Steve Me-Fontaine

A Legend runs the KC Half...

There are many legit reasons for a dude to grow a mustache: Win a bet. Highway Patrol job application process. Family reunion. Thursday. Styx concert. You think you might run into Tom Selleck at dinner, and want to be prepared for a potential ‘stache-off. Mosquito bite on upper lip. Winter. Boredom. Third date. You find a mustache comb and think, “what the heck”. If you'd like more, feel free to email me.

(Brothers?)

  

For me, it takes just one: pretending to be Steve Prefontaine. This year, in a completely contrived form of motivation, I grew out the locks, grew out the lip-whiskers and once again donned the yellow Oregon singlet. And unlike my last attempt at me-Fontaining myself, this year I chose an appropriate venue: The Kansas City Marathon. Well, the KC half marathon, to be specific. A much more fitting arena to strut around as one of track and field’s most revered and celebrated athletes of all time. My first attempt, a densely-packed Halloween party a few years back, resulted in approximately three people rewarding me for my efforts, ceremoniously chanting my adopted moniker, “PRE!”. They were all dudes.

It was no surprise then, when I showed up at the starting line minutes before 7am, I had already been mistaken for recognized as Pre more times than on that first unsatisfying Halloween. It was, I must admit, freaking awesome. So I started the race, mustache dry with anticipation, alone but searching for my crew. Fellow Garminites Justin and Rebecca had planned to meet me at a pace marker, but at the moment the marker in question had escaped my mind entirely. And I showed up late, so I had a lot of butting in line and curb-skipping to manage before I found them.

Then gun went off and we waited. The music was turned up and we waited some more. Finally, a slow walk. Then a trot. Data chips on hundreds of shoes chirped a sweet melody as we slowly jogged across the starting line, onto the open yet crowded downtown street (the name of which I do not remember). It was going to be a fine morning; you might say it was a perfect mustache Saturday. 

Mentally, this race was going to be a challenge. In narrow-mindly focusing my training on Bike MS, I had eschewed my usual summer runs. An entertaining 15k race at Sporting KC's Livestrong Park was as far as my new New Balances had taken me up to this point. I've done this distance before, and even beyond in the preparation for my full marathon experience, however I had trained for those events. With only a few five milers and one 15k under my belt this running season, I was understandably tepid the first couple of miles, not wanting to risk injury or the extreme embarrassment of having to not only walk, but limp portions of the race. 

My saving grace was when I ran into Justin and Rebecca, the two of them tucked nicely behind the pacer we had originally intended to run with. The trident was complete, so we set off together. The plan was to stick with the pace group that was due to finish with a time of 1 hour 40 minutes, and adjust accordingly based on how our bodies felt. This seemed to be pushing it a bit because apparently I wasn't the only one who took a breather after Bike MS. Both Rebecca and Justin completed the full 110 mile route that soggy day, while my slow-ass had to settle for the 78er, since I didn't reach the checkpoint in time. Despite our varied athletic backgrounds – Me (high school track), Justin (collegiate track/KC Corporate Challenge success), Rebecca (multiple marathons/half's/overall awesomeness) - we train well together, enjoying the occasional lunch run and after-work bike ride. I'm not quite ready to butt in on Rebecca's 10 mile morning runs - mainly because I'm not a morning person. Only because I'm not a morning person. 

I've never run a 10 mile+ race with company, out of fear that they'll want me to actively participate in conversation throughout the race (yes…I know how ironic it is that I'm complaining about wanting to keep my mouth shut). We strategized about this throughout the week, and we seemed to come to the agreement that periodic conversation could be a great motivator and make the miles fly by, however any chatty Kathy's would be passively-aggressively shunned out of the group. Assuming we could alter our pace accordingly.

This worked for us, though. Our pace was anything but steady, at times changing drastically, proportionally to the hills. In spite of the elevation, there were many rewarding moments. Top of the list was turning east onto the Plaza just as the brilliant orange sun was shyly peeking, then soon after exploding into our view. By the time we ran past the four-horseman fountain (unofficial name) the sun's power and beauty were awe-inspiring. I wanted to write a haiku about it. 

Kansas City Thon

Over the Plaza, the sun

Is like, so orange

Maybe I should put some more thought into it…

As my legs, my Prefontaine-stache, Rebecca and Justin wound through the city, we began to plot our ETA's. We all felt better than we assumed we would – though typically that's a feeling as common as it is fleeting in this type of race. Question was, how long would it last. Justin kept relaying overall pace information, and how fast we'd have to run the last couple of miles to achieve certain goals. It was nice to have that element with us, however I chose to take it one mile at a time, focusing on my mile pace as opposed to how I was doing overall. If I don't know I need to pick up the pace, I can't convince myself not to do it. On the other hand, I may just not do it. This is, as you have probably ascertained by now, not an effective strategy to use when trying to win a race. So I chose not to try to win the race. 

(Justin, Rebecca and I running very fast, even though it appears like we're walking)

With two miles left, I channeled the powers of the pre-stache and (finally) decided on a goal – I'd try to break 1 hour 40 minutes. My main concern for this race, and in any 10+ mile race for that matter, is bonking. Starting out a race so fast that my legs, lungs or brain decide to throw in the towel and potentially my breakfast with it. Something about race-day adrenaline that propels guys like me to commit the cardinal sin of not listening to any of the aforementioned body parts. The line between running and passing out is a fine one; essentially you feel great until you don't. It is not gradual. And while I've had to stop and walk on some early-season, over-aggressive training runs, I've never been so unfortunate during a race. But the threat still looms. 

I felt great this day though, and as I closed in on the finish line, I was beginning to realize that I literally couldn't run any faster. I really picked up the pace the last two miles, and with half a mile I was within my (newly established) goal. There are a few quick turns near the end before runners are funneled to the final 3/10th's of a mile straight-away. Fans and onlookers cheer the exasperated runners through this final stretch with signs like "Free Beer Soon" and "Free High Fives" as they dance to the blaring music. The names of finishers are being read aloud by the DJ, further motivating you to just finish the race. Usually this picks me up enough to kick it up and finish faster, or at least feel like I am doing so. This time, with the two previous miles run faster than expected, I had no room for a kick. I started to churn the legs quicker, which in-turn made my stomach churn ever so slightly, which made me think of my last 800 run in high school where I put in so much effort that I dry heaved while being interviewed by our local sports editor. Mercifully, he left that part out of the article. But the last thing I wanted to do was…that…while the nice volunteers were cutting off my timing chip or handing me the finishers medal. 

(Why was I so happy? How can you not smile with a mustache?)

So I pulled back and finished just over 1:40:00, still feeling good with a new half-marathon PR, my early morning Clif Bar remaining in its proper state of digestion. Justin and Rebecca finished shortly after. Justin, even with a nagging IT band flare-up, crossed the line with a smile. Rebecca, with help from her two quiet pacers, finishing second in her age group out of all half-marathon finishers. Not bad for three individuals who earlier that week had no idea of what time they were going to shoot for. Imagine what we'd be capable of with some targeted training. Or any real training at all. 

We re-fuelled and chatted a bit before heading back to the cars, as the food area began to populate, all three of us vividly entertaining thoughts of showers, ice, heat packs, Tiger Balm and massages. And food. Nothing is as satisfying as the post-race pig out. Since the race ran by my house, I had to park a mile away and walk back. Cool, because I was able to cheer on the marathoners as they passed the 17 mile marker and also because a cop working the race gave me crap for looking like Pre. Not cool, because my legs were already beginning to cramp and all I wanted to do was shower. I made it back eventually, and I'm sure the walk actually helped stretch my muscles out a bit. Another great KC thon experience, maybe next time I'll put some actual training into it and see if that makes a difference. I'll run it by my pacers, though. Wouldn't want to make any assumptions on behalf of the group. The only real question is whether or not the 'stache will return. Right now…I'm thinking there's no reason for it not to. I'll leave you with a Pre quote for inspiration:

"Somebody may beat me, but they are going to have to bleed to do it"

To read Rebecca's (Peg) recap on the Garmin Blog, click here: http://garmin.blogs.com/my_weblog/2011/10/pegs-posts-race-recap-for-kc-half-marathon-.html

To view my race data, click here: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/122375410

Halloween with the Nieces: When Eric Groped a Klingon

My brother moved to Oklahoma.

(sigh)

Even though I had known this when I plugged his new coordinates into my GPS device, it became all too apparent as the McDonald's on the highway began turning into Braum's (which I'm cool with, of course). Taco Bell's became Taco Mayo's, which I assume is a Taco Tico-style restaurant that adds in mayonnaise instead of taco sauce to every menu item. Oklahoma-style, I'm told by no one in particular. So as we passed Sooner Lane (of course it was Sooner Lane) only a few miles from Eric's house, I was ready to see  him, Melissa and my adorable nieces who I was probably a bit too happy to Trick or Treat with. 

I knew that Mom, John and myself were truly loved and appreciated when upon arrival Georgia and Sydney greeted us in a full sprint, arms open, darting towards the car. Shouting "Mina, Mina MINA!!!". And that was pretty much the weekend, the rest of us engaged in a futile attempt to garner even half of the attention that the girls showered upon my dog. There is nothing more adorable than small girls trying to smother a small dog with not so small amounts of attention and love. Even if the dog would rather be hiding in a bush outside or trying not to be scared of her own poop. Still, there were many adorable moments, and the girls proved that while the learning curve for how to handle dogs is steep, it does not lie at a 90 degree angle. 

(lotta this going on)

So what about the Klingon story?

We took the girls to Terror at the Zoo, which is Oklahoman for How many millions of costumed kids can we funnel through the zoo. The line to get in was longer than the third Lord of the Rings movie. Turning our noses at the back of the line – we do hail from Wichita - we walked past thousands (I simply don't see how this can be an exaggeration) of kids and families patiently waiting. Eric's false belief that being Zoo Members would vault us past the throbbing millipede (they have more feet than centipedes, right) was not fortuitous, however it gave us a great new position at which we could slip in line while he bought the tickets. So we did. Pretty shamelessly. And that's all I'll say about that. 

(The girls are totally more adorable than the Mario Brothers)

When we finally broke through the entrance, our little Wizard (Georgia) and Princess (Sydney) were in remarkably high spirits, even offering to get out of the stroller and walk on their own. When grandma bought them each their own pink glowing light-saber, their happiness reached an entirely unimaginable apex. And with thousands of moving kids, parents and other unintelligibly costumed individuals being funneled like cattle through the same path around the zoo, they had a lot of moving targets to accidentally swing at on purpose. Between politely asking for candy and engaging in sporadic but intense bouts of dancing, the girls would stop to have their picture taken next to various Halloween-themed backdrops. There was the Wicked Witch of the West and her gang, dinosaurs, pirates, a sweatshirt-wearing unimaginative vampire sporting creepster glasses. All creepy, some for the right reasons. Then we happened upon Captain Kirk and a Klingon who looked like and probably was Uncle Phil from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire. Of course I would have to get my picture with them; I just needed to act like I didn't want to. Luckily my brother knows me all too well, and acting light years out of his comfort zone, volunteered to join me for a group photo with the intergalactic icons in front of us. Because that's what awesome brothers do. 

So after two nerdy kids finished posing with Kirk and the Klingon, who was naturally seated in a $9 fold-up chair, Eric gregariously approached his new warrior friend and pulled a jujitsu move the likes neither of have seen, nor knew he had, pinning the Klingon down face first on the grass and forcing him to whimper KAPLAA in resignation. Wait…that's not at all how it happened. He knelt down and gestured to put a hand on his back – all old timey western style – when in a surprise turn of events similar to a counterattack, the Klingon labored up and stood at full attention. Eric's hand, momentarily in a comfortable locale mid-back, completely motionless, felt the scenery change with the Klingon's rising movement. Mid-back gave way to lower back. Red Alert! It was too late, by the time the Klingon reached full attention, Eric's hand was no longer in the neutral zone. Shields were damaged. Status report: high percentage of groping. 

(Had to include the crime-scene photo. Based on the clarity of this image, now I'm absolutely sure the Klingon was Uncle Phil)

Turns out the two nerdy kids were begat by two nerdy fathers, who in a not-at-all-surprise twist wanted to have their picture taken with the Treksters. Not that I don't understand. We eventually took the picture – which didn't come out too well due to the low light – and all was forgiven. Though based on Klingon law, the warrior has every right to eat Eric if he so chooses. So all might not be forgiven

We headed back to the homestead, stopping for some Joe's Famous pizza. It was some delicious gourmet pie, but the fact that the all-meat selection was named The Sooner was both fitting and uncalled for. As mentioned above…my brother lives in Oklahoma. In spite of this, my brother, Melissa and the girls were so welcoming and generous that it almost pains me to say, but I need to do so, I look forward to my next trip to Oklahoma. 

(Not the least because it'll be the next weekend and I'll be shredding 4-wheelers at the sand dunes).

Oklahoma (and Eric and fam and sand dunes) see you soon!

To view this light-saber battle, a video of Sydney almost ejecting herself from a teeter-totter and the rest of the photo gallery, go here: https://picasaweb.google.com/115703640602426551600/OKCHalloween?authkey=Gv1sRgCL_6rYmb9v7bYw

Cowboy and Indian

This time, both sides win. We all do, actually. We started with 80’s sweaters and matching gold chains last year. Mustache-mania 2012 brought the Wild West to the Reservation. Nothing is more awesome than a thick and robust nose mullet. Nothing says high class better than a brass horse-head bolo tie. Bright red hair and hippie beads…well, that’s typical for Melody. Everything works for her.

For as much fun as we had, we learned a few lessons: 

1)  The Wal-Mart photo studios – like the lady who botched Jerry Seinfeld’s car rental – have no idea what it means to hold a reservation (different one than above). They nailed the part where they told us what time the photoshoot began. They failed the part where they made us wait for an hour. I guess one out of two isn't bad. 

2)  Waiting at Wal-Mart for an hour stinks. It's worse, though, when you have pneumonia. Just ask Melody.

3)  Once you give in and admit (to yourself, and most importantly to your photographer) that your goal is to be totally ridiculous, the fun begins. Lights get dimmed, props appear out of thin air, smiles widen. Magic happens!

4)  Real cowboys don't smile. 

5)  Always carry a mustache comb. What else is supposed to go in your shirt pocket?

6) Sepia-tone, photo collages and my mustache have one thing in common: awesomeness.

After circulating this around the office and Internets, I was glad to learn that I have two more to display. This first one is great, in that she looks peacefully adorable, and I look like I've got some not-so-great thoughts bouncing around in my head. And we're in prom pose...

This final one is a result of what happens when you circulate a funny picture to your boss, who happens to be the creative director of an advertising department. I'm told this was a two stage process, in which it was first asked what we were looking at. In an attempt to out-creep the copywriter in the upper corner, my mustache and burns were ripped off my face and given to Melody. Remember when I said earlier that everything works for her? I stand by that statement.

Bike MS: Is that all you've got, Weather!

When I was peer-pressured into joining the "Other Team Garmin" Bike MS crew, I was not warned of the possibility of encountering hours upon hours of freezing-for-September rain, Kansas wheatfield-quality gale force winds, and copious amounts of mandex creatively stretched to the very last fiber as a result of its task to conceal bodies both unique and not meant for the beach or even that cheapo plastic mini-pool designed for the front yard and later the trash heap. On the other hand, and in my defense, I just didn't know that these were questions to be asked of such an event. 

Sure enough, just a year and a half after hopping on a bike for the first time since college, I was pedaling towards the goal of my first century ride. Plus twelve miles. Followed by 78 the subsequent day. That I dared to put my awesome Fuji Sunfire 3.0 through such a challenge spoke volumes towards the confidence I had in my two-wheeled transport, even if it was, by my unofficial estimation, the only non-road/racing/fancy European brand of bike on the road that day. In all, there were thousands of bikers who suited up for Bike MS, 97% of which passed me at one point - most of them quite effortlessly. And with almost 72 miles and over five hours of watching people pass me, I consider myself quite the expert on bikes. And what people’s backsides look like in mandex. 

But the FS3.0 held strong. Before the first ten mile rest stop, I teamed up with Tommy, a co-worker of mine who previously rode a hybrid bike, like me, but was borrowing a friend's road bike for the event. Clipping in for the first time ever on a new bike for a 112 mile ride when his previous long ride was just 35 miles is the kind of crazy, audaciously bold effort that I had to witness first hand. And, as previously mentioned, everyone else was riding faster than me. I may not have been the slowest rider on the course, but the odds of someone starting the race before me or at the same time and finishing behind me were very, very slim. The odds of someone starting after me and finishing after me were smaller than a sumo wrestler’s vertical leap. But I wasn't racing; I was riding. I kept telling myself…

Tommy and I made a great riding duo. Conversation was never forced – it flowed naturally when weather permitted, and retreated to the dugout – not the locker room – in times of heavy downpour when vision was confined to no greater than six inches beyond the front wheel, and the sound of heavy drops pelting our bike helmets at full speed somehow felt like marbles rolling from side to side in a box inside our heads. Neither of us had any desire to prove our biking prowess to the other, as is so common in biking pairs and groups. If we took turns leading, it was directly related to our inability to maintain consistent speed along a particularly steep ascent or descent. Still, the miles and hours went by faster having someone so entertaining to talk to. And since both of us were rookies to the event – and for the most part, cycling in general – we had a similar perspective and awe of Bike MS and the thousands that participated in it. 

We were saddened to hear that since we didn't reach the half-way point fast enough, that we were ineligible to go the full 112 mile route, which had been closed down to "extreme rain" and the resulting poor road conditions. We were both in for the century, particularly so after we found out about the closing. "They took our century away from us" was a phrase that we uttered within earshot of unknown mandexers. At 50 miles, we both felt good about being able to complete the 112 mile course, even if we were beginning to feel the effects of half a day spent on two wheels. And while there's no doubt that we could have done it, I'll admit that acceptance of the 72 mile route came quickly. So I ate my free boca burger, chips and cookies, filled up my Gatorade and water bottles, peed for the fifth time that morning – one for each rest stop, if you're counting; I have the bladder of a five year old - zipped up my thoroughly soaked-through jacket, strapped on my oddly-clean helmet, re-situated the cool new Oakley's that Melody bought me for the ride, took a few deep breaths, slipped my New Balances into their respective pedal straps and set out for 22 more miles. 

With roughly 40 miles lopped off our final leg, and some non-Clif bar food in my belly, I felt refreshed both physically and mentally. The rain had subsided slightly as we made our way to Lawrence and the party on the lawns of South Park. As we arrived in the heart of the city of my alma mater, I was comforted by the greeting the dueling flags atop Fraser Hall offered me, ironically one of the few buildings I biked to in my former life as a KU student, when I was taking Spanish classes during my freshman year. I think I left that bike chained to a rack outside my dorm, forgetting it when I came home to work at Applebee's for the summer. I would never treat the FS3.0 in such an immature manner. 

Tommy and I finished the 72 mile course in five hours eleven minutes, or roughly the time it took Garmin's VP of Communications – my boss's boss – to traverse the full 112 route. I had heard of his biking prowess, but this was impressive. Even more impressive though, was his foresight to catch a ride back that night – as did Tommy – as opposed to staying and camping out during a torrential downpour so strong it turned South Park into South Pond. I met up with some friends in town who were getting together the night after a wedding – Chad, Amy, Kyle, Hef, Dan and his girlfriend Amy – and drank about five beers too many to be riding 78 the next day. Later Jake, Rebecca and Ryan, fellow marcomm co-workers, met us up as we toured Mass street in the only way recommended: pub crawling one beer per bar. Red Lyon, Replay Lounge, Jazzhaus, etc. I called it quits around midnight, a decision I would have reversed had I known that a night full of rain and predicted thunderstorms the next day would lead to the canceling of the return trip. As it was, I slept comfortably in Melody's sweet orange Marmot tent, which in a rare moment of Einsteiniun genius I had relocated under the giant Garmin canopy, safely away from the pounding rain and river which ran directly through its former location. A wicked, early morning driver barreling into a Bike MS tent woke me in an instant. At five in the morning. It was, quite simply, the loudest sound to penetrate my eardrum in its entire existence. And then I had to pee, which with a flowing muddy river and heavy rain between me and the port-o-john, was not cool. I was up for the day. 

Not wanting to fight the masses or stack the FS3.0 Lincoln Log style into the back of a moving van, I grabbed a coffee and newspaper, then waited for my friends to shake off a presumed morning hangover and haul me back to Garmin HQ, where Bike MS started ceremoniously and quietly ended. Removing a wheel, a tasked so presumably easy, never should have resulted in me holding a break pad and various nuts, yet there I was with parts from both the front and back wheels in my hand, both wheels still firmly placed on the bike. Now I had to go to the bike shop and try to save face…or admit I'm an idiot but give them an autographed Team Garmin poster and hope that's what they remember about me. I chose the latter, but no way they don't think I'm an idiot. Whatever. That's why they're there: to fix my bike. So fix it and don't judge me. I now regret giving them the poster. 

Final thoughts: While I was disappointed to leave over 112 miles on the table – over two days – the ride was still successful. I beat my previous long ride by 22 miles. I rode in rain for the first time. I didn’t lose any digits due to frostbite. And I wore the same pair of mandex for two days straight. So all in all, it was a pretty cool experience. Enough to satisfy me this year, yet keep me hungry and wanting to do it again in about 364 days. Enough time to wash some mandex.   

View my ride here: http://connect.garmin.com/activity/115601442

View the entire photo gallery here: https://picasaweb.google.com/115703640602426551600/BikeMS?authkey=Gv1sRgCPiB8rDHr9WapAE

View marcomm's edition of the "Other Team Garmin":