounts, "stupid" to try to run two marathons in two weeks, even if the first marathon felt like only a moderately difficult training run. Yes, people have the right to charge whatever they want for a marathon, and since people are willing to pay a lot, registration fees keep going up. Yes, there are no guarantees that even on what you think will be your best day, you will actually perform.
All that said, leading up to the Kentucky Derby Marathon last week, and especially after the race, if you had asked me what sort of shape I thought I was in, I would have answered, in all honesty, 2:50 shape. My legs felt exactly the way they did before Boston in 2011, where I went just under 2:50 (which, at the time, I didn't think was even remotely possible). So even though I had run a marathon a week before this one, I felt that, as a "flat, fast course," this was a good opportunity to qualify for Boston. And, with my upcoming ultras, starting with the MMT 100 in two weeks, leading up to Badwater in July, this was just about the only opportunity to qualify for Boston before my legs will be too trashed from running ultras to run a fast marathon. (Remember, that qualifier has to be in by an unspecified time in early September, and it better be good.)
So even though over the past week, my legs felt just a little flat (but by no means wrecked), and I was sick on Friday with some sort of stomach bug, and I spent most of Friday and Saturday getting yelled at by somebody who will remain unspecified, which (to cut short a much longer story) culminated in $84 of tickets, and a $125 tow job (which, as an aside, makes me angrier than just about anything else on this earth, as people in the towing business are the lowest scum on earth), I still drove 4+ hours to Nowhere, New Jersey on Saturday afternoon, so I could pay $155 to register for this bad marathon. At this point, I was feeling like the whole thing was baloney. (The expo was, quite literally, as the only edible samples there were . . . bologna. Seriously.)
Outside of all of that was a lodging mess. People were in, then people were out, and I did finally find a place to stay, but they didn't need to make me the subject of derision (albeit somewhat rightly so) when they found out that I paid $155 to run this marathon to try to qualify for Boston. (As pacers, they were running for free, which is probably about what this race is really worth.)
In spite of all of that, I managed to make it to the 5 a.m. wake-up call, so that we could spend an hour and a half driving what should have been 45 minutes to the start of the race, complicated by the single-point-of-entry parking system. (In truth, we pulled some questionably legal maneuvers that shaved about an hour off of our parking time - otherwise, we would have been scrambling to get to the starting line.)
And in spite of all of that, I managed to be smiling and enthusiastic about a situation that, objectively, was pretty much bullshit. I was the only one in the sparsely populated "A" corral smiling and singing along to "Sweet Caroline," in my discarded women's sweater-shawl (courtesy of anonymous half-marathoners flush with disposable clothing). Everbody else looked nervous, scared, and cold. For me, in spite of a lot of garbage in every other aspect of my life, there was still joy in racing.
And for the first 20 miles of the race, I felt in control. I felt strong. I felt like I was really going to do this. While I wasn't out super-fast (just over 1:30 at the half, and 2:18 at 20 miles), I felt as though it was a controlled effort. The course really was pancake flat, although being near the shore, it was not without the wind-to-the-face, particularly when the course snaked in the direction of the shore, which it did quite often after the half-marathon mark, to add mileage without having to close down any more of New Jersey.
But somewhere between mile 20 and mile 22, the wheels started falling off. Things started hurting, my form faltered, my stride rate slowed, the wind-to-the-face intensified, and by the time I hit the 22 mile mark, the clock said 2:37, and I was broken. I contemplated my options, which included muscling through, maybe salvaging an 8-minute mile pace, and finishing in around . . . 3:10. As if I haven't already failed three times to qualify since October running approximately 3:10 (Baltimore: 3:09:27, NCR: 3:11:something, Rock N Roll USA: 3:07:12). This was painful. I had no gas left in the tank. This was no longer fun.
So I chose instead to reduce the pain level and try to death-march my way to hopefully less than a 3:40, but this random woman would not let me quit. She claimed to be hurting a lot, and was reduced to run-walking (how she got so far ahead of me is beyond me, although there many opportunities to cut the course, not that I'm accusing anybody of anything), but she wasn't hurting so much that she couldn't periodically come up from behind me when she was walking, push me in the back, and tell me to keep moving. She wanted to finish the race with me. I wanted to be anywhere but there. I would run ahead, get tired, start walking, and just hope that she wouldn't come up behind me again. But she always would. And it would start all over again.
As I got closer to the finish, more than enough other people came up behind me as I walked, patted me on the back, and told me to "c'mon, run." What part of "3:05 was ten minutes ago" don't you understand? I thought to myself. At one point, I said some unkind words to one of them out loud, which a couple of clearly non-runner passerbys actually smiled at. It was the first smile that I had seen from anybody all race, which made me feel a little better, until I looked down at my shirt and noticed that my right nipple had bled all over my shirt, probably the worst nipple bleed I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of them. No wonder people were giving me horrified looks all day.
Eventually, like everything else in this life, the race ended, just after the random push-in-the-back woman sprinted past me (she wanted it more). I ran a 3:25:something, but who really cares, the point was that it was over.
For my trouble, I got a huge heavy albatross . . . er, medal, hung over my neck, a bottle of water, a banana, a tiny chocolate chip granola bar, and three pieces of saltwater taffy, each of which were half-stuck to the wax paper wrapper. Pretty lame, New Jersey. As soon as practicable, I sat down on the sidewalk by the ocean, waiting for my ride, and the inevitable post-race shivers (it was windy and 50) to come. I didn't have to wait long for either, as the slowest was pacing 3:30. In the meantime, I put my head on my knees, blocking out the sunlight, and contemplated my lot in life. I drove many hours and spent way too much money on this. There was nipple blood on my shirt and salt on my face and I reeked of A&D ointment. I was a smelly, sloppy failure.
I got out as fast as I could, considering that it was a mile walk to a shuttle bus to the parking area, and now I'm here in Baltimore writing this, after a distinctly unsatisfying round of Taco Bell, the only thing that seemed appetizing when I finally regained my appetite. (I again no longer have an appetite after that.)
So I'm sure that this all comes off as a disorganized pity party. I entirely acknowledge that. But I guess that's the thing about racing. You set goals and make plans and you hope that they work out. And when they do work out, you look really awesome and you feel really great and life is beautiful. And when they don't work out, at best, you're left scratching your head wondering why they went awry, or, worse yet, you're ashamed and humiliated.
Five attempts to qualify for Boston since October 2012. Baltimore, NCR, George Washington Birthday, Rock N Roll USA, New Jersey. Hundreds of dollars in race fees, hundreds of miles of driving, over 16 hours of wasted running. So why keep trying?
Well, I'd like to go back to a sentence that you either skipped or probably already forgot by now. The one where I talked about singing and smiling in the starting corral, not because I'm always a singing, smiling kind of guy, but because of the gratitude that I had for being on the starting line, in spite of a lot of bad stuff, and the opportunity to do something really awesome. Standing there today, I secretly hoped that Boston 2011 wasn't just some sort of wind-aided fluke, and that I had the potential to run 2:50, or even faster.
Today, it didn't work out that way. And at the risk of the terrifying potential that it may never work out that way again, I stubbornly, and perhaps foolishly, choose to believe that with continued hard work, and a little luck, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow . . . it just might. (So go ahead and throw stones.)
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Week in Review: 21-27 April, and Kentucky Derby Marathon Pace Report
21 April: Morning: 6 miles (40 minutes), Harford Community College, progression from 7:30/mile down to 5:30/mile. Evening: 9 miles (65 minutes), easy, Baltimore Inner Harbor
22 April: Afternoon: 7 miles at APG (50 minutes), Evening: 6 miles in Baltimore (45 minutes)
23-24 April: off
25 April: Afternoon: 10 miles (70 minutes) at APG, Evening: 6 miles (45 minutes) Baltimore
26 April: 5 miles (40 minutes) shake-out in Louisville, Kentucky
27 April: Morning: 26.2 miles, Kentucky Derby Marathon, 3:10 pace group leader, in 3:09:17 (gun; 3:09:16 chip), Evening: 5 miles (40 minutes), over the Second Street Bridge to Indiana and back.
Total Time: 585 minutes
Total Distance: 80.2 miles
It's been a wordless sort of past couple of weeks for the world in general, and for this blog in particular. That's not a coincidence. Originally, when I left for a two-week vacation in Costa Rica, I thought that I would post about all of the awesome adventures that I was having there. But Internet access was sporadic, and by the time I was about to post something, it was April 15th, and Boston happened. For the first time in eight years, I wasn't running Boston, and, being relatively isolated in a hostel at the foot of Mount Chirripo, Costa Rica's highest mountain, I didn't find out about it until about 5 hours after the event. At that point, dozens of people had already tried to contact me to see if I was okay, and I used what limited Internet access that I had to let everybody know that I was safe, and to try to figure out if everybody that I knew who was there was safe.
From my far-away mountain-view, the scene, based on words alone, was vivid, yet surreal and senseless. I've run down Boylston Street towards that finish line eight times now. There was the sweet relief of my first finish in 2005, my heartbreaking blow-up in 2006, the numb struggle in the cold drizzle of 2007, more heartbreak in 2008, and finally sub-3-hour redemption in 2009. A sub-3-hour repeat in 2010, a strong sub-2:50 in 2011 followed by a happy surprise visit from my parents, and a just-glad-to-finish in the heat of 2012. I've seen a lot at that finish line, and felt what seemed to cover the range of conceivable emotions that could be felt at a marathon finish line. I never would have guessed that in 2013, the first time in eight years that I didn't cross that finish line on Patriot's Day, I would feel a new emotion: survivor's guilt.
I spent the rest of the week with these nagging feelings that I should have been there, to help in some way. Logically, things happened the way that they happened, there's no changing that, and there's no guarantee that being there would have made any difference. For all I know, I could have wandered back to the finish line at the wrong time and been injured or killed. But the idea that so many people were hurting as a result of something that I had once been so close to, and now was so far away from, and so powerless to affect, was truly nagging at me. Especially considering that I was on vacation, having fun, my situation seemed completely incongruent with that of the victims, and that bothered me even more. (My cat Ash died just before I left for Costa Rica, on top of all of that, so that really wasn't helping my mental state either.) And I really didn't have words for it until that paragraph that I just wrote.
But physically, I've been getting stronger, training better, recovering faster, and feeling better overall. So while I was I was in Costa Rica, and Dan sent me a Facebook message saying that he wouldn't be able to pace 3:10 at the Kentucky Derby Marathon, I strongly considered it, as, schedule willing, it seemed like something I could do without killing myself too much (even though it would be risking a Boston-Qualifying attempt at New Jersey the following weekend). But after more thought, I felt as though there was no way that I couldn't do it, for the sake of all of those affected at Boston.
So at 6 a.m. on Friday, I hopped in the van at the Hagerstown Park-And-Ride for the 8+ hour drive to Louisville, Kentucky. As usual, these road trips yield amusing sights - a tanning shack next to a gas station in West Virginia? Wild and Wonderful, indeed. Otherwise, it was an uneventful drive, followed by a shake-out run along the Louisville waterfront (the highlight of which was running up and down a pyramid in a playground), standard pasta dinner at the expo, pace team meeting, and early bedtime.
Race morning was cool (mid-50s) and overcast, with very light winds. Take away the Harlem Shake playing at the starting line, and you had perfect weather for the race. I stood there in my bright orange shorts and singlet, holding up my 3:10 pace sign, while people crowded around me, most hesitant to outright commit to the group. After a country-singer rendition of the national anthem, and an awkward exchange between the male and female announcer, in which the female announcer unabashedly proclaimed her gratitude for runners' work on their bodies, while the male announcer tried to steer her away from the topic as quickly as possible, we were off.
In contrast to 2010, I was allowed to line up much closer to the starting line, and didn't have to fight through a slow crowd to get on pace. I was over-prepared for a fight, though, and we went through the first mile at 6:40 - oops, 35 seconds in the bank already. I backed off, although not too much, too rapidly, and after our run through Churchill Downs at 8 miles, we were about a minute fast, which is about what we would maintain for the remainder of the race. We were right on pace through the hills in Iroquois Park; maybe seeing the leaders coming out of the park when we were going in, in a very close race, made us run a little tougher. Even at the mile 21 turn-off into the wind and the industrial area, I still had a group of five people with me, all hanging tough. Two would go on ahead to finish just ahead of me, pushing each other to the finish in their first marathon, two would finish just behind me, and one sadly fell back a bit and came in at 3:10:24 . . . just short of a Boston Qualifying time. I spent some time reassuring him that it was his first marathon, and he would have another shot at it in the fall, until his girlfriend dragged him away from the finish line (at which point I was too cold to keep standing there anyway).
I finished 43 seconds on the happy side of par, which was important, since Boston Qualifying times now no longer have a 59-second grace period past the mark, and the people you're pacing would prefer not to miss a qualifying time by sticking with you and running just a little too slowly as a result. But even more importantly, I had a good group of runners with me, and, considering that a lot of people in faster pace groups tend to drop at around 20 miles, it was a good feeling to not just be finishing by myself.
Later that evening, after general hanging out at the hotel, where (as if life needed to be more strange) both a prom and a bodybuilding competition were happening (spray tan on the third floor!), I went for a run with Emily (the only person that I could drag with me after all the food and drink) over the bridge to Indiana. We were serenaded with the sounds of the Uncle Kracker concert as we crossed over the Second Street bridge, under a light drizzle, traffic flying past us and kicking up spray from the concrete. The waterfront park on the Indiana side was cozily lit and serene, and the downtown Louisville lights glowed across the Ohio River. As we hit our turnaround point and headed back, I thought about Boston again. Being on the mountain when Boston happened, just like being on the Indiana side of the bridge, felt uncomfortably worlds away. But as runners, we're not always running away from things, as funny folks on the street like to jokingly suggest at times when we pass. As reports were indicating about the response to what happened in Boston, we're more often running towards things - to better things, and to make things better. Stepping in to pace at the Kentucky Derby Marathon, pacing well, and bringing people to the finish line on time, although a small thing in the vast world of running, was one small step in the giant human race towards healing from the tragedy and making things better.
As we turned right off of the bridge and headed back for the hotel, in spite of many miles on my legs, I felt comfortable, I felt strong, and I felt fast. I finally felt like I was moving forward from Boston 2013. Once again, my heart goes out to everybody that was affected by the tragedy. Stay strong; the way everybody has moved so far forward already is truly inspiring.
22 April: Afternoon: 7 miles at APG (50 minutes), Evening: 6 miles in Baltimore (45 minutes)
23-24 April: off
25 April: Afternoon: 10 miles (70 minutes) at APG, Evening: 6 miles (45 minutes) Baltimore
26 April: 5 miles (40 minutes) shake-out in Louisville, Kentucky
27 April: Morning: 26.2 miles, Kentucky Derby Marathon, 3:10 pace group leader, in 3:09:17 (gun; 3:09:16 chip), Evening: 5 miles (40 minutes), over the Second Street Bridge to Indiana and back.
Total Time: 585 minutes
Total Distance: 80.2 miles
It's been a wordless sort of past couple of weeks for the world in general, and for this blog in particular. That's not a coincidence. Originally, when I left for a two-week vacation in Costa Rica, I thought that I would post about all of the awesome adventures that I was having there. But Internet access was sporadic, and by the time I was about to post something, it was April 15th, and Boston happened. For the first time in eight years, I wasn't running Boston, and, being relatively isolated in a hostel at the foot of Mount Chirripo, Costa Rica's highest mountain, I didn't find out about it until about 5 hours after the event. At that point, dozens of people had already tried to contact me to see if I was okay, and I used what limited Internet access that I had to let everybody know that I was safe, and to try to figure out if everybody that I knew who was there was safe.
From my far-away mountain-view, the scene, based on words alone, was vivid, yet surreal and senseless. I've run down Boylston Street towards that finish line eight times now. There was the sweet relief of my first finish in 2005, my heartbreaking blow-up in 2006, the numb struggle in the cold drizzle of 2007, more heartbreak in 2008, and finally sub-3-hour redemption in 2009. A sub-3-hour repeat in 2010, a strong sub-2:50 in 2011 followed by a happy surprise visit from my parents, and a just-glad-to-finish in the heat of 2012. I've seen a lot at that finish line, and felt what seemed to cover the range of conceivable emotions that could be felt at a marathon finish line. I never would have guessed that in 2013, the first time in eight years that I didn't cross that finish line on Patriot's Day, I would feel a new emotion: survivor's guilt.
I spent the rest of the week with these nagging feelings that I should have been there, to help in some way. Logically, things happened the way that they happened, there's no changing that, and there's no guarantee that being there would have made any difference. For all I know, I could have wandered back to the finish line at the wrong time and been injured or killed. But the idea that so many people were hurting as a result of something that I had once been so close to, and now was so far away from, and so powerless to affect, was truly nagging at me. Especially considering that I was on vacation, having fun, my situation seemed completely incongruent with that of the victims, and that bothered me even more. (My cat Ash died just before I left for Costa Rica, on top of all of that, so that really wasn't helping my mental state either.) And I really didn't have words for it until that paragraph that I just wrote.
But physically, I've been getting stronger, training better, recovering faster, and feeling better overall. So while I was I was in Costa Rica, and Dan sent me a Facebook message saying that he wouldn't be able to pace 3:10 at the Kentucky Derby Marathon, I strongly considered it, as, schedule willing, it seemed like something I could do without killing myself too much (even though it would be risking a Boston-Qualifying attempt at New Jersey the following weekend). But after more thought, I felt as though there was no way that I couldn't do it, for the sake of all of those affected at Boston.
So at 6 a.m. on Friday, I hopped in the van at the Hagerstown Park-And-Ride for the 8+ hour drive to Louisville, Kentucky. As usual, these road trips yield amusing sights - a tanning shack next to a gas station in West Virginia? Wild and Wonderful, indeed. Otherwise, it was an uneventful drive, followed by a shake-out run along the Louisville waterfront (the highlight of which was running up and down a pyramid in a playground), standard pasta dinner at the expo, pace team meeting, and early bedtime.
Race morning was cool (mid-50s) and overcast, with very light winds. Take away the Harlem Shake playing at the starting line, and you had perfect weather for the race. I stood there in my bright orange shorts and singlet, holding up my 3:10 pace sign, while people crowded around me, most hesitant to outright commit to the group. After a country-singer rendition of the national anthem, and an awkward exchange between the male and female announcer, in which the female announcer unabashedly proclaimed her gratitude for runners' work on their bodies, while the male announcer tried to steer her away from the topic as quickly as possible, we were off.
In contrast to 2010, I was allowed to line up much closer to the starting line, and didn't have to fight through a slow crowd to get on pace. I was over-prepared for a fight, though, and we went through the first mile at 6:40 - oops, 35 seconds in the bank already. I backed off, although not too much, too rapidly, and after our run through Churchill Downs at 8 miles, we were about a minute fast, which is about what we would maintain for the remainder of the race. We were right on pace through the hills in Iroquois Park; maybe seeing the leaders coming out of the park when we were going in, in a very close race, made us run a little tougher. Even at the mile 21 turn-off into the wind and the industrial area, I still had a group of five people with me, all hanging tough. Two would go on ahead to finish just ahead of me, pushing each other to the finish in their first marathon, two would finish just behind me, and one sadly fell back a bit and came in at 3:10:24 . . . just short of a Boston Qualifying time. I spent some time reassuring him that it was his first marathon, and he would have another shot at it in the fall, until his girlfriend dragged him away from the finish line (at which point I was too cold to keep standing there anyway).
I finished 43 seconds on the happy side of par, which was important, since Boston Qualifying times now no longer have a 59-second grace period past the mark, and the people you're pacing would prefer not to miss a qualifying time by sticking with you and running just a little too slowly as a result. But even more importantly, I had a good group of runners with me, and, considering that a lot of people in faster pace groups tend to drop at around 20 miles, it was a good feeling to not just be finishing by myself.
Later that evening, after general hanging out at the hotel, where (as if life needed to be more strange) both a prom and a bodybuilding competition were happening (spray tan on the third floor!), I went for a run with Emily (the only person that I could drag with me after all the food and drink) over the bridge to Indiana. We were serenaded with the sounds of the Uncle Kracker concert as we crossed over the Second Street bridge, under a light drizzle, traffic flying past us and kicking up spray from the concrete. The waterfront park on the Indiana side was cozily lit and serene, and the downtown Louisville lights glowed across the Ohio River. As we hit our turnaround point and headed back, I thought about Boston again. Being on the mountain when Boston happened, just like being on the Indiana side of the bridge, felt uncomfortably worlds away. But as runners, we're not always running away from things, as funny folks on the street like to jokingly suggest at times when we pass. As reports were indicating about the response to what happened in Boston, we're more often running towards things - to better things, and to make things better. Stepping in to pace at the Kentucky Derby Marathon, pacing well, and bringing people to the finish line on time, although a small thing in the vast world of running, was one small step in the giant human race towards healing from the tragedy and making things better.
As we turned right off of the bridge and headed back for the hotel, in spite of many miles on my legs, I felt comfortable, I felt strong, and I felt fast. I finally felt like I was moving forward from Boston 2013. Once again, my heart goes out to everybody that was affected by the tragedy. Stay strong; the way everybody has moved so far forward already is truly inspiring.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Week in Review: 17-23 March
The running:
17 March - 10 miles (75 minutes) around Baltimore, on a subdued Sunday afternoon (apparently everybody was too tired from all of the "practice" Saint Patrick's Day celebrations for the past two weeks to celebrate the "real" one)
18 March - 9 miles (65 minutes) at APG
19 March - 2 miles warmup, 2 miles @13:21, 400m jog rest, 1 mile @6:20, 3x(200m @34, 400m recovery jog), 800m @3:11, 2 miles warmdown (9 total miles, 70 minutes)
20 March - 11 miles (81 minutes) at APG
21 March - 0.5 mile warmup, 35 minutes on the treadmill, level 15 hill program, 4 miles/1321 feet gain, 0.5 mile warmdown (5 miles, 45 minutes)
22 March - 10 miles (75 minutes) around Baltimore, cold and windy
23 March - 7 miles (52 minutes) in the morning, 8 miles (56 minutes) in the evening, in Baltimore
Total Time: 519 minutes
Total Distance: 69 miles
After not quite reaching my marathon goal this past Saturday, I'm pretty pleased with my rebound week. Highest weekly mileage in 2013, some decent tempo/speed stuff on Tuesday, a strong return to treadmill hill running on Thursday, and at no point did I feel totally beaten down and exhausted from this effort. Ultimately, I think my marathon failure was for the best, as it was still a solid training run, and gives me motivation to take another shot at a Boston qualifying time in early May, and to hopefully give a better than just "sneak in under 3:05" effort.
In other news related to the big dance that is Badwater, I've selected my crew, and hopefully all of my initial selections will make it to the starting line (and finish line) with me. If you weren't selected, and you're still interested, let me know, because if something bad happens between now and then, and somebody can't make it, it would be nice not to have to scramble too much.
Also, my G-PACT fundraising link is up. To make a donation, go here: http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/DavidPloskonka/david-ploskonka-badwater And, just like last year, with your donation, I'll write a thing of your choice in a marker color of your choice on some article of clothing of my choice that I will wear during the race. As I mentioned previously, this cause is personal for me, as my sister struggles with gastroparesis, so your support means a lot to me. Donations of any amount are appreciated!
And that about wraps it up for this week. If you were looking for something more insightful here, well, so was I, for the past few days . . . And then I decided to let the hard work and progress speak for itself. (But stay tuned for the weeks - and adventures - ahead, as I'm sure that I'll have plenty more to say.)
17 March - 10 miles (75 minutes) around Baltimore, on a subdued Sunday afternoon (apparently everybody was too tired from all of the "practice" Saint Patrick's Day celebrations for the past two weeks to celebrate the "real" one)
18 March - 9 miles (65 minutes) at APG
19 March - 2 miles warmup, 2 miles @13:21, 400m jog rest, 1 mile @6:20, 3x(200m @34, 400m recovery jog), 800m @3:11, 2 miles warmdown (9 total miles, 70 minutes)
20 March - 11 miles (81 minutes) at APG
21 March - 0.5 mile warmup, 35 minutes on the treadmill, level 15 hill program, 4 miles/1321 feet gain, 0.5 mile warmdown (5 miles, 45 minutes)
22 March - 10 miles (75 minutes) around Baltimore, cold and windy
23 March - 7 miles (52 minutes) in the morning, 8 miles (56 minutes) in the evening, in Baltimore
Total Time: 519 minutes
Total Distance: 69 miles
After not quite reaching my marathon goal this past Saturday, I'm pretty pleased with my rebound week. Highest weekly mileage in 2013, some decent tempo/speed stuff on Tuesday, a strong return to treadmill hill running on Thursday, and at no point did I feel totally beaten down and exhausted from this effort. Ultimately, I think my marathon failure was for the best, as it was still a solid training run, and gives me motivation to take another shot at a Boston qualifying time in early May, and to hopefully give a better than just "sneak in under 3:05" effort.
In other news related to the big dance that is Badwater, I've selected my crew, and hopefully all of my initial selections will make it to the starting line (and finish line) with me. If you weren't selected, and you're still interested, let me know, because if something bad happens between now and then, and somebody can't make it, it would be nice not to have to scramble too much.
Also, my G-PACT fundraising link is up. To make a donation, go here: http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/DavidPloskonka/david-ploskonka-badwater And, just like last year, with your donation, I'll write a thing of your choice in a marker color of your choice on some article of clothing of my choice that I will wear during the race. As I mentioned previously, this cause is personal for me, as my sister struggles with gastroparesis, so your support means a lot to me. Donations of any amount are appreciated!
And that about wraps it up for this week. If you were looking for something more insightful here, well, so was I, for the past few days . . . And then I decided to let the hard work and progress speak for itself. (But stay tuned for the weeks - and adventures - ahead, as I'm sure that I'll have plenty more to say.)
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Week in Review: 10-16 March, and Rock N Roll USA Marathon Race Report
Miles:
10 March - off
11 March - 10 miles, in part with the Fed Hill Run (75 minutes)
12 March - 3.5 mile warmup, 3x(800m, 400m jog rest, 200m, full recovery)@2:53/34,3:01/36, 2:58/34, 3 mile warm-down (9 miles total, 70 minutes)
13 March - 6 miles easy (45 minutes)
14 March - off
15 March - off
16 March - 26.2 miles in 3:08:12, plus 2 total warm-up/warm-down miles (20 minutes)
Total time: 398 minutes
Total distance: 53 miles
The marathon is a funny race. A little bit here and a little bit there can make a huge difference over 26.2 miles. Being just a little bit away from a Boston Qualifying time, after four failed attempts to qualify again for 2014 (Maryville 2012, Baltimore 2012, NCR 2012, George Washington Birthday 2013), with a best time of just under 3:09:30 at Baltimore, or about 10 seconds per mile too slow, when I was still feeling pretty bad, I was pretty optimistic about my chances to qualify at the Rock N Roll USA Marathon. Friendlier course, friendlier time of year, friendlier weather, health steadily improving, workouts going pretty well . . . Yes, the marathon is a funny race, and there are no guarantees, but especially given my history of posting faster-than-expected times at this race since 2006, this was as close to guaranteed as this sort of thing gets.
And in that sense, the race delivered as promised. With a packet pick-up assist from Chris, and free lodging and parking at his apartment, near the metro and just three stops from the starting line, the pre-race was easy. I woke up feeling strong, with a lot of pop in my legs. It was overcast and cool, but not too cold - no rain, as had been threatened.
Then the race started, and about one 6:40 mile in, things started feeling just a little wrong. I could feel my legs starting to drag slightly, and even though I was holding this pace through 5 miles, it didn't feel as easy as it should have.
I tried to shrug it off, shift muscles on the surprise hills in the re-designed first half, but the longer this went on, the more it became clear that I was just buying time. I went through the half in just under 1:31, not feeling strong. I went through 20 miles in just under 2:21, feeling even worse.
I tried my best to ignore and push, but the cruelly hilly end of the race got the better of me. With 10 minutes to go until that magical 3:05 mark, I was still a little short of the 25-mile marker. I resolved to give whatever I had left for the next 10 minutes, knowing that it was probably going to be too little, too late. I passed a few runners in what felt like slow motion - my legs wouldn't go any faster.
At 3:05 on my watch, I looked up, the dead highway to the finish snaking uphill in front of me, now impossibly long.
I'd like to say that I continued to push like hell to make a point, but there was really no point to be made. I slow-motion stumbled to the finish, to what sounded like halfhearted cheers, as the stream of half-marathoners coming in at nearly 3 hours and 10 minutes were getting most of the attention.
I sat down on a curb just past the finish line, and hung my head for five minutes. I had nothing left.
Then I got up, moved on, and began the hour-long ordeal for post-race food, drop bags, port-a-pots, and the metro ride back to Chris's apartment.
The marathon is a funny race. I don't know why I didn't have a 3:05 in me. Maybe too much rest on a low-volume schedule, maybe not enough sleep over the past couple of days. Maybe not enough time and volume, period. Maybe I just forgot how to run a fast marathon.
What I do know is that it hurts to have a race die in slow motion like that. Normally, when a marathon doesn't go well, you feel it at 10, 13, 16 miles, try desperately to hang on, all the while knowing that you're going to blow up and have to walk a lot to make it to the finish line. But in this case, there was no blow-up. I stayed tough and hung on, and even at 20+ miles, I was still tantalizingly close - just one second-winded surge away from my goal. In spite of my effort, I wound up a little over 7 seconds per mile short.
I'm not going to be disappointed about this for too long. There's more work to do. But I won't forget, either - it's motivation to work just a little bit harder.
10 March - off
11 March - 10 miles, in part with the Fed Hill Run (75 minutes)
12 March - 3.5 mile warmup, 3x(800m, 400m jog rest, 200m, full recovery)@2:53/34,3:01/36, 2:58/34, 3 mile warm-down (9 miles total, 70 minutes)
13 March - 6 miles easy (45 minutes)
14 March - off
15 March - off
16 March - 26.2 miles in 3:08:12, plus 2 total warm-up/warm-down miles (20 minutes)
Total time: 398 minutes
Total distance: 53 miles
The marathon is a funny race. A little bit here and a little bit there can make a huge difference over 26.2 miles. Being just a little bit away from a Boston Qualifying time, after four failed attempts to qualify again for 2014 (Maryville 2012, Baltimore 2012, NCR 2012, George Washington Birthday 2013), with a best time of just under 3:09:30 at Baltimore, or about 10 seconds per mile too slow, when I was still feeling pretty bad, I was pretty optimistic about my chances to qualify at the Rock N Roll USA Marathon. Friendlier course, friendlier time of year, friendlier weather, health steadily improving, workouts going pretty well . . . Yes, the marathon is a funny race, and there are no guarantees, but especially given my history of posting faster-than-expected times at this race since 2006, this was as close to guaranteed as this sort of thing gets.
And in that sense, the race delivered as promised. With a packet pick-up assist from Chris, and free lodging and parking at his apartment, near the metro and just three stops from the starting line, the pre-race was easy. I woke up feeling strong, with a lot of pop in my legs. It was overcast and cool, but not too cold - no rain, as had been threatened.
Then the race started, and about one 6:40 mile in, things started feeling just a little wrong. I could feel my legs starting to drag slightly, and even though I was holding this pace through 5 miles, it didn't feel as easy as it should have.
I tried to shrug it off, shift muscles on the surprise hills in the re-designed first half, but the longer this went on, the more it became clear that I was just buying time. I went through the half in just under 1:31, not feeling strong. I went through 20 miles in just under 2:21, feeling even worse.
I tried my best to ignore and push, but the cruelly hilly end of the race got the better of me. With 10 minutes to go until that magical 3:05 mark, I was still a little short of the 25-mile marker. I resolved to give whatever I had left for the next 10 minutes, knowing that it was probably going to be too little, too late. I passed a few runners in what felt like slow motion - my legs wouldn't go any faster.
At 3:05 on my watch, I looked up, the dead highway to the finish snaking uphill in front of me, now impossibly long.
I'd like to say that I continued to push like hell to make a point, but there was really no point to be made. I slow-motion stumbled to the finish, to what sounded like halfhearted cheers, as the stream of half-marathoners coming in at nearly 3 hours and 10 minutes were getting most of the attention.
I sat down on a curb just past the finish line, and hung my head for five minutes. I had nothing left.
Then I got up, moved on, and began the hour-long ordeal for post-race food, drop bags, port-a-pots, and the metro ride back to Chris's apartment.
The marathon is a funny race. I don't know why I didn't have a 3:05 in me. Maybe too much rest on a low-volume schedule, maybe not enough sleep over the past couple of days. Maybe not enough time and volume, period. Maybe I just forgot how to run a fast marathon.
What I do know is that it hurts to have a race die in slow motion like that. Normally, when a marathon doesn't go well, you feel it at 10, 13, 16 miles, try desperately to hang on, all the while knowing that you're going to blow up and have to walk a lot to make it to the finish line. But in this case, there was no blow-up. I stayed tough and hung on, and even at 20+ miles, I was still tantalizingly close - just one second-winded surge away from my goal. In spite of my effort, I wound up a little over 7 seconds per mile short.
I'm not going to be disappointed about this for too long. There's more work to do. But I won't forget, either - it's motivation to work just a little bit harder.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Week in Review: 3-9 March - Healthy Again, Probably
The running:
3 March: 4.5 miles (30-ish minutes), around the Inner Harbor, at the secret dead time (7:30 p.m. on Sundays, for anybody who wants the scenery without crowds of any sort)
4 March: 5.5 miles (40-ish minutes), easy jog on and around the APG dirt loop
5 March: afternoon: 5.5 miles (40-ish minutes), at APG; evening: 2 mile warm-up, 8x(400m speed, 400m jog) in 82, 81, 83, 83, 83, 83, 83, 80, 2.5 mile warmdown, total 15 miles (total 110 minutes)
6 March: 6 miles (45 minutes) at APG
7 March: off
8 March: 10 miles (75 minutes) around downtown Baltimore
9 March: 13 miles (100 minutes) at Patapsco, mostly on trails, finished with one run up Gun Road
Total Time: 400 minutes
Total Distance: 54 miles
The story:
Per the plan, more mileage than the week before, and also, per the dream, feeling better doing it than the week before. This recent turn-for-the-better that my health has taken seems to be continuing, and I'm going to continue not to question it too rigorously, lest I create problems where there are none, and fall apart again.
One thing is for (relative) certain, though, and it's that I haven't felt the way I feel right now in a long, long time. I'm not sure that I can remember when I felt this physically well. I have a lot of energy, I'm not dragging myself through the day, I'm thinking a lot more clearly. Feeling healthy is awesome. And, more to the point, feeling healthy is so awesome that it's hard for me to imagine now how I dragged myself through so many months (by my guess, since over a year ago, if not longer) feeling so terrible.
Of course, I realize that health is fragile (if my past year or so has taught me anything), and it is entirely possible that it could all fall apart again, for any number of reasons. But for now, the life lesson is that preservation of your health should be a high priority, and if you're constantly tired, or foggy-headed, or generally miserable, YOU ARE NOT HEALTHY. Don't make the mistake that I made, and assume that it's part of life, or getting old, or just how things are. There are things you can do to try to get better. It will be a process, and it will take time, and it will take effort to maintain. And I'm not about to get on a soap box and preach about the best method to get there from here (as I'm still sorting out exactly which things I've done have improved my health). All I will say is that there is a way, and if you're not doing so well, your first priority should be to find that way, whatever it is.
Finally, Badwater stuff: If you're interested in being a part of my crew for Badwater this summer, you have until this Saturday (16 March) to let me know. I'll make my decision on Sunday (17 March) and let everybody know, one way or the other. If I haven't acknowledged your request, ask me again. And when you do let me know, please let me know WHY you want to be a part of my crew. I'm not going to list a whole bunch of qualifications, or make up an application (amusing though that might be for me), but I will say that it is important for me to understand why you want to be there, and that the reason why you want to be there is arguably the most important factor in my decision. But of course, whatever other information that you'd like to provide is more than welcome.
The week ahead: more running, and the Rock N Roll USA (formerly National) Marathon - fingers crossed, my first decent marathon performance in a long time . . .
3 March: 4.5 miles (30-ish minutes), around the Inner Harbor, at the secret dead time (7:30 p.m. on Sundays, for anybody who wants the scenery without crowds of any sort)
4 March: 5.5 miles (40-ish minutes), easy jog on and around the APG dirt loop
5 March: afternoon: 5.5 miles (40-ish minutes), at APG; evening: 2 mile warm-up, 8x(400m speed, 400m jog) in 82, 81, 83, 83, 83, 83, 83, 80, 2.5 mile warmdown, total 15 miles (total 110 minutes)
6 March: 6 miles (45 minutes) at APG
7 March: off
8 March: 10 miles (75 minutes) around downtown Baltimore
9 March: 13 miles (100 minutes) at Patapsco, mostly on trails, finished with one run up Gun Road
Total Time: 400 minutes
Total Distance: 54 miles
The story:
Per the plan, more mileage than the week before, and also, per the dream, feeling better doing it than the week before. This recent turn-for-the-better that my health has taken seems to be continuing, and I'm going to continue not to question it too rigorously, lest I create problems where there are none, and fall apart again.
One thing is for (relative) certain, though, and it's that I haven't felt the way I feel right now in a long, long time. I'm not sure that I can remember when I felt this physically well. I have a lot of energy, I'm not dragging myself through the day, I'm thinking a lot more clearly. Feeling healthy is awesome. And, more to the point, feeling healthy is so awesome that it's hard for me to imagine now how I dragged myself through so many months (by my guess, since over a year ago, if not longer) feeling so terrible.
Of course, I realize that health is fragile (if my past year or so has taught me anything), and it is entirely possible that it could all fall apart again, for any number of reasons. But for now, the life lesson is that preservation of your health should be a high priority, and if you're constantly tired, or foggy-headed, or generally miserable, YOU ARE NOT HEALTHY. Don't make the mistake that I made, and assume that it's part of life, or getting old, or just how things are. There are things you can do to try to get better. It will be a process, and it will take time, and it will take effort to maintain. And I'm not about to get on a soap box and preach about the best method to get there from here (as I'm still sorting out exactly which things I've done have improved my health). All I will say is that there is a way, and if you're not doing so well, your first priority should be to find that way, whatever it is.
Finally, Badwater stuff: If you're interested in being a part of my crew for Badwater this summer, you have until this Saturday (16 March) to let me know. I'll make my decision on Sunday (17 March) and let everybody know, one way or the other. If I haven't acknowledged your request, ask me again. And when you do let me know, please let me know WHY you want to be a part of my crew. I'm not going to list a whole bunch of qualifications, or make up an application (amusing though that might be for me), but I will say that it is important for me to understand why you want to be there, and that the reason why you want to be there is arguably the most important factor in my decision. But of course, whatever other information that you'd like to provide is more than welcome.
The week ahead: more running, and the Rock N Roll USA (formerly National) Marathon - fingers crossed, my first decent marathon performance in a long time . . .
Monday, March 4, 2013
Badwater Business
Now that the proverbial dust has settled from the initial "you got into Badwater!" excitement, it's down to business. So, a few things:
1. Charity: This year, I'll be running to raise funds for G-PACT, at my little sister's request. She's been dealing with gastroparesis for some time now, and it is, at the risk of sounding glib, no picnic (especially since picnics and other food-centric events become complicated when gastroparesis is involved). The website is here: http://www.g-pact.org/ . . . and the Facebook page is here: http://www.facebook.com/#!/GPACT. Check it out, and if you feel so motivated, make a donation, and let me know (or don't, although I would like to keep track if possible). If you do let me know, same deal as last year; I'll write whatever you want on clothing that I wear during the race. I'm thinking this year maybe arm sleeves or my hat, so that it's more visible in the photos. (Probably not as face or body paint, as that probably won't last 135 miles.)
2. Crew: I do like company when I run, and, in truth, it's difficult to cross a desert in July by yourself. So I need a few support crew members to help me out. Yes, I could just ask my entire crew from last year to come back, and I'm sure that they all would, and they would all be just as awesome as they were before. But Badwater is too much awesome not to share, so I'd like to open it up to the general public and see what happens. So send me an email, post on my Facebook wall, call me, text me, whatever creative way you want to contact me, and let me know why you'd like to crew for me at Badwater this year. I'll leave the lines open until, oh, say, March 17th, and then make a decision based on what I've heard at that point. Please keep in mind that this decision will likely be totally subjective and somewhat random, so no hurt feeings, okay?
3. Training: Oh, right, that thing. Last week, I ran 15 miles total on Sunday (including that awful, awful 10 miles at Club Challenge), 13 miles on Monday in two runs (5 at lunch, 8 in the evening), 8 miles on Tuesday in two runs (5.5 at lunch, 2.5 on a terrible, terrible windy cold rainy evening), took Wednesday and Thursday off, ran 4.5 miles on Friday, and 5.5 miles on Saturday. 46 miles total.
And that doesn't sound like a lot, and it isn't, in terms of quantity, but, as it turned out, the run-on-sentence-before-last ended up being of much higher quality than its grammatical construction.
After Club Challenge catastrophe, and what was a struggle to make it to 13 miles the following day, Tuesday took a turn for the even-worse. The night was cold, windy, and rainy like (in technical terms) WOAH. My goal was 2 warm-up miles, 2x200 FAST, on full rest (~600m), and 2 warm-down miles. The 2 warm-up miles on the track were at around 8:20/mile pace, with the wind blowing impossibly hard starting halfway on the second turn and all the way down the home straightaway. The first 200 felt like it had to be fast, until I looked at my watch, and it said 37. Dismayed, and dreading another 600m around the oval, I ran back and forth on the home straightaway until my 600m was up (at least the wind was predictable that way), and lined up for my second 200m. In spite of the wind assist, and my resolve to run faster than before, this time, my watch said 38. And that was enough. I jogged off the track, cold and defeated, and went home.
Two days off later, I went for a half-hour run around Patterson Park. Granted, the weather was a lot nicer, but my expectations were still fairly low. To my pleasant surprise, I completed the entire 2-mile loop of the park in exactly 14 minutes, not feeling as though I had pushed hard or was in any particular distress, then proceeded to run Butcher's Hill on the Baltimore Street side of the park, bottom to top, in 3:13, again, in no particular distress. To put that in perspective, the hill is 30-40 meters shy of half a mile, and rises a little over 90 feet. I finished the half-hour feeling as though I could put in two or three more half-hours like that.
I felt similarly good on Saturday, so, fingers crossed, this trend will continue. I'm going to continue to be cautiously optimistic, the way I was in early 2011, when I came back from a stress fracture in December to run 2:49:33 at the Boston Marathon in April. I'm sure that there will be ups and downs between now and July, and there will be plenty more foul weather to tough out. But I do feel as though I've turned a corner, hopefully for real this time, and I'm excited about my training in the weeks and months ahead.
So if there is a mini-moral here (and I feel as though this has to end with something of the sort), it's that the focus for now needs process and the effort, and not the final goal. 135 miles is a long way, and it's still a long way off. So far, focusing on the process, and making gradual gains, seems to be working. Expect to see more of this, and maybe some cat or Baltimore-street-vagrant stories, which are inevitably part of the process, next week . . .
1. Charity: This year, I'll be running to raise funds for G-PACT, at my little sister's request. She's been dealing with gastroparesis for some time now, and it is, at the risk of sounding glib, no picnic (especially since picnics and other food-centric events become complicated when gastroparesis is involved). The website is here: http://www.g-pact.org/ . . . and the Facebook page is here: http://www.facebook.com/#!/GPACT. Check it out, and if you feel so motivated, make a donation, and let me know (or don't, although I would like to keep track if possible). If you do let me know, same deal as last year; I'll write whatever you want on clothing that I wear during the race. I'm thinking this year maybe arm sleeves or my hat, so that it's more visible in the photos. (Probably not as face or body paint, as that probably won't last 135 miles.)
2. Crew: I do like company when I run, and, in truth, it's difficult to cross a desert in July by yourself. So I need a few support crew members to help me out. Yes, I could just ask my entire crew from last year to come back, and I'm sure that they all would, and they would all be just as awesome as they were before. But Badwater is too much awesome not to share, so I'd like to open it up to the general public and see what happens. So send me an email, post on my Facebook wall, call me, text me, whatever creative way you want to contact me, and let me know why you'd like to crew for me at Badwater this year. I'll leave the lines open until, oh, say, March 17th, and then make a decision based on what I've heard at that point. Please keep in mind that this decision will likely be totally subjective and somewhat random, so no hurt feeings, okay?
3. Training: Oh, right, that thing. Last week, I ran 15 miles total on Sunday (including that awful, awful 10 miles at Club Challenge), 13 miles on Monday in two runs (5 at lunch, 8 in the evening), 8 miles on Tuesday in two runs (5.5 at lunch, 2.5 on a terrible, terrible windy cold rainy evening), took Wednesday and Thursday off, ran 4.5 miles on Friday, and 5.5 miles on Saturday. 46 miles total.
And that doesn't sound like a lot, and it isn't, in terms of quantity, but, as it turned out, the run-on-sentence-before-last ended up being of much higher quality than its grammatical construction.
After Club Challenge catastrophe, and what was a struggle to make it to 13 miles the following day, Tuesday took a turn for the even-worse. The night was cold, windy, and rainy like (in technical terms) WOAH. My goal was 2 warm-up miles, 2x200 FAST, on full rest (~600m), and 2 warm-down miles. The 2 warm-up miles on the track were at around 8:20/mile pace, with the wind blowing impossibly hard starting halfway on the second turn and all the way down the home straightaway. The first 200 felt like it had to be fast, until I looked at my watch, and it said 37. Dismayed, and dreading another 600m around the oval, I ran back and forth on the home straightaway until my 600m was up (at least the wind was predictable that way), and lined up for my second 200m. In spite of the wind assist, and my resolve to run faster than before, this time, my watch said 38. And that was enough. I jogged off the track, cold and defeated, and went home.
Two days off later, I went for a half-hour run around Patterson Park. Granted, the weather was a lot nicer, but my expectations were still fairly low. To my pleasant surprise, I completed the entire 2-mile loop of the park in exactly 14 minutes, not feeling as though I had pushed hard or was in any particular distress, then proceeded to run Butcher's Hill on the Baltimore Street side of the park, bottom to top, in 3:13, again, in no particular distress. To put that in perspective, the hill is 30-40 meters shy of half a mile, and rises a little over 90 feet. I finished the half-hour feeling as though I could put in two or three more half-hours like that.
I felt similarly good on Saturday, so, fingers crossed, this trend will continue. I'm going to continue to be cautiously optimistic, the way I was in early 2011, when I came back from a stress fracture in December to run 2:49:33 at the Boston Marathon in April. I'm sure that there will be ups and downs between now and July, and there will be plenty more foul weather to tough out. But I do feel as though I've turned a corner, hopefully for real this time, and I'm excited about my training in the weeks and months ahead.
So if there is a mini-moral here (and I feel as though this has to end with something of the sort), it's that the focus for now needs process and the effort, and not the final goal. 135 miles is a long way, and it's still a long way off. So far, focusing on the process, and making gradual gains, seems to be working. Expect to see more of this, and maybe some cat or Baltimore-street-vagrant stories, which are inevitably part of the process, next week . . .
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