(Rob and I after running with the cows)
Throughout all of high school and three quarters of college I
never succumbed to peer pressure when offered a cigarette. No thanks, I said,
and walked away. Or stood there awkwardly masking my disdain for second hand
smoke, fake coughing.
Now, I have no such control. When it comes to races, not cigarettes.
Still don’t like those.
Which is how I found myself lined up at the Rock the Parkway
half-marathon, frantically searching for a strategy to run three half’s in four
weeks. Realizing that I, a) never train sufficiently for races, and b) rarely
stick to race-day strategies I rashly formulate, I decided to go ahead and make
a strategy, if only to talk about how I didn’t stick to it. That’s the part of the
preparation process I can’t help but attempt, if only out of a desire to go
through the motions.
The series begins with the Rock the Parkway half-thon, which
starts in Waldo, where I used to live, routes us towards Brookside, where I also
used to live, then back to Waldo, where I also used to live. I have jogged
those same streets approximately 14,000 times, even doing so during the KC
Marathon, my only full. So that was neat.
Starting with my buddies Jake and Ryan, we made the unspoken
decision to eschew stretching and peeing before the race in favor of chatting,
standing around and letting our muscles tighten. My muscles would loosen up
roughly three miles into the race, feel good for another six or so, then
tighten back up for the home stretch. I would make it three miles before my
bladder was in jeopardy of bursting. So much for strategy.
(Jake, my headband and I)
I pushed it hard for what would be the fastest spear on the
running trident, by just a few seconds. Interesting fact: I ran with a
bandanna, John Rambo style. So I definitely felt bad-ass. Much better
than those first timers who wore the Rock the Parkway race shirt (rookie
mistake) and learned that cheap Adidas technical materials can, and in their
case, did, lead to bloody nips. I saw no less than seven frightened runners who
experienced this not-so-uncommon running calamity.
Post Race Spread: Chic-Fil-A; Italian dumplings; Papa John’s
Pizza; The Roasterie; terrible rock cover band. I give it a solid B+.
(Even though this chick came out of nowhere, I totally beat her)
Race Data: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/168719793
Next up was the quick-turn Kansas Half Marathon, in lovely
Lawrence, KS, my home of five years and oh-so-many great memories. Race day
would go in the record books as the only time since graduation I’ve been in
Lawrence and not had a beer. And it was also the closest I’ve come to bonking
in a race.
Not following the plan I didn’t formulate to begin with, I didn’t
run one single time after Rock the Parkway. It wasn’t all laziness; I came down
with something nasty the Tuesday after that first race. This was the first time
my throat had seriously bothered me since I had my tonsils removed…so I ruled
those out. I was put on antibiotics Wednesday, gradually improving throughout
the week.
I felt worthless all week, so I ended up playing my outdoor
soccer game on Thursday. I tired easily and felt short of breath, not to mention
my legs rejected this first real bit of action since the previous Saturday. Still,
it felt good to move about. I was optimistic leading up to Sunday’s race, my
final day on pills.
I started out the race feeling better than expected, and was making good time save for another unexpected pit-stop on campus. Over-hydration…again. Interestingly, this was one giant out-and-back, so after a certain distance I started to see the first runners heading back past me, just flat-out booking it.
This race format allowed every runner multiple chances to pass everyone. When people think of marathon and half-marathon runners, we typically envision a certain type of individual – namely tall and skinny, athletic, sporty, tan, etc. Those who make it to these races as participant or spectator, however, realize this is not always the case.
(My legs have seen better days, but my biceps came out to play)
As I wound back towards Mass Street, I passed pace groups of
two hours, two hours fifteen, two and a half hours…all the way up over three
hours. Normally I finish a half-thon in under one hour fifty, chug some water,
scavenge food, then head home shortly thereafter. What I now realize I’ve been
missing are all the runners who don’t actually consider themselves runners. Who
are running for a cause, as motivation to live a healthier life, who were
dared to, or just plain curious to see if they can finish.
Without a trace of condescension, I can say that this proved extremely motivating to me, as I passed runner after runner, all linked by one common goal: to finish. Funny thing is, most didn’t even appear to be in half as much pain as I was. Maybe they actually trained.
Without a trace of condescension, I can say that this proved extremely motivating to me, as I passed runner after runner, all linked by one common goal: to finish. Funny thing is, most didn’t even appear to be in half as much pain as I was. Maybe they actually trained.
(Check out my Wesley Sneijder Holland shorts)
Mile ten my calf started to ball up. My CSI internal view of
what I imagined going on wasn’t pretty. I began to focus on my stride, something
that’s always dangerous, since I have terrible form. Calf pain turned into
hammy issues, and shortly after, my quads. Passing Summerfield Hall, where I completed
all of my business classes, I was running a full minute slower my average pace
to that point. The hill leading back up to campus was the first one I have ever
walked in a race. It still hurt.
I focused on my breathing and stride length, then chugged
water and Gatorade at the stations, hoping to relax and work out the cramps. It
didn’t really relent, and my stomach felt sloshy. The final three miles was the most mentally exhausting stretch
I’ve run since my full ‘thon, probably. I passed a guy wearing a Holland soccer
shirt with a mile to go; when I went to give him props, I noticed he looked even
worse than me. Eschewing verbal communication, I simply pointed to my shorts,
that had the same Holland Lion logo as his shirt, and gave him a thumbs up. He
gave me a pained, disinterested look in return. He was not doing well…
I finished standing up, though I didn’t have much left in the
tank. Luckily there were chicken sandwiches, more pizza, brauts, chocolate milk
and many other goodies. The spread wasn’t as full as the previous race, but not
bad. B material.
As an added bonus, I met my mom in Lawrence as she was swinging by KC for a conference. I continued my gorge at my favorite Salvidoranian restaurant later that day. Caloric deficit defeated!
As an added bonus, I met my mom in Lawrence as she was swinging by KC for a conference. I continued my gorge at my favorite Salvidoranian restaurant later that day. Caloric deficit defeated!
(First smile in miles, it's telling how my demeanor changed when I saw the finish line)
Race Data: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/171035223
With two-thirds of the series in the can, I had two weeks to
stretch, recover, train, rest. Not wanting to overdo it, I still felt I needed
to be somewhat active to keep my muscles loose. I rode bikes with Zach, played a few soccer games and
yes, went on a jog or two. I was excited to see how I’d do with some time off. And
I was pumped to run with some cows.
Quick, where’s Bucyrus, KS? If you said it’s a tiny town, somewhere
in Kansas, you’re correct. If you had to get there without GPS, I’m doubting you
could. I drove down with Ryan, who had completed the previous two races as
well. Our pal Jake had to skip this last one due to a poorly timed party at his
place. He sent an “on the fence” text at two thirty AM, and funny thing is,
knowing him we thought he might actually make it.
We arrived in plenty of time, then waited a bit longer as
the runners filtered to the starting line. I hit the portable toilet just
before the race, breaking my streak of mid-race pee’s at two. So yeah, I felt
tip-top.
It was a beautiful morning, though it did get hotter as the
race dragged on. My legs felt good for the most part, but I could definitely feel
some fatigue. I simply wasn’t used to running this many long races in such a
short span. Bartholomew Yasso, I am not.
There were 9 turns on the course. Literally. It was as if you
moved a knight in chess two times, then moved it back to its original position (I think).
This had the odd effect of making a small hill appear gigantic, as you could
see the slightest incline tracking miles ahead of you. This race was smaller and had
less runners than the other ones, so I’d go stretches of half a mile or so without company. I could hear my breathing, my shoes striking the ground,
coughs and snot rockets (mine), and every quarter mile I’d pass another
spectator.
(How do you fit 13.1 miles in a town the size of a Chic-Fil-A?)
A few of them were friends from KC, there to see a fellow
competitor, but who cheered loudly as I passed by. Rob and Kellie were also there;
Rob ran the half (his second of the series) and Kellie snuck onto the 5k
course. The fine folks of Bucyrus were nice enough to not kick her out...
Though the race was tough, it wasn’t nearly as taxing as the
previous one. Finishing it felt good. I love the sensation I get crossing the
finish line, mostly because I know I won’t move for a day and a half, and I can
eat/drink without repercussion. It feels satisfying to have deep muscle pain
the day after a race; beer tastes better, I have desserts after both lunch and
dinner, I break out the muscle balm and heating pad. Seems ironic that
motivation for doing something incredibly healthy is that I’ll be afforded the
opportunity to do just the opposite. And the townspeople of Bucyrus gave me a
tremendous head start.
(Out of context, you'd still guess this was in Kansas, right?)
By far the best post-race buffet I’ve ever witnessed. Hands down. The contents and hospitality I encountered in the school’s gymnasium would make an Olympian blush. First thing I passed was an entire table full of desserts, most of them home-made. There was pizza (again) and chicken sandwiches. Some guy ladling bowls of chili. Quesadillas, hummus, diced ham, fruits, veggies, chips, sandwiches, the list goes on. I saw no less than seven “mothers” drop off casserole dishes with amazing culinary concoctions. A+, and my food expectations have been irreversibly set.
As you can probably tell, the post-race sustenance situation
is vital to my overall impression of a race, and a key determiner of whether or
not I’ll run it again. Even though I know I’ll pass long stretches with just my
thoughts to spur me on next year, there’ll be a little image bubble with a
cupcake pointing back at my brain, telling me I’ll be fine if I can just push it a
little more. Just cross the line.
So if I do this again next year, I’ll have no excuses. I
know what’s awaiting me at the finish line.
Cupcakes and cowbells. Yeah…they gave me one of those too…
Cupcakes and cowbells. Yeah…they gave me one of those too…
(Proudly posing with my 39.3 finisher medal and orange cowbell)
