turfcasts

No matter how much or how many loved ones tell you that they are proud of you for dropping out of a brutally hot marathon, there is something unsatisfying about it, and it has taken me a few days to get my head around exactly what happened at Boston and why.

As I sat in the chair in the medical tent at the mile 22 mark, I recognized that I didn’t have the spirit to finish. It was missing. Then I had a disconcerting thought: if I’m not willing to drive beyond the point where the needle says empty, I’m not cut out for any marathon, because all marathons require that, even when conditions are perfect. To run your best, you must be willing to face the dragon and to spit in its eye, again and again, until the race is done. It is the essence of the event.

The thought passed, and after an hour of decompressing in that tent, draped in cold wet towels and sipping iced Gatorade, I was loaded onto a bus with assorted cast-offs whose conditions were worse than my own. An Irish woman on the bus had run 63 marathons. This was her 64th, and the first that she hadn’t finished. I asked her what the high point of her race was. She told me that she actually had felt fine for 21 miles, but then she just didn’t feel right. When we got off the bus, the woman threw up.

The marathon was born as a dramatic event – Pheidippides died at the finish. Sports don’t get much more dramatic than that. In my preparation for Boston it is drama that I was trying to avoid. I have a young son and wife five months pregnant. Understandably, my personal running dramas are not high on the priority list. I hadn’t even planned on running Boston, and was surprised when I got an e-mail from the Boston Athletic Association congratulating me on my acceptance to the race. How could this be? A tight group of CPTC teammates had signed me up and paid my registration. What a gift!

I felt slightly ungracious, but I could not accept unequivocally, because, well, you’ve really got to want to run a marathon to run it, don’t you? I would base my decision on how my training unfolded.

As it turned out, training unfolded well. I layered in a lunch run to my daily work routine, and stuck to it. During the lunch runs I’d often include a fast mile on the track to get the heart rate up. Most weekdays I also ran the seven miles home. On Thursday nights I’d run the workout with the team, after which I’d run home. Add a long run on the weekend, and it all was enough to get me in shape to run a 1:22:19 at the NYC Half. This was good enough evidence for me to commit to Boston. If I raced it smart, I thought I’d have a shot at breaking three.

Then the weather happened.

I generally don’t race well in the heat, and so I adapted my mindset to enjoy the race. The absurd challenge of running a marathon in extreme heat demanded an absurd response: to have fun running a marathon in extreme heat.

And though I wouldn’t exactly call what happened out there fun, there were parts of the race that offered deep satisfaction. I liked what I saw. I now want to run the Boston Marathon more than I did before I ran (and didn’t finish) this one. I still want to see what those last four miles are like. And I want to feel strong while running them, or at least to have the spirit to spit in the dragon’s eye.

I lacked the spirit this time around because the conditions had made it so that I was no longer racing and it was no longer enjoyable. Running on tilt is the point of a marathon, but in these conditions running on tilt would have invited medical drama. We are taught on the Central Park Track Club to finish a race with dignity. In experiencing the Boston Marathon on my terms and not its, and calling it a day at mile 22, that is what, unwittingly, I attempted to do.

As I settled into a leisurely pace amid the babbling brook of runners on the downhill first mile of Monday's Boston Marathon, I looked forward to seeing what this Heartbreak Hill was all about, and ultimately making the turn onto Boylston Street. There is a giddiness to the first mile of any marathon, and it felt more like the beginning of a camping expedition than a race.

I’ve suffered heat-related illness before, nothing life-threatening, but enough to alter my preparations given the ominous forecast. In addition to the usual hydrating and carbo-loading, I made sure to eat salty snacks. I applied suntan lotion, wore sunglasses, and donned a visor atop a white bandana to keep my face and head sheltered. I planned to drink a cup of Gatorade and a cup of water, and to pour a second cup of water on my head, at every station. I had a few mental tests to ensure that my faculties were intact: calculating 2 x 2, calculating 7 x 7, and thinking of assorted friends and relatives at miles 3, 8, 17, and 22.

The mile split, 7:15, was about 30 seconds slower than I would have expected for ideal conditions. Seemed about right.

It became clear early on that there was very little shade on the course. By mile 6 the first boiling frog had jumped from the water, and by mile 10 I saw as many walkers as I normally would see after about 20 miles. It hadn't crossed my mind that I would soon join them.

I had kept around that 7:15 pace for the first 9 miles, drinking the fluids, eating Gus and shot blocks, periodically multiplying 2x2 and 7x7, and keeping my competitive instincts at bay. Mile 7 was rough, but I got a lift in mile 8, when a runner handed me a bag of ice that he had gotten from a spectator.

The towns lining the road reminded me of old Westerns. The sun was blazing. We carried on.

It it difficult to pinpoint exactly what happened between mile 10, when I maintained hope of a successful race, and the half-marathon point, when I knew that the second half would be much, much slower. I could still do the math. 2x2 was 4. 7x7 was 49. I did not have a headache, but I was slowing down and becoming ever more mindful of the heat.

An hour, forty-nine minutes after I crossed the starting line, fourteen miles in, I stopped running. It was the first time I had ever walked in a race. It just seemed to happen, as if the decision was made for me a moment before my foot hit the ground.

And so began the second leg of the journey.

The spectators, with their offerings, turned me into a scavenger. There were garden hoses, weak sprinklers, and a young girl with an impressively powerful squirt gun shooting streams of icy cold water. Adults handed out orange slices, and little kids held fruit-flavored freezes. The water in the plastic cups from the Bostonians lining the course was more likely to be cold than the water in the Poland Spring paper cups at the official stations. Plastic cups of ice were especially useful. I even scored an electrolyte mix.

I was grateful for the wonderful generosity and spirit of the fans, but this new relationship was one-sided. They were giving me high-fives, but I wasn't even running.

One lady tried to motivate me, "C'mon Central Park, you gotta compete out there!" she yelled, with a bottle of water in her hand. I looked at her and wondered whether she was going to give me that water, and whether it was cold.

I started running again. My wife, son, and brother-in-law would be waiting near the Newton Firehouse at mile 16. But I was looking for them on the wrong side of the street, and we missed each other.

As I walk-jogged the Newton Hills in miles 18 and 19, I was asked by other runners whether we were on Heartbreak Hill. I suspected not. Then we reached a final, roller-coaster incline. In a whopping justification, I told myself that I couldn't run up Heartbreak Hill because I hadn't earned the right. I did try walking faster though, and wondered why I hadn't tried walking fast before. I had unthinkingly been walking at walking pace, not at race-walking pace.

I kept drinking cups of water and pouring it on my head, but my throat remained dry. I didn't seem to be sweating anymore, and I didn't know whether I had had too much water, or not enough.

Once I got to the top, I allowed myself to jog again. Only five miles left, and the majority of runners had slowed so much by this point that upon running once more I passed many of them. There was more cheering. These new spectators didn't know that I had been walking for most of the previous seven miles. To them I was another determined runner enduring the heat and embodying the spirit of the marathon, which I knew not to be the case. How strange that one could exit a race, and then re-enter it.

My heartbeat started fluttering. I didn't know whether this signaled anything, but out of fear I stopped running. I walked on. To the right of the mile 22 marker I noticed a medical tent, and when I got there, without a thought, I entered it and told the doctor that I was done. I had been on the course for about three hours and fifteen minutes. I was turning myself in.

I hadn't been looking for a medical tent, and if it hadn't been there I would have continued. But four miles of walking seemed very far at that point. I didn't want to experience the hallowed finish on Boylston Street in the condition I was in or worse. I wasn't racing anymore, I was simply trying to get from point A to point B. There was no fun left to be had.

It seemed like a belated April Fool’s Day joke when, at the beginning of the week, the long-range weather.com forecast for the Boston Marathon showed a high of 80 degrees. Great for spectators, terrible for runners. Things got better, then they got worse. Accuweather.com showed a high of 63, which would be manageable for the long race, if not ideal. But then a day later accuweather showed a high of 84. Now all sources predict temps to hit the high 80s, which isn't even great for the spectators anymore.

The training is done, so now it's just mental prep. Time to summon the forces of denial.

First off, the forecast could be worse. A tailwind is projected. It won't be terribly humid.

It would be far more challenging to run Badwater.

A marathon is known for testing your limits. But then again, so does an enormous pile of dirty dishes, a stubborn infant, or dealing with Time Warner Cable.

I am determined to enjoy the race. If enjoying it is the goal, rather than, say, fixating on breaking three hours, I'll run a better time. How to enjoy it? Well, assuming beach weather, I’ll find a hat to protect me from the sun, or perhaps even a visor. There will be many opportunities to drink free water and Gatorade, and to pour water over my head. I’ll try to run at a pace that I think I can endure for 26 miles, being mindful that such a pace will feel slow at the start.

I'm four-for-four in medical tent visits after colder weather marathons, and I'm making it a goal NOT to visit the medical tent during or after this one, unless I really must, of course.

Before running the NYC Marathon in 2010, I shared Glen Redpath’s advice about not ruining your race in the first two miles. I followed his advice, letting runners speed ahead up and down the Varazzano Bridge, but I still started competing too early and was left with too little at the end. To enjoy this race I'll need to hold in the reins for longer.

From what I gather, the course has three distinct stages: the first 16 miles, which are favorable, the hills, which aren't, and the last five miles, which are favorable. For the first two parts I'll think about form and try to find a happy internal place. If my legs and faculties are intact after the first two parts, I’ll attempt to race the third part.

Our last CPTC workout for the Boston marathon was an 8-mile sustained run, with the middle four miles at half-marathon pace and the first and last two miles at marathon pace. When I first read the workout, I wondered why the last two miles would be at marathon pace. Downshifting to a slower pace at the end of a workout is contrary to the usual way we do these things. By the time I got to those last two miles, it made sense. The marathon cadence was slower, but I was gliding at a good clip and passing other runners who seemed to be putting in more effort. This is how I'd like it to feel over those last five miles of the race.

Given the conditions, it is a stretch to believe I will feel that way, but at any rate, it would be fun.

I ran the 3200 at the inaugural McCarren Park Track Classic in Williamsburg last Saturday. It was a bright and chilly morning, with a spiteful little headwind on the backstretch. Behind me at the starting line of the men’s heat was a guy named Misha. Wearing a pale pink North Brooklyn Runners shirt and designer sunglasses, he could have been prepping his canvas for a day of painting on the Mediterranean, or awaiting brunch with Adrien Brody. He seemed completely unbothered by the task at hand: eight laps in the freezing cold, as fast as you can go. The disconnect permeated the meet itself, an NBR production in which the brilliant sunshine and positive vibes made an afterthought of the pain involved in the actual running.

I had never raced a 3200 on an outdoor track, though in high school I raced the 1600 a number of times. The starts and finishes of those races – the first and fourth laps – went by quickly. The problem was the middle. And in a 3200, the middle isn’t just the second and third laps, it’s the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh laps.

My goal for the race was to break eleven minutes, and to do so I’d need to run quarters averaging 82.5 seconds, and then shave off a second somewhere. I took an inside lane and got off the line well, though I was quickly swallowed and then dropped by the front pack before I could properly tuck in and draft. Regardless, my quarter split was 79 seconds, ahead of the goal pace.

I’ve had luck with round-number goals in 2012, running 17:59 at the Armory to slip under 18 minutes in the 5,000, and 4:59 in the mile, also at the Armory, running the last quarter in 71 seconds to sneak under 5.

Though the initial 79 second lap didn’t feel strained, I was discouraged to see from the clock at the finish line that the pace for the ensuing laps had deteriorated to 84 or 85 seconds per. At the 1600 mark I was at 5:33. I picked up my cadence but the results were the same. Then I got confused, as one does in the late stages of a marathon. I didn’t know whether I had two or three laps to go. I thought the guy passing me was lapping me, but he was just passing, as it turned out, and I veered into lane 2 to let him by. With a lap and a half left, I then was indeed lapped by the two leaders. There’s nothing like being lapped to put you in your place.

I saw the leaders finish as I steeled myself for my own final quarter, needing to clock 71 seconds to go sub 11. In my deluded state, I thought this possible. The guy who had passed me was 10 meters ahead and speeding up. I focused on reining him in, visualizing what Bernard Lagat does to his prey. With 150 meters to go my mind told my body to commit and pass him. The body obliged, and I beat that guy, though at 11:05, I was six seconds off the goal pace. I had run the final quarter in 77.

Next up is the New York City half this weekend, and, if training goes well, an attempt to crack three hours at the Boston marathon.

Word clouds, when they were used as part of the recent Fox-Google Republican presidential debate, officially jumped the shark. But in anticipation of the Fifth Avenue Mile, I couldn’t help but imagine one last word cloud. The oversized word in the middle was “pain.”

The mile is more singularly defined by pain than any other race, including the far more grueling marathon. Perhaps this is because while the marathon is understood by most as an experience best left to hard-core runners or the temporarily inspired/insane, the gym-class mile run is an inescapable trial of youth.

Even the elites appeared terrified at this year’s Fifth Avenue Mile. Check them out on the New York Road Runners video before the start of the race. Bernard Lagat, who was about to win, looks like he is awaiting the verdict of a murder trial. Freshly mohawked David Torrence is the only runner who seems to be having fun.

There is likely a physiological explanation for pre-race anxiety. The mile is a short enough race to necessitate a fast start for a good performance. The mind thus subconsciously generates anxiety to get the blood pumping faster through the body, to reduce the shock. But why must we suffer before the race even starts?

One reason I run is that I never regret doing it. It represents delayed but guaranteed gratification. But there’s a flip side. The pre-run and specifically the pre-race is not gratifying. In the fifteen minutes before my heat of the 5th Avenue Mile, I, like the elites, stood pee-faced in the pen.

Would it help to get a mohawk?

A question circulated among running friends after the race. If a deal were offered whereby a mohawk would enable you to run certain times in the mile and marathon, how fast would those times have to be for you to accept it? My mohawk times are 4:10 for the mile and 2:35 for the marathon, safely out of reach. I’d rock a mohawk if it made me run a 4:10 mile. Failing that, I’ve got a family to consider.

Without actually taking a mohawk, I’d like to adapt the pre-race attitude of the mohawk. In discussing this issue, a fellow runner noted the adage that running is 90% mental. It is not. It’s 90% training and 10% mental. I hope to be in better shape for the mile next year, and to swap pre-race jitters with the smirk that Torrence wore at the start line. And why is Torrence the model and not Lagat, who, after all, was the most fit of all? Because Lagat may as well live on Mount Olympus, and for us mere mortals who willingly suffer this sport there’s no reason for the pre-race not to be fun.

Last year at the 5th Avenue Mile I ran a 4:49. This time I was hoping to beat that. I’m in modest shape, no better now than at this time last year when I was starting to ramp up for the marathon, but I recently set a half marathon PR of 1:22:48 in Rochester, and low-to-mid 4:40s seemed possible.

During the mile I didn’t hit my watch at the start and I didn’t check the clocks on the side of the road at the quarter mile mark. Those clocks in races tend to find us, though, and as I crested the hill at about the half mile mark I saw the truck way out front saying 2:30 something, which was discouraging, as I hit 2:27 for the half last year. On the other hand, I wasn’t certain exactly where the 800 mark was, and I had pulled alongside teammate John Milone, who I knew was capable of 4:30s. I kicked hard during the third quarter and John sped up too. With 400 to go, hanging on Milone’s shoulder, I was well spent and my legs were tingling. I fixed on a runner 10 meters ahead and made the decision to accelerate and get him (inspired in part by a recent blog post where curiosity gets the better of a struggling runner and he speeds up). I caught him, and perhaps a few others, though I didn’t catch Milone, who beat me by one second. I successfully explored the pain cave. But did I lack the ultimate killer instinct to take the sword to my teammate? It doesn’t matter. He was a better runner that day even though he didn't run his best, and there will be more races.

My time was 4:54, five seconds slower than last year. I was again 13th in my 35-39 year old age group. The goal for next year is to beat my high school PR of 4:41 and to finish in the top 10. A year is a long time, and for a mile so is 14 seconds.

As for the Rochester half, there were two highlights. Turning the corner of Frontier Field and coming down the last straightaway, I accelerated past a runner who I had been reeling in over the past five miles. I saw the clock at 1:22 and change, knowing that a sub 1:23 would qualify me for the New York City Marathon and half marathon, lotteries be damned. It was a most enjoyable finish.

The lasting image of the race, though, was near the five mile mark, where the race passes by the home on Highland Avenue in which I was raised. As my infant son Oscar watched me pass by, open mouthed in my sister’s arms, my mother shot bubbles from a battery-operated whale-shaped bubble gun I had gotten for Oscar as fun-insurance on the eve of Hurricane Irene’s arrival in New York City. Later, I heard from my mother on this subject. “We were trying to encourage the runners with the bubble machine. The elite runners were too focused on the race to notice the bubbles, but in the next wave, the runners were trying to grab them. Some were leaping up to swat the bubbles as they ran by. A couple of runners said, ‘More bubbles!’”