Yes, my New York trip was a bit of a downer. But on that Wednesday by the dismantled grandstand in Central Park, I pulled from the wreckage of my DNS ("Did Not Start") a new resolve! I logged 18 miles while recovering that week and went in to Saturday, Nov 8th determined to run a strong 16. Through the hilly first ten I managed a 7:35 mi, but assumed superpowers or something somewhere around 45th & Duval and ran the last six under 7:00. I ended with a 7:19 mi overall, five seconds under MGP. A glimpse of a marathon effort, taken out on a poor, hapless 16. I knew I was pushing the pace for a long run, but I’d put away so many of these already and I really wanted a confidence boost. I got what I needed, even if my legs got all cranky afterwards.
My legs on Sunday morning: “Dude, what was that? You expect us to get out of bed now?”
“Zip it. I needed that, okay? Address all complaints to my elbow.”
“Seriously, we’re not moving. And we want more of the duvet. Half of it's on the floor.”
“You want an ice bath?”
“NOOOOO!!”
“Then I suggest you cooperate.”
All is well for two days as I prepare to jump back in to the Gazelles. And then, I awake Tuesday morning to a scratchy throat, congested sinuses, a cough and general crappitude. Oi. The scene at work is not pretty. Folks are calling in or leaving early, all falling to a bug that’s now going around. And of course it gets to me as well. I normally don’t blink at colds and run through them, but two runs of five and six miles during the week tell me this time to take it easy. On Thursday a doctor—not my normal PCP because he’s booked—says I have one of the typical viral infections making the rounds. My lungs are clear, but he gives vague non-runner friendly answers to my questions like, “You don’t want to push it or it may get worse.” Define ‘push it?’ Does ‘push it’ mean five miles or 20? Recovery pace or MGP? And despite my sharp interrogation, he insists that none of my setbacks have anything to do with each other. He chalks it all up to bad luck.
I take it day-to-day and by Saturday (this morning) I realize while five or six might work, putting in my final 22 today would be a bad idea. I move all my little running reminders on my calendar back a week and set my sights on 22 next Saturday, three weeks out from Dallas.
I believe I’ve developed a new marathon training regimen. For the last eight weeks of training, run a week hard and then take a week and a half to two weeks off. The BLTW (Blog Like The Wind) Approach. And yet, AND YET, I am still in the game. Last Saturday told me I have the fitness, so if I can just be patient, rest, keep an IV of Emergen-C in my arm at all times and get over this—even if it takes an ungodly two weeks, which it shouldn't—I think I can still rev back up and make it to Dallas on December 14th in good shape. Relatively.
One step forward, two steps . . . no, no, no. Two steps forward, one step back. That's more like it. I’ve worked this new schedule out on my calendar and it looks like the timing is perfect. Nov 23rd, Nov 30th, Dec 7th. Yep. The week of Dallas White Rock, I'm due to step forward.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Running on the Brain
I stealthily approach Todd's cubicle. He’s got a Rogue sticker on his PC. He's one of us. When he realizes someone’s behind him he frantically closes his Internet browser. All I could make out was YouTube footage of some marathon from the 80’s. Grete Waitz was involved.
“Hey Todd, what’s happening?”
“Robert! Hey, how was New York?? Did you BQ?”
“I ended up not running. I got a last-minute injury.”
“Oh no! Was it your leg?”
“My elbow.”
“What??”
“My elbow. I got a staph infection five days before NY. It was the size of a grapefr—a cantaloupe.”
“Are you kidding me?? That’s like the worst luck imaginable. Oh man, I’m sorry. Those things can be terrible."
“Yeah, it was unpleasant. But I’m better now and Saturday I did 16. Ran the whole thing at a 7:19 min/mi. Five seconds under MGP. Last six were under 7:00.”
“Pretty good,” Todd admits, impressed. “Well Thursday I ran ten 800’s, with the last half of the last two under 6:00 min/mi.”
“Yeah? Last week I ran three 3km’s, two 2000m’s, and four 1000m’s, and the middle two 1000m’s were at my 2km pace.”
“How about this? Seven miles on Town Lake yesterday, and I ran from the place where that rock sticks out to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue in 12.8 seconds.”
“You didn't.”
"That's right, Rob. Twice as fast as MGP. For 80m."
"80m at .5 MGP. Dude, that's a sub-3:15 marathon, guaranteed."
Courtney from Sales breezes by.
“Hi, Robert.”
“Hey, Courtney, how’s it going in Sales?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Yeah.”
She stops, plucks a pen off Todd’s desk, and signs a stack of forms she’s carrying against the wall of his cubicle.
Without taking her eyes off the paper, “Wow, pleats, that’s a first for you.”
“Just mixing it up.”
On her way down the hall now, “You know what they say about pleats don’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“They make your butt look big. Ha, ha!”
"Ah! That's, eh . . . hilarious!"
My smile hides the horror.
As she turns the corner, “See ya at the Tech Talk!”
Before retreating I hang at Todd’s cubicle for a second.
“Hey Todd, do you think for the good of the company you could change your IM screen name?”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“'HGEBRSELASSIE?' It’s just not very practical in an office environment. No one can spell it. And besides, I’m the only one who gets the reference.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Yeah. How about 'PRE?'”
Pause
“Hey, I like that.”
“Hey Todd, what’s happening?”
“Robert! Hey, how was New York?? Did you BQ?”
“I ended up not running. I got a last-minute injury.”
“Oh no! Was it your leg?”
“My elbow.”
“What??”
“My elbow. I got a staph infection five days before NY. It was the size of a grapefr—a cantaloupe.”
“Are you kidding me?? That’s like the worst luck imaginable. Oh man, I’m sorry. Those things can be terrible."
“Yeah, it was unpleasant. But I’m better now and Saturday I did 16. Ran the whole thing at a 7:19 min/mi. Five seconds under MGP. Last six were under 7:00.”
“Pretty good,” Todd admits, impressed. “Well Thursday I ran ten 800’s, with the last half of the last two under 6:00 min/mi.”
“Yeah? Last week I ran three 3km’s, two 2000m’s, and four 1000m’s, and the middle two 1000m’s were at my 2km pace.”
“How about this? Seven miles on Town Lake yesterday, and I ran from the place where that rock sticks out to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue in 12.8 seconds.”
“You didn't.”
"That's right, Rob. Twice as fast as MGP. For 80m."
"80m at .5 MGP. Dude, that's a sub-3:15 marathon, guaranteed."
Courtney from Sales breezes by.
“Hi, Robert.”
“Hey, Courtney, how’s it going in Sales?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Yeah.”
She stops, plucks a pen off Todd’s desk, and signs a stack of forms she’s carrying against the wall of his cubicle.
Without taking her eyes off the paper, “Wow, pleats, that’s a first for you.”
“Just mixing it up.”
On her way down the hall now, “You know what they say about pleats don’t you?”
“What’s that?”
“They make your butt look big. Ha, ha!”
"Ah! That's, eh . . . hilarious!"
My smile hides the horror.
As she turns the corner, “See ya at the Tech Talk!”
Before retreating I hang at Todd’s cubicle for a second.
“Hey Todd, do you think for the good of the company you could change your IM screen name?”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“'HGEBRSELASSIE?' It’s just not very practical in an office environment. No one can spell it. And besides, I’m the only one who gets the reference.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Yeah. How about 'PRE?'”
Pause
“Hey, I like that.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Best-Laid Plans
I can’t go through everything that’s happened in the last three weeks, but I’ll briefly note that I rebuffed my wimpy calf strain with a resounding 22 miler. Through stretching, cross training, and some quality time at SPI with a rubber ball, a trampoline, and Pieter's knuckles on the back of my leg, my calf healed up nicely.
Now I skip to race week, counting down the final days before New York.
I swear I am not making this up.
---Tuesday, October 28th---
I’m at SPI Tuesday morning for a last-minute appointment with Dr. Spears. It’s not a nerve issue, calf issue, foot, leg, hip or any runner-related issue. No. It’s my elbow.
It is the size of a grapefruit.
Monday night was terrible. Sleepless, fever, chills, feeling of total crappiness. And I kept turning over onto my elbow, which, one more time for emphasis, is the size of a grapefruit.
It’s so disgusting it scares Dr. Spears’ assistant, Lisa, as she walks through the door.
“Whoa, that looks awful, we need to drain that. Lie down on the bed and extend your arm toward the floor.”
“I can’t straighten it out.”
“Well, just kind of let it hang there, as best you can.”
Two minutes after inserting the needle into my elbow and holding it in place, she pulls it out exasperated.
“That’s so weird, I couldn’t get any fluid out of it. Dr. Spears needs to see this.”
Doc walks in, widens his eyes a bit, and immediately asks me to raise both my arms.
“Yeah, look at that. He’s got a staph or strep infection and it’s septic. See this pink line shooting up the underside of his arm? I think it got in through the dried up skin on his elbow. Have you been around livestock or spent any time in a barn lately?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you work at a dog kennel?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“How about a hospital?”
"Does this place count? I spend more time here than some of your staff."
“There’s a concern about whether this the run-of-the-mill or drug resistant variety. We’ll put you on antibiotics and if it’s not the bad kind that should take care of it.”
“What about running?”
“I’d take it easy for 10 days.”
“But I’m running the New York Marathon in five days.”
Pause
“Oh. Well, I’ll put you on Ceftin, it’s pretty potent. And oral meds nowadays are just as fast as an injection. My advice would be to take it easy, go to New York, and see how you’re feeling on Saturday before deciding to run.”
“What are the odds I’ll be 100% by Sunday?”
“Honestly, I think it’s pretty slim. You’ve got a major systemic infection right now. The drugs should work, but five days to be back in marathon mode is a pretty quick turnaround for something like this.”
Wow.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is this like a dream or something? Am I being punked?
Two days on the antibiotics and I finally start to feel some effects. My elbow now looks more like a baseball. Thursday afternoon I test the waters with a 4 miler. A lumbering effort. Way more work than it should be. And it hits me hard an hour later. Wiped out and lethargic, I pack my bags for the Friday morning flight, gambling on a full recovery by Sunday.
My travel day goes fairly well and I’m starting to think I can pull it off. I try again Saturday morning with 3 miles around Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Bleh. Better than Thursday, but the results certainly aren’t stellar. This is not encouraging. I withhold any decision for the next few hours hoping the expo will inspire a surge of enthusiasm. By the time I get to the Jacob Javits Center in midtown Manhattan to pick up my race bib, however, I am awash in weakness and malaise.
Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. I should be bouncing off the walls right now but all I want to do is curl up in a fetal position. How am I going to do this? Forget a BQ, now the question is finishing. Did I come up here for a completely miserable experience?
I stay at the expo for more than two hours, alternating between mindlessly browsing the booths and sitting on the floor against a wall, trying to rest and find some clarity. With thirty minutes left on my options, I walk over to the cancellation desk. I hand the volunteer my bib. She draws an “X” from corner to corner in permanent marker and tosses it in a box with the other defiled numbers. Man. I was going to frame that thing.
I walk out into the city obviously distraught, bummed out, and perplexed. But not completely irrational. By dropping out at the expo rather than trying to run the next morning, I secured a spot in New York next year. And I saved myself for another fall marathon to keep me in the game for Boston. An hour later in my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn, I pull out my laptop and sign up for Dallas.
Still in the city Wednesday morning, three days after the marathon, I finally get my crack at the last few miles of the course in Central Park. With 800 yards to go, I round the corner near Columbus Circle and race past the empty grandstand, which is being dismantled. I ask a worker where the finish line is.
“See that Verizon truck? Right there.”
I run over to the Verizon truck and stop in the middle of the road.
This is it. I'm throwing down.
"Yo, New York! This is Robert. From TEXAS. New York! I'm calling you out. You listening? Check your INBOX, New York! Cause I just sent you an E-VITE! I've got an appointment with you right here at this spot on Sunday, November 1, 2009, the date of next year's marathon. At 12:40pm."
"Exactly three hours after the First Wave Start at 9:40."
"November 1st, 2009, 12:40pm. Right here, dudes. And don't be late."
Pause
Man. That was pretty severe.
Long Pause
"Make it 12:45."
Now I skip to race week, counting down the final days before New York.
I swear I am not making this up.
---Tuesday, October 28th---
I’m at SPI Tuesday morning for a last-minute appointment with Dr. Spears. It’s not a nerve issue, calf issue, foot, leg, hip or any runner-related issue. No. It’s my elbow.
It is the size of a grapefruit.
Monday night was terrible. Sleepless, fever, chills, feeling of total crappiness. And I kept turning over onto my elbow, which, one more time for emphasis, is the size of a grapefruit.
It’s so disgusting it scares Dr. Spears’ assistant, Lisa, as she walks through the door.
“Whoa, that looks awful, we need to drain that. Lie down on the bed and extend your arm toward the floor.”
“I can’t straighten it out.”
“Well, just kind of let it hang there, as best you can.”
Two minutes after inserting the needle into my elbow and holding it in place, she pulls it out exasperated.
“That’s so weird, I couldn’t get any fluid out of it. Dr. Spears needs to see this.”
Doc walks in, widens his eyes a bit, and immediately asks me to raise both my arms.
“Yeah, look at that. He’s got a staph or strep infection and it’s septic. See this pink line shooting up the underside of his arm? I think it got in through the dried up skin on his elbow. Have you been around livestock or spent any time in a barn lately?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you work at a dog kennel?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“How about a hospital?”
"Does this place count? I spend more time here than some of your staff."
“There’s a concern about whether this the run-of-the-mill or drug resistant variety. We’ll put you on antibiotics and if it’s not the bad kind that should take care of it.”
“What about running?”
“I’d take it easy for 10 days.”
“But I’m running the New York Marathon in five days.”
Pause
“Oh. Well, I’ll put you on Ceftin, it’s pretty potent. And oral meds nowadays are just as fast as an injection. My advice would be to take it easy, go to New York, and see how you’re feeling on Saturday before deciding to run.”
“What are the odds I’ll be 100% by Sunday?”
“Honestly, I think it’s pretty slim. You’ve got a major systemic infection right now. The drugs should work, but five days to be back in marathon mode is a pretty quick turnaround for something like this.”
Wow.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is this like a dream or something? Am I being punked?
Two days on the antibiotics and I finally start to feel some effects. My elbow now looks more like a baseball. Thursday afternoon I test the waters with a 4 miler. A lumbering effort. Way more work than it should be. And it hits me hard an hour later. Wiped out and lethargic, I pack my bags for the Friday morning flight, gambling on a full recovery by Sunday.
My travel day goes fairly well and I’m starting to think I can pull it off. I try again Saturday morning with 3 miles around Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Bleh. Better than Thursday, but the results certainly aren’t stellar. This is not encouraging. I withhold any decision for the next few hours hoping the expo will inspire a surge of enthusiasm. By the time I get to the Jacob Javits Center in midtown Manhattan to pick up my race bib, however, I am awash in weakness and malaise.
Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. I should be bouncing off the walls right now but all I want to do is curl up in a fetal position. How am I going to do this? Forget a BQ, now the question is finishing. Did I come up here for a completely miserable experience?
I stay at the expo for more than two hours, alternating between mindlessly browsing the booths and sitting on the floor against a wall, trying to rest and find some clarity. With thirty minutes left on my options, I walk over to the cancellation desk. I hand the volunteer my bib. She draws an “X” from corner to corner in permanent marker and tosses it in a box with the other defiled numbers. Man. I was going to frame that thing.
I walk out into the city obviously distraught, bummed out, and perplexed. But not completely irrational. By dropping out at the expo rather than trying to run the next morning, I secured a spot in New York next year. And I saved myself for another fall marathon to keep me in the game for Boston. An hour later in my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn, I pull out my laptop and sign up for Dallas.
Still in the city Wednesday morning, three days after the marathon, I finally get my crack at the last few miles of the course in Central Park. With 800 yards to go, I round the corner near Columbus Circle and race past the empty grandstand, which is being dismantled. I ask a worker where the finish line is.
“See that Verizon truck? Right there.”
I run over to the Verizon truck and stop in the middle of the road.
This is it. I'm throwing down.
"Yo, New York! This is Robert. From TEXAS. New York! I'm calling you out. You listening? Check your INBOX, New York! Cause I just sent you an E-VITE! I've got an appointment with you right here at this spot on Sunday, November 1, 2009, the date of next year's marathon. At 12:40pm."
"Exactly three hours after the First Wave Start at 9:40."
"November 1st, 2009, 12:40pm. Right here, dudes. And don't be late."
Pause
Man. That was pretty severe.
Long Pause
"Make it 12:45."
Sunday, October 26, 2008
New Attitude
---Friday, October 10th---
I tow my unmotivated, demoralized lug of self into the gym for yet another day of cardio-lameness. I’m starting to recognize the regulars. Sweatpants dude. Blonde lady with Texas flag running shorts. The 56-year-old in the Under Armour body suit. A guy who only goes backwards on the Arc Flex. Change it up, dude, change it up.
I pass a heavyset fellow I see a lot hunched over a Stairmaster.
“Here comes Mr. Mopeypants," he mutters under his breath.
I climb onto the only available stationary bike, enter all the useless information in the machine and start the plodding, my head down, already defeated.
La di da, this is lame, I think to myself. I’m so not into this.
Woe is me.
Bombarded by “The View” with the sound off on the tv in front of me, I have no choice but to retreat into my thoughts. I think about some of my recently injured fellow runners. Many of them had to stop their training, pull out, and hope for a spring marathon. A few are getting on a road bike, others are—I can’t believe I am even saying this—aqua jogging. It's so frustrating when injuries happen even though you’re in control and doing everything right. Recently a guy hobbled into a certain retail store where I work on occasion in a massive crazy looking cast up to his knee.
“What the heck happened?” I asked.
“Ruptured achilles playing soccer,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Wow, that must have hurt. What does it feel like when it ruptures?”
“Like you’ve been shot.”
“Oh. I see.”
“It’s crazy, you can’t stand up. You try, but you just fall forward on your face.”
“Yikes. How long will it be before you can play again?”
“I’ll have the cast on for 12 weeks and then I’ll start rehabilitation. At least six months.”
“Man that sucks.
“Yeah, it’s a bitch, but I’ll get over it.”
Pause
“Where are your wind chimes?”
That man is lacking a functional Achilles tendon. And here I pedal. With a calf strain. BOO HOO. Poor Robert. I have to ease up for two weeks. WAAAAH. Ooh, I think the pedaling might be hurting my calf, somebody call the wambulance.
I need an ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.
I’m sick of this little pity party I’m throwing for myself. I’m turning this frown upside down. I am so darn lucky to have run as many marathons as I have without serious injury. I’m still headed for New York, I’ve just hit some bumps, that’s all.
I’m going to shoot for 22 tomorrow and if it works out, cool. If it doesn’t, I’ve still got three weeks to chill. And maybe it won’t be the marathon of my dreams, but it’ll be my 11th and it’ll be in New York. If I’m five minutes off my goal, I’m still a winner. Ten minutes . . . that goes in the win column too. Fifteen . . . okay, I will probably fall into a mild depression, but I’m confident therapy can pull me out of it. No, this is it: If I finish and my leg doesn’t fall off, that’s in its own way a victory.
I get so revved up about all this I increase the resistance level on my bike from “6” to “8.” After 40 minutes I bound off, and, high on my new attitude, try to lead the room in a round of “Nyo Ingwe.” There is a struggle, and people are getting it confused with the 1961 pop hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
“No, the chorus is ‘Nyo Ingwe’ not ‘Wimoweh.’ That’s a completely different song, dudes.”
“ . . . in the jungle, the mighty jungle . . . “
“STOP! You are ruining the whole thing. That’s not the song!”
“ . . . Wimoweh, Wimoweh . . . “
“This is terrible. That is the wrong song. I’ve completely lost my patience with all of you. Enjoy ‘The View.’ I’m going to go work on my glutes.”
I race out of the room, passing the heavyset guy on the Stairmaster, who is standing up and crooning in falsetto, “ . . . the lion sleeps tonight . . . ."
I tow my unmotivated, demoralized lug of self into the gym for yet another day of cardio-lameness. I’m starting to recognize the regulars. Sweatpants dude. Blonde lady with Texas flag running shorts. The 56-year-old in the Under Armour body suit. A guy who only goes backwards on the Arc Flex. Change it up, dude, change it up.
I pass a heavyset fellow I see a lot hunched over a Stairmaster.
“Here comes Mr. Mopeypants," he mutters under his breath.
I climb onto the only available stationary bike, enter all the useless information in the machine and start the plodding, my head down, already defeated.
La di da, this is lame, I think to myself. I’m so not into this.
Woe is me.
Bombarded by “The View” with the sound off on the tv in front of me, I have no choice but to retreat into my thoughts. I think about some of my recently injured fellow runners. Many of them had to stop their training, pull out, and hope for a spring marathon. A few are getting on a road bike, others are—I can’t believe I am even saying this—aqua jogging. It's so frustrating when injuries happen even though you’re in control and doing everything right. Recently a guy hobbled into a certain retail store where I work on occasion in a massive crazy looking cast up to his knee.
“What the heck happened?” I asked.
“Ruptured achilles playing soccer,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Wow, that must have hurt. What does it feel like when it ruptures?”
“Like you’ve been shot.”
“Oh. I see.”
“It’s crazy, you can’t stand up. You try, but you just fall forward on your face.”
“Yikes. How long will it be before you can play again?”
“I’ll have the cast on for 12 weeks and then I’ll start rehabilitation. At least six months.”
“Man that sucks.
“Yeah, it’s a bitch, but I’ll get over it.”
Pause
“Where are your wind chimes?”
That man is lacking a functional Achilles tendon. And here I pedal. With a calf strain. BOO HOO. Poor Robert. I have to ease up for two weeks. WAAAAH. Ooh, I think the pedaling might be hurting my calf, somebody call the wambulance.
I need an ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT.
I’m sick of this little pity party I’m throwing for myself. I’m turning this frown upside down. I am so darn lucky to have run as many marathons as I have without serious injury. I’m still headed for New York, I’ve just hit some bumps, that’s all.
I’m going to shoot for 22 tomorrow and if it works out, cool. If it doesn’t, I’ve still got three weeks to chill. And maybe it won’t be the marathon of my dreams, but it’ll be my 11th and it’ll be in New York. If I’m five minutes off my goal, I’m still a winner. Ten minutes . . . that goes in the win column too. Fifteen . . . okay, I will probably fall into a mild depression, but I’m confident therapy can pull me out of it. No, this is it: If I finish and my leg doesn’t fall off, that’s in its own way a victory.
I get so revved up about all this I increase the resistance level on my bike from “6” to “8.” After 40 minutes I bound off, and, high on my new attitude, try to lead the room in a round of “Nyo Ingwe.” There is a struggle, and people are getting it confused with the 1961 pop hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
“No, the chorus is ‘Nyo Ingwe’ not ‘Wimoweh.’ That’s a completely different song, dudes.”
“ . . . in the jungle, the mighty jungle . . . “
“STOP! You are ruining the whole thing. That’s not the song!”
“ . . . Wimoweh, Wimoweh . . . “
“This is terrible. That is the wrong song. I’ve completely lost my patience with all of you. Enjoy ‘The View.’ I’m going to go work on my glutes.”
I race out of the room, passing the heavyset guy on the Stairmaster, who is standing up and crooning in falsetto, “ . . . the lion sleeps tonight . . . ."
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Gazelle in Exile
---Wednesday, October 8th---
Things aren't going smoothly.
I’m way down in it and I’m struggling big time. Leg turnover is sloppy, my breathing overwrought. I’m clunky, cranky, I’m peering over the edge. Dig Deep! Gut it out! This is virtually intolerable. No sports gels, no water stops, this is crazy. I have found my limit. I’m in a dark place right now. Just keep it together. Stay in the game. I start counting down from 100. Get the pain out of your head. I really don’t know if I can make it. But I’m so close! Focus, Robert. Push on through. Crank. It. Out.
And then, finally, thank the gods, it ends. Finis. I don’t have to endure one more second. I look at my watch.
40 minutes.
I step off the elliptical trainer.
Oh my god. OH MY GOD. I can’t think of anything more unpleasant, more sanity-testing and more ridiculous than 40 minutes on a cardio machine. Bring on the 15-45-90 leg lifts! Mile Repeats! Wilke, I love you! But, by all that is good in this world, please spare me the cardio machine. Why so difficult? Because you are not moving. You are going through the motions, but you are not in motion. You are gunning the engine, yet you are in park. All of the work, none of the fun. Mt. Bonnell is replaced by a series of bars on the monitor that you stare at. Ooh, here comes the big bar, watch out! Oh no, will I make it over the big bar?! I don’t know! Rather than a view of the lake or trees or the back of a faster runner, you get a tv without sound that, in my gym, is usually turned to Rachael Ray or a show about the world’s toughest prisons. What? Earl spent 36 hours in “The Box” before overpowering his guard and starting a small gang fight? Why, that’s fantastic. I’m so glad there’s video of it.
I want to be free, to run like the wind! And yet my wings are clipped. My calf strain is the issue—relatively minor and fixable, but the timing is terrible. Over the last week and a half I have hobbled onto the trail three times with unacceptable results: 1 mile, 4 miles, 8 miles, each followed by a morale-sapping walk back to my Subaru. I missed the last 20 miler for the New Yorkers and I’m putting all my eggs in a successful solo attempt three weeks out. The folks at SPI, Pieter, Troy, Dr. Spears, Lori the physician’s assistant, Rebecca at the front desk, and the building’s janitor all implored me not to run until I was completely over the strain. Not only am I glum about losing my conditioning, but it’s like I’ve been quarantined, out of the Gazelles loop, unable to run with my buddies. I want Coach to throw a medicine ball at me. I miss that.
I walk over to the stationary bike and try to get in another twenty minutes of extreme annoyance. I start peddling and the lights on the monitor go on. Why does it want my age and weight?? Just start, let’s get this over with. That’s it, ENOUGH, I’m about to lose it! I jump off and kick the stupid hell device. Oww, MY CALF!!! That was retarded.
I find myself completely bereft of satisfying workout options. Sullen, self-pitying, I get back on the bike, but I just sit there watching Rachael Ray.
Pause.
Another pause.
Hey.
Those “hot-dog-a-bobs” look pretty good.
Things aren't going smoothly.
I’m way down in it and I’m struggling big time. Leg turnover is sloppy, my breathing overwrought. I’m clunky, cranky, I’m peering over the edge. Dig Deep! Gut it out! This is virtually intolerable. No sports gels, no water stops, this is crazy. I have found my limit. I’m in a dark place right now. Just keep it together. Stay in the game. I start counting down from 100. Get the pain out of your head. I really don’t know if I can make it. But I’m so close! Focus, Robert. Push on through. Crank. It. Out.
And then, finally, thank the gods, it ends. Finis. I don’t have to endure one more second. I look at my watch.
40 minutes.
I step off the elliptical trainer.
Oh my god. OH MY GOD. I can’t think of anything more unpleasant, more sanity-testing and more ridiculous than 40 minutes on a cardio machine. Bring on the 15-45-90 leg lifts! Mile Repeats! Wilke, I love you! But, by all that is good in this world, please spare me the cardio machine. Why so difficult? Because you are not moving. You are going through the motions, but you are not in motion. You are gunning the engine, yet you are in park. All of the work, none of the fun. Mt. Bonnell is replaced by a series of bars on the monitor that you stare at. Ooh, here comes the big bar, watch out! Oh no, will I make it over the big bar?! I don’t know! Rather than a view of the lake or trees or the back of a faster runner, you get a tv without sound that, in my gym, is usually turned to Rachael Ray or a show about the world’s toughest prisons. What? Earl spent 36 hours in “The Box” before overpowering his guard and starting a small gang fight? Why, that’s fantastic. I’m so glad there’s video of it.
I want to be free, to run like the wind! And yet my wings are clipped. My calf strain is the issue—relatively minor and fixable, but the timing is terrible. Over the last week and a half I have hobbled onto the trail three times with unacceptable results: 1 mile, 4 miles, 8 miles, each followed by a morale-sapping walk back to my Subaru. I missed the last 20 miler for the New Yorkers and I’m putting all my eggs in a successful solo attempt three weeks out. The folks at SPI, Pieter, Troy, Dr. Spears, Lori the physician’s assistant, Rebecca at the front desk, and the building’s janitor all implored me not to run until I was completely over the strain. Not only am I glum about losing my conditioning, but it’s like I’ve been quarantined, out of the Gazelles loop, unable to run with my buddies. I want Coach to throw a medicine ball at me. I miss that.
I walk over to the stationary bike and try to get in another twenty minutes of extreme annoyance. I start peddling and the lights on the monitor go on. Why does it want my age and weight?? Just start, let’s get this over with. That’s it, ENOUGH, I’m about to lose it! I jump off and kick the stupid hell device. Oww, MY CALF!!! That was retarded.
I find myself completely bereft of satisfying workout options. Sullen, self-pitying, I get back on the bike, but I just sit there watching Rachael Ray.
Pause.
Another pause.
Hey.
Those “hot-dog-a-bobs” look pretty good.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Counting Your Chickens
It seems inevitable that I will never catch up with these entries. Please bear with me as I continue my incredibly thorough documentation of the recent past.
---September 27th long run to Mt. Bonnell---
It’d been a couple months since my last Mt. Bonnell attempt. On the first one, I careened in one split second from gliding along 35th and chatting about Krispy Kreme donuts with Dan Hopper and Karen, to securing handholds on Mt. Bonnell Rd and pulling myself to the summit. Recalling the sight of me on his way down, Scott Miritt said he wanted to say hi, but it looked like I had other things to worry about. Indeed.
Yet today I'm riding high on three recent victories: My first pace run at 7:11, an easy-ish 20 miler nine seconds off MGP, and most recently a round of 800’s averaging 3:03. I am on track, NAY AHEAD of schedule. I’ve more or less put this cranky nerve pain to rest, and me out of my misery. I’m going into this run strong, confident and ready to throw some padding on my New York goal time.
I pull up to RunTex two minutes late. I have to, it’s part of the ritual and I don’t want to mess with it: Coffee, banana, oj, read the morning papers online, look at my watch, panic, scour the house frantically for the sports gels I bought that one time, forget to lube up, arrive late. All timed to perfection. I bolt out of the car while tying my key to my shoe and weave through the maze of runners crowding both directions of Townlake. Where in Austin are there more people awake and ambulatory at 5:45 on a Saturday morning? Dude, it’s all happening at LBL! I pass some familiar faces and by Lake Austin Blvd I’m in a rough and loose crowd with Ivi and Pat. Ivi talks about running 20 or 30 or something ridiculous while I stick to my guns and my 13.3. It’s all looking good as I take in the views cruising down Scenic.
This time I know what to expect on Mt. Bonnell— ungodly incline, little break, another ungodly incline. Accelerade at the end. Possible vomiting. I chug away up the first pitch, slowing but strong, lifting my legs, planting and toeing off like I mean it. The group spreads out, but I’m holding my own. We level off and my body thanks me for the break. I’m actually thinking twenty yards ahead this time and I prepare as the second wall approacheth. A few seconds later, I lean in and start lifting.
Ouch. Whoa, that hurt. What was that? My left calf doesn’t approve. I power on, churning upward, banishing the pain from my consciousness. Out, out, damn pain.
I top out and slog to the water stop with much more composure than before, reaching for a paper cone cup with authority. That’s right, I’m throwing down today. But, lo, who do I see floating, or better yet, skipping up the road to meet us? It would be the tall, lanky ones, they of the extremely long stride, Dan and Karen.
I follow their steps to the true summit and take in Lake Austin in all its development-choked majesty. Aah. Memories of my undergrad days. Except in college we’d be here with book bags full of Shiner and a cassette tape player, jamming to Jane’s Addiction. Oh my god we were so cool. Perry Farrell was speaking to us!
Dan suggests the long way down and we all follow, rockhopping back to the road. He shoots ahead on the asphalt and I try reeling him in. I find I’ve got the lungs for it and I catch him. A RARE MOMENT. But something’s wonky. In fact something’s been wonky for the last twenty minutes.
My calf pain’s not going away.
Karen and a few others catch up while Dan calls out a 6:50 mile. I am keeping up, but this pain is significant. It’s sharp and gets more defined with every footstrike. Like someone's grabbing my calf with both hands and wringing it out. I am favoring that leg considerably now. I stay with the group for another mile.
It continues to get worse. To soften the blow I try running on my toes. A BAD idea. At mile 10 I decide that it’s not worth it to push this and I let them go, slowing to about a 9:00 min/mi. After a few minutes with no improvement, I stop altogether.
I walk the remaining three miles back to RunTex. It takes about 50 minutes. I’ve missed stretching, so I head straight to the Annex. I down some Accelerade and pull a Clif Bar from one of the boxes inside.
I don’t even want to think about what this means right now.
I get in my car, go grab some tacos at Torchy's on South 1st, and drive home.
---September 27th long run to Mt. Bonnell---
It’d been a couple months since my last Mt. Bonnell attempt. On the first one, I careened in one split second from gliding along 35th and chatting about Krispy Kreme donuts with Dan Hopper and Karen, to securing handholds on Mt. Bonnell Rd and pulling myself to the summit. Recalling the sight of me on his way down, Scott Miritt said he wanted to say hi, but it looked like I had other things to worry about. Indeed.
Yet today I'm riding high on three recent victories: My first pace run at 7:11, an easy-ish 20 miler nine seconds off MGP, and most recently a round of 800’s averaging 3:03. I am on track, NAY AHEAD of schedule. I’ve more or less put this cranky nerve pain to rest, and me out of my misery. I’m going into this run strong, confident and ready to throw some padding on my New York goal time.
I pull up to RunTex two minutes late. I have to, it’s part of the ritual and I don’t want to mess with it: Coffee, banana, oj, read the morning papers online, look at my watch, panic, scour the house frantically for the sports gels I bought that one time, forget to lube up, arrive late. All timed to perfection. I bolt out of the car while tying my key to my shoe and weave through the maze of runners crowding both directions of Townlake. Where in Austin are there more people awake and ambulatory at 5:45 on a Saturday morning? Dude, it’s all happening at LBL! I pass some familiar faces and by Lake Austin Blvd I’m in a rough and loose crowd with Ivi and Pat. Ivi talks about running 20 or 30 or something ridiculous while I stick to my guns and my 13.3. It’s all looking good as I take in the views cruising down Scenic.
This time I know what to expect on Mt. Bonnell— ungodly incline, little break, another ungodly incline. Accelerade at the end. Possible vomiting. I chug away up the first pitch, slowing but strong, lifting my legs, planting and toeing off like I mean it. The group spreads out, but I’m holding my own. We level off and my body thanks me for the break. I’m actually thinking twenty yards ahead this time and I prepare as the second wall approacheth. A few seconds later, I lean in and start lifting.
Ouch. Whoa, that hurt. What was that? My left calf doesn’t approve. I power on, churning upward, banishing the pain from my consciousness. Out, out, damn pain.
I top out and slog to the water stop with much more composure than before, reaching for a paper cone cup with authority. That’s right, I’m throwing down today. But, lo, who do I see floating, or better yet, skipping up the road to meet us? It would be the tall, lanky ones, they of the extremely long stride, Dan and Karen.
I follow their steps to the true summit and take in Lake Austin in all its development-choked majesty. Aah. Memories of my undergrad days. Except in college we’d be here with book bags full of Shiner and a cassette tape player, jamming to Jane’s Addiction. Oh my god we were so cool. Perry Farrell was speaking to us!
Dan suggests the long way down and we all follow, rockhopping back to the road. He shoots ahead on the asphalt and I try reeling him in. I find I’ve got the lungs for it and I catch him. A RARE MOMENT. But something’s wonky. In fact something’s been wonky for the last twenty minutes.
My calf pain’s not going away.
Karen and a few others catch up while Dan calls out a 6:50 mile. I am keeping up, but this pain is significant. It’s sharp and gets more defined with every footstrike. Like someone's grabbing my calf with both hands and wringing it out. I am favoring that leg considerably now. I stay with the group for another mile.
It continues to get worse. To soften the blow I try running on my toes. A BAD idea. At mile 10 I decide that it’s not worth it to push this and I let them go, slowing to about a 9:00 min/mi. After a few minutes with no improvement, I stop altogether.
I walk the remaining three miles back to RunTex. It takes about 50 minutes. I’ve missed stretching, so I head straight to the Annex. I down some Accelerade and pull a Clif Bar from one of the boxes inside.
I don’t even want to think about what this means right now.
I get in my car, go grab some tacos at Torchy's on South 1st, and drive home.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Failure to Communicate
Monday morning I walk into the office I share with Lindsey and Allison, a bit of a half-spring, half-limp in my step.
“Good morning, ladies.”
(Overlapping)
“Morning.”
“Morning, Robert.”
I place my travel mug on my desk, pull my Polar Bottle® out of my bag and settle it next to the mug, and in conspicuous fashion nonchalantly slide an energy bar over to the keyboard. I stand and survey the office, reflecting on the day ahead. Feels good.
Lindsey pulls her eyes up from the monitor and stares at me for a second.
“Wow. Pleats.”
“Yep. Thought I’d move my wardrobe into 2008, know what I mean?”
Lindsey and Allison share a look. Lindsey slaps the palm of her hand on her forehead. Allison laughs.
Yeah. Clearly they are impressed.
I settle in, turn on my computer, enter my password.
Waiting for it to boot up, I clasp my hands behind my neck and kick back.
Sigh.
“7:33. Yep. 20 at 7:33. Those are my numbers.”
Lindsey looks up, confused.
“Are you having password trouble?”
“Nope. That’s what I did this weekend. 20 miles at 7:33.”
“You drove 20 miles?”
“No, Lindsey, I ran 20 miles.”
Pause.
“Well, I guess what follows is the obvious question. Why?”
“Why? Why?! How do I even begin to answer that? “
Pause.
Lindsey does not take this as rhetorical and waits for an answer.
“Because, Lindsey, it’s . . . . it’s just awesome, that’s why. “ Flustered, “I . . . I can’t explain it. “
“I see. What’s the big deal about 7:33? Why run at 7:33 in the morning?”
“Oh my god. Lindsey that was my pace. My pace. And the reason why that rocked was that it was a mere nine seconds off my MGP.”
“Uh . . . . MGP?”
Oh my god. I feel so alone.
“Allison, can you help me out here?”
“Don’t ask me, I do Pilates.”
Totally frustrated, I retreat into the computer screen.
Lindsey tries a different tack. “No really. I think that’s a great accomplishment. Just chill, okay? Work with me here. It sounds incredibly difficult.”
I loosen up a bit. “Yeah, it was hard, but I was in control. I didn’t have my GPS, so I didn’t know where the miles were, but I think I had a negative split.”
“Oh, man, sorry.”
“No, negative split is good.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
"And at mile 18 I dropped the bomb."
"That's disgusting. Thanks for sharing."
"It's running terminology, Lindsey."
"Whatever you say."
Pause.
“Are you, uh, sore at all?”
“You know, I don’t feel that bad. Left leg is bothering me a little. Lingering nerve thing I have. And I got some major chafing. I was so worried about getting out the door on time I forgot to lube up.”
Lindsey, startled, with a bit of panic in her voice, “Uh . . . you . . . ‘lube up!?’”
“That’s it, this is pointless. It’s like we’re on different planets, Lindsey! I’m going to go talk to Todd. He’s in Rogue. He’s one of us!”
“Good morning, ladies.”
(Overlapping)
“Morning.”
“Morning, Robert.”
I place my travel mug on my desk, pull my Polar Bottle® out of my bag and settle it next to the mug, and in conspicuous fashion nonchalantly slide an energy bar over to the keyboard. I stand and survey the office, reflecting on the day ahead. Feels good.
Lindsey pulls her eyes up from the monitor and stares at me for a second.
“Wow. Pleats.”
“Yep. Thought I’d move my wardrobe into 2008, know what I mean?”
Lindsey and Allison share a look. Lindsey slaps the palm of her hand on her forehead. Allison laughs.
Yeah. Clearly they are impressed.
I settle in, turn on my computer, enter my password.
Waiting for it to boot up, I clasp my hands behind my neck and kick back.
Sigh.
“7:33. Yep. 20 at 7:33. Those are my numbers.”
Lindsey looks up, confused.
“Are you having password trouble?”
“Nope. That’s what I did this weekend. 20 miles at 7:33.”
“You drove 20 miles?”
“No, Lindsey, I ran 20 miles.”
Pause.
“Well, I guess what follows is the obvious question. Why?”
“Why? Why?! How do I even begin to answer that? “
Pause.
Lindsey does not take this as rhetorical and waits for an answer.
“Because, Lindsey, it’s . . . . it’s just awesome, that’s why. “ Flustered, “I . . . I can’t explain it. “
“I see. What’s the big deal about 7:33? Why run at 7:33 in the morning?”
“Oh my god. Lindsey that was my pace. My pace. And the reason why that rocked was that it was a mere nine seconds off my MGP.”
“Uh . . . . MGP?”
Oh my god. I feel so alone.
“Allison, can you help me out here?”
“Don’t ask me, I do Pilates.”
Totally frustrated, I retreat into the computer screen.
Lindsey tries a different tack. “No really. I think that’s a great accomplishment. Just chill, okay? Work with me here. It sounds incredibly difficult.”
I loosen up a bit. “Yeah, it was hard, but I was in control. I didn’t have my GPS, so I didn’t know where the miles were, but I think I had a negative split.”
“Oh, man, sorry.”
“No, negative split is good.”
“Oh.”
Pause.
"And at mile 18 I dropped the bomb."
"That's disgusting. Thanks for sharing."
"It's running terminology, Lindsey."
"Whatever you say."
Pause.
“Are you, uh, sore at all?”
“You know, I don’t feel that bad. Left leg is bothering me a little. Lingering nerve thing I have. And I got some major chafing. I was so worried about getting out the door on time I forgot to lube up.”
Lindsey, startled, with a bit of panic in her voice, “Uh . . . you . . . ‘lube up!?’”
“That’s it, this is pointless. It’s like we’re on different planets, Lindsey! I’m going to go talk to Todd. He’s in Rogue. He’s one of us!”
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
One Word. Alka-Plex.
A preview of the Sept 20th 20-mile long run route on Google Maps left me worried and confused. This was simply way too complicated for someone with my special challenges to remember. I awoke in a sweat that night, dreaming I would end up in Pflugerville. One of my most frightening nightmares in recent memory.
Behold how dorky I can be:
Yes, turn-by-turn directions in 8-point font that I folded up and stuffed into my running shorts pocket with my sports gels. It may be a 3M Half/Motorola/AT & T fusion route, but, when you run in those, unless you are Gilbert or Bernard, there are actually people in front of you and you just follow them.
The morning begins auspiciously with the commute to the starting line, when Pat generously lets my late self join the 17 other Gazelles in his minivan. It is official: We are a clown car. We have legitimate difficulty climbing the 183 flyover. I move a leg away from my face to see the speedometer sputter downward and bottom out at about 30. Ivi looks visibly concerned.
The opening steps under the streetlights on Jollyville Rd. scoot by pleasantly enough. As usual, I fret over my pace—Kevin Rowe’s crew is too fast, but the next group is exactly 3.5 seconds too slow. Afraid to commit, I find myself running alone. I stumble through the darkness over bottlecaps on the curb along Burnet. An apt metaphor. For something. Finally, Julie takes pity on me and asks me to join her. We run together for a few miles and, you know what? We’re making it work! We talk about settling down and having kids. I’m serious. I marvel at how she fits such disciplined training into her crazy two-kid schedule. I have challenges watering my plants.
Julie’s friend (Matt? Sorry if I got it wrong!), catches up to us after a stop at Jack-in-the-Box for taquitos, and we three are joined by a fellow named Glen. Glen is mysterious. Not a Gazelle, he says he’s “from San Antonio.” I think he might be a spy from Rogue. Sure, have us believe you’re from San Antonio, Glen. And that’s actually a water bottle you’re carrying and not a camera. I guard myself.
The next six miles fly by as we run and chat with ease. It’s like we’re going downhill or something. Julie and “Matt” split at mile 13 and head south, while I soldier north to complete the full 20. Glen joins me. As we disband, Julie calls out, “Don’t let him talk your ear off . . . “
Sage words.
On our little journey Glen and I discuss running, triathlons, Boston, the Gazelles, fish oil, deep tissue massage, Austin, San Antonio, the Hill Country in general, Austin Tex-Mex vs. San Antonio Tex-Mex, the future of light rail, Sarah Palin, offshore drilling, Will Ferrell movies, adding a deck to your home, Van Halen with David Lee Roth vs. Van Halen with Sammy Hagar, the ascendancy of China in the global market, Bush v. Gore, Dancing with the Stars, Al-Qaeda and plate tectonics.
Then, at mile 14, I ask, “So what do you do?”
“Heart valve salesman.”
“Aah.”
This is getting surreal.
The discussion quickly moves to a new product he’s got back in his car called “Acid Zapper.” Apparently, it’s a pill that flushes lactic acid from your body so you feel refreshed and ready to damage it again on another 20-mile jaunt. For several minutes he extols what’s in it.
“And finally, there’s the secret ingredient. Wanna guess what it is?”
“Uh, cocaine?”
“Nope."
"What, then?"
"One word. Alka-Plex.”
A hush follows this disclosure. It’s like in The Graduate when Mr. McGuire tells Benjamin where the future is headed.
“One word. Plastics.”
I consider adding the pills to my regimen of about 20 other things I do everyday to keep myself ambulatory. Whoa, what’s this? Do I detect a surge? At 18, I’m feeling unnaturally strong, like a superhero. Glen, who, as much as I kid is actually in monster shape, graciously suggests I take off and offers a swig of his Acid Zapperade. I accept, thank him for his excellent pace and enlightened discussion, and launch myself up San Jacinto. His voice fades into the distance, "This is your year, Robert. This is your year!"
At AT & T last February I crumbled on San Jacinto, but today I put it behind me with ease. Only Capital Metro buses interrupt my smooth ride down Congress. I, predictably, get completely confused as to how to get through the construction and onto the 1st Street bridge. Panicking, I run back to cross the river at Congress, turn west on Riverside, and finally shut it down over my improvised finish line at Hooters.
It’s got to be over 20, but I call it that and work through the numbers in my head.
Time: 2:31:03
Pace: 7:33.
Holy BQ, Batman, I am a superhero. My MGP is 7:24. I just ran 20 miles—strong but still in control while holding a political roundtable with Glen—at 7:33. Unrealistically easy course, yes. But I could have run the old Motorola today well under BQ time.
This gives me a lightning bolt of confidence as I head into the final two weeks before the taper. I wander over to RunTex and wait for Glen.
I need to get my hands on some Alka-Plex.
Stat.
***Update: It has been brought to my attention (see comments below) that Julie is actually the proud mother of three children. Will the wonders never cease, Julie! Nice job. And “Matt” is actually "Colin." Apologies. When you see me from now on, Colin, feel free to call me “Dave.”
Behold how dorky I can be:
Yes, turn-by-turn directions in 8-point font that I folded up and stuffed into my running shorts pocket with my sports gels. It may be a 3M Half/Motorola/AT & T fusion route, but, when you run in those, unless you are Gilbert or Bernard, there are actually people in front of you and you just follow them.
The morning begins auspiciously with the commute to the starting line, when Pat generously lets my late self join the 17 other Gazelles in his minivan. It is official: We are a clown car. We have legitimate difficulty climbing the 183 flyover. I move a leg away from my face to see the speedometer sputter downward and bottom out at about 30. Ivi looks visibly concerned.
The opening steps under the streetlights on Jollyville Rd. scoot by pleasantly enough. As usual, I fret over my pace—Kevin Rowe’s crew is too fast, but the next group is exactly 3.5 seconds too slow. Afraid to commit, I find myself running alone. I stumble through the darkness over bottlecaps on the curb along Burnet. An apt metaphor. For something. Finally, Julie takes pity on me and asks me to join her. We run together for a few miles and, you know what? We’re making it work! We talk about settling down and having kids. I’m serious. I marvel at how she fits such disciplined training into her crazy two-kid schedule. I have challenges watering my plants.
Julie’s friend (Matt? Sorry if I got it wrong!), catches up to us after a stop at Jack-in-the-Box for taquitos, and we three are joined by a fellow named Glen. Glen is mysterious. Not a Gazelle, he says he’s “from San Antonio.” I think he might be a spy from Rogue. Sure, have us believe you’re from San Antonio, Glen. And that’s actually a water bottle you’re carrying and not a camera. I guard myself.
The next six miles fly by as we run and chat with ease. It’s like we’re going downhill or something. Julie and “Matt” split at mile 13 and head south, while I soldier north to complete the full 20. Glen joins me. As we disband, Julie calls out, “Don’t let him talk your ear off . . . “
Sage words.
On our little journey Glen and I discuss running, triathlons, Boston, the Gazelles, fish oil, deep tissue massage, Austin, San Antonio, the Hill Country in general, Austin Tex-Mex vs. San Antonio Tex-Mex, the future of light rail, Sarah Palin, offshore drilling, Will Ferrell movies, adding a deck to your home, Van Halen with David Lee Roth vs. Van Halen with Sammy Hagar, the ascendancy of China in the global market, Bush v. Gore, Dancing with the Stars, Al-Qaeda and plate tectonics.
Then, at mile 14, I ask, “So what do you do?”
“Heart valve salesman.”
“Aah.”
This is getting surreal.
The discussion quickly moves to a new product he’s got back in his car called “Acid Zapper.” Apparently, it’s a pill that flushes lactic acid from your body so you feel refreshed and ready to damage it again on another 20-mile jaunt. For several minutes he extols what’s in it.
“And finally, there’s the secret ingredient. Wanna guess what it is?”
“Uh, cocaine?”
“Nope."
"What, then?"
"One word. Alka-Plex.”
A hush follows this disclosure. It’s like in The Graduate when Mr. McGuire tells Benjamin where the future is headed.
“One word. Plastics.”
I consider adding the pills to my regimen of about 20 other things I do everyday to keep myself ambulatory. Whoa, what’s this? Do I detect a surge? At 18, I’m feeling unnaturally strong, like a superhero. Glen, who, as much as I kid is actually in monster shape, graciously suggests I take off and offers a swig of his Acid Zapperade. I accept, thank him for his excellent pace and enlightened discussion, and launch myself up San Jacinto. His voice fades into the distance, "This is your year, Robert. This is your year!"
At AT & T last February I crumbled on San Jacinto, but today I put it behind me with ease. Only Capital Metro buses interrupt my smooth ride down Congress. I, predictably, get completely confused as to how to get through the construction and onto the 1st Street bridge. Panicking, I run back to cross the river at Congress, turn west on Riverside, and finally shut it down over my improvised finish line at Hooters.
It’s got to be over 20, but I call it that and work through the numbers in my head.
Time: 2:31:03
Pace: 7:33.
Holy BQ, Batman, I am a superhero. My MGP is 7:24. I just ran 20 miles—strong but still in control while holding a political roundtable with Glen—at 7:33. Unrealistically easy course, yes. But I could have run the old Motorola today well under BQ time.
This gives me a lightning bolt of confidence as I head into the final two weeks before the taper. I wander over to RunTex and wait for Glen.
I need to get my hands on some Alka-Plex.
Stat.
***Update: It has been brought to my attention (see comments below) that Julie is actually the proud mother of three children. Will the wonders never cease, Julie! Nice job. And “Matt” is actually "Colin." Apologies. When you see me from now on, Colin, feel free to call me “Dave.”
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Trip to the Sunburnt Country
Here’s a forgotten workout, from way back in August. What a difference five weeks and 10 degrees makes.
---August 14th---
Work and personal beeswax keep me from the Wednesday morning class, so I salvage the week by hauling through rush hour to Thursday afternoon. I step under the RunTex Annex awning at 5:30 and into a strange and exotic world! It’s like I’ve entered the Australian Outback. Dudes and ladies in this class seem tougher, salty, leathery. I’m waiting for someone to pull out a can of Foster’s and a machete and brag, “Now, that’s a knife.” They aren’t stretching, they’re lounging, conserving energy, waiting until the very last moment when they have to dive into the oven that surrounds Town Lake.
It’s 101 and we will be doing eight 800’s at Austin High. Run with Joy!
I impress myself by making it all the way to the track. The trail exit opens to an expansive, shadeless plain. Dingoes wander the football field. I hear a faint didgeridoo. A breeze cools it down to about 99. Refreshing. Half-assing the warm-up drills while sucking in air from a hair dryer, I have to laugh at how insane this is. The only thing that could make this scene any more absurd would be if Gilbert forgot the Accelerade.
“Hey Coach, which one is the Accel . . . “ trailing off as I head for the coolers. “Hmmm,“ I start rocking them back and forth. “Maybe . . . it’s not mixed very well . . . or . . . (then, in slow motion) OOOOOH, NOOOOOOOO!”
I feverishly down as much water as I can while Gilbert gives the obligatory heat caution and divides us up. I’m nowhere near the front of the pack with these vets and I start in the 3rd or 4th group, pairing with Andre who seems to be a good sport about the fact that I am pacially challenged.
The first 800 yields a slowish 3:13 and a slightly disapproving stare from Coach. Hey, it’s a little toasty! Round two we speed it up to 3:10. Whew, six and a half minutes of running and I’m ready to call it a day. But, no! For the 3rd repeat it’s my turn to pace and I fumble. Rounding the last turn and looking at a 3:10, this fellow—this Mario character—pulls a Zola Budd and runs right next to me, uncomfortably close, matching my stride and staring at me. What the hell is he doing? Does he want to tell me something? Is there a booger in my nose, what? He speeds up and I, totally flustered and in some kind of must-not–lose-to-the-strange-guy reflex, chase him in to a 3:06.
I usually find a groove with repeats and the middle few end up the easiest. No groove today. Nada. Ixnay on the oovegray. Before each one I pour water over my head, pull my cap lower, and pray. Still, through the misery, Andre and I haul in 3:08’s and 3:09’s over the next four.
Gilbert floats the suggestion of dropping the bomb and a sub-3:00 final repeat but says I’m under no obligation, which of course makes me feel guilty for even considering not dropping the bomb, and so I decide to drop the bomb. Brilliant mind game, Coach! At 200 meters, Andre says to me, “No way I’m doing this under three,” and falls behind. But, little do I know, Andre is actually pulling the time-honored racing strategy known as “the fake out.” With half a lap left, Andre surges forward almost effortlessly and cruises in about five seconds ahead. Getting all Usain Bolt on me, he looks backward, pounds his chest and shouts “Jamaica RAAAARRR!” I stagger in to his taunts at 2:58.
And yet I thought it was all over. Oh how naive I can be.
Gilbert stops me on my way out the gate and hands me his video camera. “Robert, I videotaped you running. I want you to watch yourself so you can see your form.”
Are you kidding me?? That’s just what I want to see, video of me looking like I’m having a heart attack. I ruefully stare at the damage in the viewfinder.
“Oh my god!”
“See what I mean?” adds Gilbert.
“My butt is huge!”
“No, your form, look at your form!”
And there it is, my weird form, caught on video. I’m leaning to the side, my head bobbling sort of back and to the left and my arm slightly . . . sashaying, or whatever that is.
“Be right back. ” Coach G runs to his Tacoma and opens the cab door. Pulling out random items and rearranging them—including an African drum—he finally emerges with a three-foot-wide medicine ball. What else you got in there, Coach, a mariachi band?
I follow him past the track and into the endzone.
“We’re going to work your back and your glutes. Lie down.”
“Urr, all right.”
“Stick your legs up.”
Before I can even raise them, Gilbert throws the ball at me.
“What the . . . give me a sec!” I shout, deflecting with one leg.
He throws it again.
“Now kick it back.”
I oblige, but to his disapproval.
“Higher, kick it higher.”
“All right, you said it.”
On the next throw, I launch the ball well over Gilbert’s head. Surprised and pleased, he runs back to retrieve it calling over his shoulder, “Good!”
We continue this pattern for more than 10 minutes—Gilbert throwing, me kicking, Gilbert scrambling backward to pick it up and breaking into a sort of half-laugh in the process. This is so ridiculous. It’s like we’re five or something.
Eventually, the sun decides to spare us and set. The didgeridoo swells, the dingoes begin their howl, and I can’t think of a more hilarious end to a more uncomfortable day.
---August 14th---
Work and personal beeswax keep me from the Wednesday morning class, so I salvage the week by hauling through rush hour to Thursday afternoon. I step under the RunTex Annex awning at 5:30 and into a strange and exotic world! It’s like I’ve entered the Australian Outback. Dudes and ladies in this class seem tougher, salty, leathery. I’m waiting for someone to pull out a can of Foster’s and a machete and brag, “Now, that’s a knife.” They aren’t stretching, they’re lounging, conserving energy, waiting until the very last moment when they have to dive into the oven that surrounds Town Lake.
It’s 101 and we will be doing eight 800’s at Austin High. Run with Joy!
I impress myself by making it all the way to the track. The trail exit opens to an expansive, shadeless plain. Dingoes wander the football field. I hear a faint didgeridoo. A breeze cools it down to about 99. Refreshing. Half-assing the warm-up drills while sucking in air from a hair dryer, I have to laugh at how insane this is. The only thing that could make this scene any more absurd would be if Gilbert forgot the Accelerade.
“Hey Coach, which one is the Accel . . . “ trailing off as I head for the coolers. “Hmmm,“ I start rocking them back and forth. “Maybe . . . it’s not mixed very well . . . or . . . (then, in slow motion) OOOOOH, NOOOOOOOO!”
I feverishly down as much water as I can while Gilbert gives the obligatory heat caution and divides us up. I’m nowhere near the front of the pack with these vets and I start in the 3rd or 4th group, pairing with Andre who seems to be a good sport about the fact that I am pacially challenged.
The first 800 yields a slowish 3:13 and a slightly disapproving stare from Coach. Hey, it’s a little toasty! Round two we speed it up to 3:10. Whew, six and a half minutes of running and I’m ready to call it a day. But, no! For the 3rd repeat it’s my turn to pace and I fumble. Rounding the last turn and looking at a 3:10, this fellow—this Mario character—pulls a Zola Budd and runs right next to me, uncomfortably close, matching my stride and staring at me. What the hell is he doing? Does he want to tell me something? Is there a booger in my nose, what? He speeds up and I, totally flustered and in some kind of must-not–lose-to-the-strange-guy reflex, chase him in to a 3:06.
I usually find a groove with repeats and the middle few end up the easiest. No groove today. Nada. Ixnay on the oovegray. Before each one I pour water over my head, pull my cap lower, and pray. Still, through the misery, Andre and I haul in 3:08’s and 3:09’s over the next four.
Gilbert floats the suggestion of dropping the bomb and a sub-3:00 final repeat but says I’m under no obligation, which of course makes me feel guilty for even considering not dropping the bomb, and so I decide to drop the bomb. Brilliant mind game, Coach! At 200 meters, Andre says to me, “No way I’m doing this under three,” and falls behind. But, little do I know, Andre is actually pulling the time-honored racing strategy known as “the fake out.” With half a lap left, Andre surges forward almost effortlessly and cruises in about five seconds ahead. Getting all Usain Bolt on me, he looks backward, pounds his chest and shouts “Jamaica RAAAARRR!” I stagger in to his taunts at 2:58.
And yet I thought it was all over. Oh how naive I can be.
Gilbert stops me on my way out the gate and hands me his video camera. “Robert, I videotaped you running. I want you to watch yourself so you can see your form.”
Are you kidding me?? That’s just what I want to see, video of me looking like I’m having a heart attack. I ruefully stare at the damage in the viewfinder.
“Oh my god!”
“See what I mean?” adds Gilbert.
“My butt is huge!”
“No, your form, look at your form!”
And there it is, my weird form, caught on video. I’m leaning to the side, my head bobbling sort of back and to the left and my arm slightly . . . sashaying, or whatever that is.
“Be right back. ” Coach G runs to his Tacoma and opens the cab door. Pulling out random items and rearranging them—including an African drum—he finally emerges with a three-foot-wide medicine ball. What else you got in there, Coach, a mariachi band?
I follow him past the track and into the endzone.
“We’re going to work your back and your glutes. Lie down.”
“Urr, all right.”
“Stick your legs up.”
Before I can even raise them, Gilbert throws the ball at me.
“What the . . . give me a sec!” I shout, deflecting with one leg.
He throws it again.
“Now kick it back.”
I oblige, but to his disapproval.
“Higher, kick it higher.”
“All right, you said it.”
On the next throw, I launch the ball well over Gilbert’s head. Surprised and pleased, he runs back to retrieve it calling over his shoulder, “Good!”
We continue this pattern for more than 10 minutes—Gilbert throwing, me kicking, Gilbert scrambling backward to pick it up and breaking into a sort of half-laugh in the process. This is so ridiculous. It’s like we’re five or something.
Eventually, the sun decides to spare us and set. The didgeridoo swells, the dingoes begin their howl, and I can’t think of a more hilarious end to a more uncomfortable day.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Office
I amble into the breakroom of my office job and spot Bill digging through the non-dairy creamer options in the cupboard above the sink. We meet at the Senseo® machine.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Hey, Robert, how’s it going?”
“Not bad.”
Pause.
“Bill, can you grab me a Hazelnut Waltz?”
“Whoa, that’s a good one. Here you go.”
“Thanks. What are you drinking?”
“Boca Sunrise.”
“Nice.”
Pause
“Hey, Bill, could I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, I really need you to be honest.”
“No problem, Rob.”
I look around, lean in and speak in a hushed tone, almost a whisper.
“Does my butt look big to you?”
Pause
Bill fidgets, starts rearranging the sweetener options. “Aw, no, not at all! No. You look . . . fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, I wouldn’t lie.”
“See, I’m doing these exercises and I’m worried about . . . the overall size.”
“No, man, you’re cool. I haven’t noticed a thing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Pause
Bill opens two packets of Splenda. Picks up a coffee stirrer. Takes a quick glance my way.
Pause
“I thought those black chinos the other day really worked for you. Maybe if you wore those more often.”
“Okay, that’s a good idea.”
Pause
“Have you tried pleats?”
“What would that do?”
“I don’t know. Pleats are kind of poofy. That might . . . . give you more room.”
Long pause
We stare at each other.
“Hey, Bill.”
“Hey, Robert, how’s it going?”
“Not bad.”
Pause.
“Bill, can you grab me a Hazelnut Waltz?”
“Whoa, that’s a good one. Here you go.”
“Thanks. What are you drinking?”
“Boca Sunrise.”
“Nice.”
Pause
“Hey, Bill, could I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, I really need you to be honest.”
“No problem, Rob.”
I look around, lean in and speak in a hushed tone, almost a whisper.
“Does my butt look big to you?”
Pause
Bill fidgets, starts rearranging the sweetener options. “Aw, no, not at all! No. You look . . . fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, I wouldn’t lie.”
“See, I’m doing these exercises and I’m worried about . . . the overall size.”
“No, man, you’re cool. I haven’t noticed a thing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
Pause
Bill opens two packets of Splenda. Picks up a coffee stirrer. Takes a quick glance my way.
Pause
“I thought those black chinos the other day really worked for you. Maybe if you wore those more often.”
“Okay, that’s a good idea.”
Pause
“Have you tried pleats?”
“What would that do?”
“I don’t know. Pleats are kind of poofy. That might . . . . give you more room.”
Long pause
We stare at each other.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Something in the Air
Lordy! Two weeks in Wyoming and I have made it home safely, with Wind River granite in my shoes, a ton of blisters and a very strange tan. I AM A MOUNTAIN MAN. Not once did I hook myself in the back of the head with a fly or have to cut myself out from under a boulder with my Swiss Army Knife. I did, however, contract some kind of terrible Rocky Mountain-strength flu on my backpacking trip, which sent me to the trailhead two days early. Thinking I might be completely over it, but maybe not, I pulled up to RunTex on Monday for my first Gazelle-day back with trepidation.
I jump in with the usual suspects for the 10-mile pace run—first three easy and seven at MGP. We stumble into the darkness, following our best guess at the trail. We chat, catch up, talk about Mediterranean food. Then, gradually, it starts to hit people, their voices rising from the group.
“I feel something strange. It’s cold.”
“I feel it too. It’s dry.”
“That’s the wind. It’s coming from the North,” I explain.
“Hey guys, I’m sweating, but . . . it’s evaporating?!”
“I have . . . . more energy!”
“What is happening?!”
I try to quell the furor. “Guys, I believe this is called a cold front.”
“A . . . cold front? What is that?”
“It’s a weather pattern defined by cooler, drier air. We had one in Austin a few years ago.“
“What do we do?!”
“I'm . . . scared.”
“Robert, hold me.”
“Don’t panic, dudes, we’re fine," I assure in low, hushed tones. "People outside of Texas actually run in these conditions. We should see an improvement in our times. “
“Cool . . . and dry. . . so weird!”
We approach the end of our slow three and rev ourselves up for the pace run proper. I’m totally confused about how to do this. Since my GPS broke (I’m talking to you, Garmin), I’ve had a terrible time running precisely at different paces. I’ve tried to use the 1/4 mile markers on the trail, but in the dark I tend to get them confused with, I don’t know, rocks. On top of that, we’ve all formulated incredibly specific MGP’s. “Who’s running a 7:24?” I ask to silence. Dan and Yetik decide on 7:38. So my plan—to get about 50 yards further ahead of them for every mile they run. Running ahead of them, in the dark. Of course that will work.
We get to the foot of Longhorn Dam and start kicking. A hill in the first five yards, nice. It is obvious that I don’t have enough of my faculties at 6am to navigate the Holly St. Power Plant and at one point begin running down Canterbury. Yetik, saving me repeatedly, calls ahead, “Make a left. Now right. What are you doing??”
Along Fiesta Gardens I surge and begin my 50 yards per mile plan. Except I don’t know where one mile is. And I can’t see Dan and Yetik behind me in the dark. Brilliant.
Not able to find the water Gilbert left for us under I-35 (or did he? maybe this was a test!), I panic and keep going. Abandoning my ridiculous attempt to hone in on 7:24, I adopt the time-honored strategy of “running really fast.” Things are working out surprisingly well, I’m strong and in control with no sign of the others. At the MoPac Bridge I head for the water station but then GO CRAZY and think, it’s just two more miles, screw the water, I’m bringing this baby home! I charge across the bridge with mad defiance and a Tony Robbins glow of self-empowerment. Soon, I become delusional and start thinking I’m running the fastest I have ever run in my life. This is incredible, I am REDEFINING THE PACE RUN. Then some Gazelle vets on their “easy run” pass me. Thanks for raining on my parade you . . . . people who are faster than me.
Still, I stay strong and controlled, on the edge of a tempo run but not, and cross the 0 mile marker, the only one I can ever find ever, with gallons, GALLONS in the tank. The simple math in my head adds up a 7:11 pace. Dude. Threw DOWN. But before I could even reset my watch, Dan and Yetik go scorching by, coating all in their midst with a layer of dust and smoke.
“Wow, dudes, what was that for you?” I ask Dan.
“7:16 mile” Dan replies, doing sit-ups on the rock wall.
“Man, we blew through this pace run. We should go tell Gilbert,” I say as I start the walk to RunTex.
Yetik calls after me, “No don’t worry about it. He knows.”
We all look at each other.
Then we look around the trail, Auditorium Shores, the parking lot.
“Yeah, he knows.”
We all nod.
“He KNOWS.”
I jump in with the usual suspects for the 10-mile pace run—first three easy and seven at MGP. We stumble into the darkness, following our best guess at the trail. We chat, catch up, talk about Mediterranean food. Then, gradually, it starts to hit people, their voices rising from the group.
“I feel something strange. It’s cold.”
“I feel it too. It’s dry.”
“That’s the wind. It’s coming from the North,” I explain.
“Hey guys, I’m sweating, but . . . it’s evaporating?!”
“I have . . . . more energy!”
“What is happening?!”
I try to quell the furor. “Guys, I believe this is called a cold front.”
“A . . . cold front? What is that?”
“It’s a weather pattern defined by cooler, drier air. We had one in Austin a few years ago.“
“What do we do?!”
“I'm . . . scared.”
“Robert, hold me.”
“Don’t panic, dudes, we’re fine," I assure in low, hushed tones. "People outside of Texas actually run in these conditions. We should see an improvement in our times. “
“Cool . . . and dry. . . so weird!”
We approach the end of our slow three and rev ourselves up for the pace run proper. I’m totally confused about how to do this. Since my GPS broke (I’m talking to you, Garmin), I’ve had a terrible time running precisely at different paces. I’ve tried to use the 1/4 mile markers on the trail, but in the dark I tend to get them confused with, I don’t know, rocks. On top of that, we’ve all formulated incredibly specific MGP’s. “Who’s running a 7:24?” I ask to silence. Dan and Yetik decide on 7:38. So my plan—to get about 50 yards further ahead of them for every mile they run. Running ahead of them, in the dark. Of course that will work.
We get to the foot of Longhorn Dam and start kicking. A hill in the first five yards, nice. It is obvious that I don’t have enough of my faculties at 6am to navigate the Holly St. Power Plant and at one point begin running down Canterbury. Yetik, saving me repeatedly, calls ahead, “Make a left. Now right. What are you doing??”
Along Fiesta Gardens I surge and begin my 50 yards per mile plan. Except I don’t know where one mile is. And I can’t see Dan and Yetik behind me in the dark. Brilliant.
Not able to find the water Gilbert left for us under I-35 (or did he? maybe this was a test!), I panic and keep going. Abandoning my ridiculous attempt to hone in on 7:24, I adopt the time-honored strategy of “running really fast.” Things are working out surprisingly well, I’m strong and in control with no sign of the others. At the MoPac Bridge I head for the water station but then GO CRAZY and think, it’s just two more miles, screw the water, I’m bringing this baby home! I charge across the bridge with mad defiance and a Tony Robbins glow of self-empowerment. Soon, I become delusional and start thinking I’m running the fastest I have ever run in my life. This is incredible, I am REDEFINING THE PACE RUN. Then some Gazelle vets on their “easy run” pass me. Thanks for raining on my parade you . . . . people who are faster than me.
Still, I stay strong and controlled, on the edge of a tempo run but not, and cross the 0 mile marker, the only one I can ever find ever, with gallons, GALLONS in the tank. The simple math in my head adds up a 7:11 pace. Dude. Threw DOWN. But before I could even reset my watch, Dan and Yetik go scorching by, coating all in their midst with a layer of dust and smoke.
“Wow, dudes, what was that for you?” I ask Dan.
“7:16 mile” Dan replies, doing sit-ups on the rock wall.
“Man, we blew through this pace run. We should go tell Gilbert,” I say as I start the walk to RunTex.
Yetik calls after me, “No don’t worry about it. He knows.”
We all look at each other.
Then we look around the trail, Auditorium Shores, the parking lot.
“Yeah, he knows.”
We all nod.
“He KNOWS.”
Friday, August 29, 2008
Blog, Interrupted
It appears as though my grand scheme to get caught up with my posts this week has ended in a sad, tragic, DNF. I’ve been overwhelmed with both moving and planning a backpacking trip, and, unfortunately, the life-and-death decision of spork vs. spoon and fork has claimed all my obsessive energies. I’ll be in Wyoming for the next twelve days, much of it holed up in a sub 3-pound “tent” (he chuckles) braving the elements and hiding from bears in the Wind Rivers. I may find some time in civilization to post, but if not, I’ll pick it back up Sept. 11th. Until then dudes, rock on at the races this weekend, and fire those glutes.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Wilke: My First Time
Wilke. WILKE. Everyone talks about Wilke. I’d heard so many stories about this freakin' hill I didn’t know what to believe:
“Dude, Bernard ran it once 25 times at a 4:15 pace. I didn’t see it per se, but someone has the video. It’s on YouTube.“
“My ex-girlfriend used to run with the Gazelles and she told me that once Desiree Ficker came to the morning class with a ruptured Achilles, and she hopped up it 43 times.”
“My friend’s cousin saw Roger, the guy from the Tuesday/Thursday class, run it 57 times on the hottest day of the year with a Camelback full of Michelob Ultra.“
I was skeptical, but I braced myself for the absolute worst. We left the Robert E. Lee parking lot for our quiet warm-up jog to base camp. After the running sideways-backwards-and-like-a-clown drills, Gilbert gathered us under a streetlight to give the rundown.
“Okay, today the focus here is not on speed, but form. I really want to see you lift your knees and get that power from your glutes. Also, I want everyone to do what they can handle, but Chicago folks should do at least seven. Now . . . Robert over here . . . “
No. Please stop.
“Everyone see Robert? Over there. Behind Brian. No, to the left of Steve. Yeah, that’s him. Okay, Robert . . . Robert is the crazy blogger (oh good god) . . . and he is going to run 10. Who wants to join Robert?”
Crickets. Lot of staring.
Thanks, Gilbert, for that. That made me feel uncomfortable in so many ways. How, how did I end up in this situation? Training partner Dan, it appeared, was on some kind of sabbatical. He went off into the woods to run with wolves or something. Some of the faster Chicagoans are also no-shows. So it’s me, myself and I. I take one nervous swig of Accelerade, re-tie my shoes and ready myself for the beatdown.
The group commences. I timidly lean my head forward and take to the hill. The first 150 meters, not so bad, I’m easing into it. Then the steepest third hits and my body revolts with an “Oh no you didn’t!” Three quarters of the way up, I want to go back to bed. I slow almost to a walk as I reach the apex, preparing my descent. I begin my turn— but what is this? A false summit! Thirty yards of modest, but at this point punishing, incline lie ahead. “What a treat! More!” I reflect.
I run to the stop sign and warily tip-toe back down, trying to keep my nerves from frying my touchy hamstring. I follow the procession to the streetlight and step back on the escalator for round two.
Like jumping into Barton Springs, the second time proves a little easier than the shock of the first one. Smoothly ascending at a blistering 12-min/mile pace, I feel heat from Steve “The Rocket” Duffy as he closes in. This is so thrilling. It’s like watching one of those “World’s Strongest Man” competitions where two guys are running while pulling a refrigerator. Only we’re skinny and neither of us is pulling a refrigerator.
When we top out I turn to Steve, “You doing 10?”
“Seven.“
“No, dude, let’s do it together, Band of Brothers!”
He does not seem enthused. I can’t quite hear him, but I think he says something like, “Band of Brothers? My ass. How about my IT band?” and vaults downward ahead of me.
The third repeat raises the bar and lowers the comfort level. I attempt to run with my butt. I can’t really get into specifics about this, but I’ll just say I try some different things. It doesn’t really work out.
4th Repeat: The same but I’m slower and more erratic. I hit a mailbox.
5th: Rather than running directly forward, I try "tacking." Proves inefficient without wind. Or a sail. This just ends up being stupid.
6th: As I’m gaining some confidence with my slow but determined pace, Gilbert introduces five pages of notes: “Bring your knees way up, swing your arms, lean into the hill, chest out, quit doing that dolphin fin-waving thing, don’t tilt your head to the side and fire your glutes, man!” So, just some minor refinements.
7th: It is becoming dark now. Not outside, but inside my brain.
8th and 9th: I devolve. My thoughts turn all primitive. Must move legs. Must climb mountain. Must please Coach.
10th: By now everyone seems to have graduated to another confusing set of drills, but I break through the crowd with the force only a 15 min/mile can generate and endure the final climb, false summit and all, to the end of the road. The stop sign says Stop, and I f'n do.
My first time on Wilke. Done, done, and done. I check my pulse. I still have one.
As we’re disbanding, Gilbert takes me aside and gives me the real stats: Desiree Ficker and Patrick Evoe did actually run it 38 times, and Gilbert knocked off 33 for his 33rd birthday. My birthday choice would be margaritas, but you know, to each his own. Gilbert says this is where champions are made, and he's convinced me. I make a mental note to insert a Wilke day into my schedule every so often and I thank Gilbert for his excellent coaching advice.
Then I throw up on his shoe.
“Dude, Bernard ran it once 25 times at a 4:15 pace. I didn’t see it per se, but someone has the video. It’s on YouTube.“
“My ex-girlfriend used to run with the Gazelles and she told me that once Desiree Ficker came to the morning class with a ruptured Achilles, and she hopped up it 43 times.”
“My friend’s cousin saw Roger, the guy from the Tuesday/Thursday class, run it 57 times on the hottest day of the year with a Camelback full of Michelob Ultra.“
I was skeptical, but I braced myself for the absolute worst. We left the Robert E. Lee parking lot for our quiet warm-up jog to base camp. After the running sideways-backwards-and-like-a-clown drills, Gilbert gathered us under a streetlight to give the rundown.
“Okay, today the focus here is not on speed, but form. I really want to see you lift your knees and get that power from your glutes. Also, I want everyone to do what they can handle, but Chicago folks should do at least seven. Now . . . Robert over here . . . “
No. Please stop.
“Everyone see Robert? Over there. Behind Brian. No, to the left of Steve. Yeah, that’s him. Okay, Robert . . . Robert is the crazy blogger (oh good god) . . . and he is going to run 10. Who wants to join Robert?”
Crickets. Lot of staring.
Thanks, Gilbert, for that. That made me feel uncomfortable in so many ways. How, how did I end up in this situation? Training partner Dan, it appeared, was on some kind of sabbatical. He went off into the woods to run with wolves or something. Some of the faster Chicagoans are also no-shows. So it’s me, myself and I. I take one nervous swig of Accelerade, re-tie my shoes and ready myself for the beatdown.
The group commences. I timidly lean my head forward and take to the hill. The first 150 meters, not so bad, I’m easing into it. Then the steepest third hits and my body revolts with an “Oh no you didn’t!” Three quarters of the way up, I want to go back to bed. I slow almost to a walk as I reach the apex, preparing my descent. I begin my turn— but what is this? A false summit! Thirty yards of modest, but at this point punishing, incline lie ahead. “What a treat! More!” I reflect.
I run to the stop sign and warily tip-toe back down, trying to keep my nerves from frying my touchy hamstring. I follow the procession to the streetlight and step back on the escalator for round two.
Like jumping into Barton Springs, the second time proves a little easier than the shock of the first one. Smoothly ascending at a blistering 12-min/mile pace, I feel heat from Steve “The Rocket” Duffy as he closes in. This is so thrilling. It’s like watching one of those “World’s Strongest Man” competitions where two guys are running while pulling a refrigerator. Only we’re skinny and neither of us is pulling a refrigerator.
When we top out I turn to Steve, “You doing 10?”
“Seven.“
“No, dude, let’s do it together, Band of Brothers!”
He does not seem enthused. I can’t quite hear him, but I think he says something like, “Band of Brothers? My ass. How about my IT band?” and vaults downward ahead of me.
The third repeat raises the bar and lowers the comfort level. I attempt to run with my butt. I can’t really get into specifics about this, but I’ll just say I try some different things. It doesn’t really work out.
4th Repeat: The same but I’m slower and more erratic. I hit a mailbox.
5th: Rather than running directly forward, I try "tacking." Proves inefficient without wind. Or a sail. This just ends up being stupid.
6th: As I’m gaining some confidence with my slow but determined pace, Gilbert introduces five pages of notes: “Bring your knees way up, swing your arms, lean into the hill, chest out, quit doing that dolphin fin-waving thing, don’t tilt your head to the side and fire your glutes, man!” So, just some minor refinements.
7th: It is becoming dark now. Not outside, but inside my brain.
8th and 9th: I devolve. My thoughts turn all primitive. Must move legs. Must climb mountain. Must please Coach.
10th: By now everyone seems to have graduated to another confusing set of drills, but I break through the crowd with the force only a 15 min/mile can generate and endure the final climb, false summit and all, to the end of the road. The stop sign says Stop, and I f'n do.
My first time on Wilke. Done, done, and done. I check my pulse. I still have one.
As we’re disbanding, Gilbert takes me aside and gives me the real stats: Desiree Ficker and Patrick Evoe did actually run it 38 times, and Gilbert knocked off 33 for his 33rd birthday. My birthday choice would be margaritas, but you know, to each his own. Gilbert says this is where champions are made, and he's convinced me. I make a mental note to insert a Wilke day into my schedule every so often and I thank Gilbert for his excellent coaching advice.
Then I throw up on his shoe.
Monday, August 4, 2008
A Growing Concern
I’m back at SPI for physical therapy with Pieter Kroon, famous go-to guy for gimpy runners. The pleasant, relaxing, generously windowed room with a Loop 360 view, however, deceives. Tucked away in its corners lie special tools and devices designed to stretch, bend, and relocate. Under a stack of yoga mats I swear I saw a hook.
Pieter approaches and plants a hearty handshake. His stature and demeanor is cheerful, broad, Teutonic. It’s like we could put away beers together, or he could crush me, depending on his mood.
First order of business is the adjusting. Pieter asks me to lie on the table on my back and cross my arms over my chest. He then wraps his biceps around my shoulders and gives me a suffocating bear hug until I hear a succession of pops in my upper back. Aah, echoes of the primitive greeting ritual my Dad and I peform twice a year.
Next, Pieter calls across the room: “Troy, can you come over here for a second and help me?”
Troy? Wait? Why do we need to bother Troy?
“Troy is going to hold you down while I adjust your left leg.”
“Hold me down?? You know, I can see that Troy was making a real difference in someone’s life over there, so I think we should just send him bac—OH MY GOD.”
Pieter wraps his arm around my left shin and yanks on my leg until there’s a dull snapping sound at my hip.
“What was that all about??”
“Ha! Don’t worry! The hip joint is the strongest in the human body. Back in medieval times, when they would draw and quarter someone, the rest of the victim’s joints would come apart, but the hip almost always remained intact. Ha, ha!”
Ha! The victim’s hip stayed intact while his arms fell off, that’s hilarious!!
Finally, Pieter retrieves from, I don’t know, the dungeon next door, a padded leather strap that he secures around my upper left thigh. Once again, he yanks on the thing, but this time up and out, moving my hip in a direction it has never ever known. I think my hip would have preferred to live in ignorance.
And now we’re ready for the therapy.
Gratefully, the horror scene dissolves and we get down to some serious stretching. Pieter kneads the back of my left thigh with his knuckles, finding the adhering nerves with magical precision and unadhering them. It hurts, but dude, it hurts so good. He bends my legs all over the place, and I learn that my hips are about as flexible as a rusty lawn chair. After 20 minutes, he unfolds me and sits me back up on the table.
“Your hamstring is dominating. When you rely too much on your hamstring, the site of your original injury, the nerves in the whole area flare up. Your glutes need to do more of the work. Over the next several weeks you’ll be performing exercises designed to strengthen your glutes and get you to rely more on them when you run.”
“So, what you’re saying is . . . . my butt needs to dominate.”
“Yes.”
Okay then.
This is a serious medical discussion we are having.
Pieter gleefully sends me off with a cadre of butt exercises to do at home. Settling into my car, I begin to fret. What this ultimately means is that over the next several weeks, my butt will grow in size. What are the implications? I’m concerned about proportionality. Will this be noticeable? Will I need a new wardrobe? What will my co-workers say?
But as I remind myself of Gilbert’s sage words, my concerns fade. I want to run with power and I absolutely must rid myself of this godawful nerve pain. I got to have a butt to do it. I’m going for it. I’m making the sacrifice.
My butt will dominate.
Pieter approaches and plants a hearty handshake. His stature and demeanor is cheerful, broad, Teutonic. It’s like we could put away beers together, or he could crush me, depending on his mood.
First order of business is the adjusting. Pieter asks me to lie on the table on my back and cross my arms over my chest. He then wraps his biceps around my shoulders and gives me a suffocating bear hug until I hear a succession of pops in my upper back. Aah, echoes of the primitive greeting ritual my Dad and I peform twice a year.
Next, Pieter calls across the room: “Troy, can you come over here for a second and help me?”
Troy? Wait? Why do we need to bother Troy?
“Troy is going to hold you down while I adjust your left leg.”
“Hold me down?? You know, I can see that Troy was making a real difference in someone’s life over there, so I think we should just send him bac—OH MY GOD.”
Pieter wraps his arm around my left shin and yanks on my leg until there’s a dull snapping sound at my hip.
“What was that all about??”
“Ha! Don’t worry! The hip joint is the strongest in the human body. Back in medieval times, when they would draw and quarter someone, the rest of the victim’s joints would come apart, but the hip almost always remained intact. Ha, ha!”
Ha! The victim’s hip stayed intact while his arms fell off, that’s hilarious!!
Finally, Pieter retrieves from, I don’t know, the dungeon next door, a padded leather strap that he secures around my upper left thigh. Once again, he yanks on the thing, but this time up and out, moving my hip in a direction it has never ever known. I think my hip would have preferred to live in ignorance.
And now we’re ready for the therapy.
Gratefully, the horror scene dissolves and we get down to some serious stretching. Pieter kneads the back of my left thigh with his knuckles, finding the adhering nerves with magical precision and unadhering them. It hurts, but dude, it hurts so good. He bends my legs all over the place, and I learn that my hips are about as flexible as a rusty lawn chair. After 20 minutes, he unfolds me and sits me back up on the table.
“Your hamstring is dominating. When you rely too much on your hamstring, the site of your original injury, the nerves in the whole area flare up. Your glutes need to do more of the work. Over the next several weeks you’ll be performing exercises designed to strengthen your glutes and get you to rely more on them when you run.”
“So, what you’re saying is . . . . my butt needs to dominate.”
“Yes.”
Okay then.
This is a serious medical discussion we are having.
Pieter gleefully sends me off with a cadre of butt exercises to do at home. Settling into my car, I begin to fret. What this ultimately means is that over the next several weeks, my butt will grow in size. What are the implications? I’m concerned about proportionality. Will this be noticeable? Will I need a new wardrobe? What will my co-workers say?
But as I remind myself of Gilbert’s sage words, my concerns fade. I want to run with power and I absolutely must rid myself of this godawful nerve pain. I got to have a butt to do it. I’m going for it. I’m making the sacrifice.
My butt will dominate.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Mile Repeats
All does not seem well with the group on our warm-up run to Zilker. We are listless, dragging, in a fog. Hung over maybe? Or maybe the fact that it is the most uncomfortable 5:45am in Austin, Texas, since like 1925. After we arrive, we hover around the Accelerade, acting all passive aggressive about starting the pre-workout drills. Maybe Gilbert will just forget about them. Eventually, we own up to the chore and lope down the road sideways. I stop at about 10 yards, setting a provocatively low bar, but I’m soon overruled and openly mocked by the more committed in the group.
Gilbert approaches from his truck with . . . . is that . . . yes, I believe that is. . . it's a strut, he's got a strut going on . . . showing off his sleek and highly German Falke running wear. Work it, Coach. Gilbert acknowledges the insane humidity and, in pity, knocks off a repeat. He then tells us how to determine our goal pace through some kind of algebraic equation involving our 800m average, our tempo run split, our twelfth mile on our last long run, and how many times we’ve seen the Prefontaine movie, “Without Limit.” For me, that worked out to about 6:40.
As leaden as I felt, I still thought 6:40 would be easy, especially since I beat that pace through the 4 X 2000’s last week. Dan and I run pretty much together now, and we lead off the first group. What the dillio, Dan, why are we running so slow?
We round a corner.
Oh I see.
It’s all becoming clearer now. There are hills. There are hills on this course. I’m terrible on hills. The sense of doom looms large.
The biggest hill hits us first and we dig in to start the climb. Dan appears unphased, his pace constant. I’m sure everyone knows Dan Buie, so I won't go into detail about him, but I’ll just say that, uh, his core is better than mine. In fact, his core is better than that of most of the population. Of the world. COMBINED. (Don’t try to pass him, because his left oblique will jump out and wrestle you to the ground.) I immediately fall back a few yards and huff loudly and awkwardly. Successive smaller hills bring the same pattern, yet I always pull even shortly afterward. See, hills actually let me display what I am most proud of: my incredible strength running downhill. I am like lightning.
We put up our first repeat of 6:50. Forget about falling off the 6:40 wagon, we didn’t even get on it yet. We run a much more disciplined 2nd mile at 6:39. At this point I was planning on sticking to the 6:40 goal, but Dan rationalized a 6:30 for the 3rd to make up for our sorry 6:50. I did not approve of this idea. None of this “making it up” silliness, let's just move on with our lives. But, being all competitive, I went with it. We run our 3rd in the upper 6:20’s with Dan about three seconds ahead of me. Dan is incredibly punctual with the 2-minute rest period, but on the last one I buy some time, acting like there’s something in my shoe. Dan, you are too fast, give me half a break! We finally take off, and, knowing the drill, I use up everything I got. I stumble in on Dan’s heels at 6:19.
As terrible as that felt, that felt really good.
I look to Coach for approval.
His head is in his notebook. “That was too fast.”
!!!!!!
“What are you talking about, we were supposed to drop the bomb!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“No way, man, you’re crazy.”
“The last repeat is always the bomb, that’s the pattern that has been established. Last repeat means bomb!”
“You weren’t supposed to dig deep this time. You needed to hold off a bit because next month you’re going to have to run five of these-- and five seconds faster.”
I am learning that Gilbert is the master of the mind game. Maybe it’s bomb time, maybe it’s not. Don’t assume!
Gilbert approaches from his truck with . . . . is that . . . yes, I believe that is. . . it's a strut, he's got a strut going on . . . showing off his sleek and highly German Falke running wear. Work it, Coach. Gilbert acknowledges the insane humidity and, in pity, knocks off a repeat. He then tells us how to determine our goal pace through some kind of algebraic equation involving our 800m average, our tempo run split, our twelfth mile on our last long run, and how many times we’ve seen the Prefontaine movie, “Without Limit.” For me, that worked out to about 6:40.
As leaden as I felt, I still thought 6:40 would be easy, especially since I beat that pace through the 4 X 2000’s last week. Dan and I run pretty much together now, and we lead off the first group. What the dillio, Dan, why are we running so slow?
We round a corner.
Oh I see.
It’s all becoming clearer now. There are hills. There are hills on this course. I’m terrible on hills. The sense of doom looms large.
The biggest hill hits us first and we dig in to start the climb. Dan appears unphased, his pace constant. I’m sure everyone knows Dan Buie, so I won't go into detail about him, but I’ll just say that, uh, his core is better than mine. In fact, his core is better than that of most of the population. Of the world. COMBINED. (Don’t try to pass him, because his left oblique will jump out and wrestle you to the ground.) I immediately fall back a few yards and huff loudly and awkwardly. Successive smaller hills bring the same pattern, yet I always pull even shortly afterward. See, hills actually let me display what I am most proud of: my incredible strength running downhill. I am like lightning.
We put up our first repeat of 6:50. Forget about falling off the 6:40 wagon, we didn’t even get on it yet. We run a much more disciplined 2nd mile at 6:39. At this point I was planning on sticking to the 6:40 goal, but Dan rationalized a 6:30 for the 3rd to make up for our sorry 6:50. I did not approve of this idea. None of this “making it up” silliness, let's just move on with our lives. But, being all competitive, I went with it. We run our 3rd in the upper 6:20’s with Dan about three seconds ahead of me. Dan is incredibly punctual with the 2-minute rest period, but on the last one I buy some time, acting like there’s something in my shoe. Dan, you are too fast, give me half a break! We finally take off, and, knowing the drill, I use up everything I got. I stumble in on Dan’s heels at 6:19.
As terrible as that felt, that felt really good.
I look to Coach for approval.
His head is in his notebook. “That was too fast.”
!!!!!!
“What are you talking about, we were supposed to drop the bomb!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“No way, man, you’re crazy.”
“The last repeat is always the bomb, that’s the pattern that has been established. Last repeat means bomb!”
“You weren’t supposed to dig deep this time. You needed to hold off a bit because next month you’re going to have to run five of these-- and five seconds faster.”
I am learning that Gilbert is the master of the mind game. Maybe it’s bomb time, maybe it’s not. Don’t assume!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Fire the Glutes!
I now must confess a secret. It’s unpleasant. It’s dark. It’s not something I am proud of. Okay, here goes: My entire time with the Gazelles, I’ve been running on an injury. There, said it.
Back in April, about three weeks after my last marathon, I pulled/strained/pissed off my hamstring on my first seven-mile ease-back-into-it jog. Running on it was impossible. I banished myself to the cardio room at the Y for twelve days on an elliptical trainer. A trying time. Breaks like that make some runners seek counseling.
It went away for awhile, but then returned. This time less painful, and it seemed to move up and down the back of my leg. Through all the hard running of the first few weeks of the program, it loomed and irritated, and got worse. I needed Coach’s advice.
I attempt to meet Gilbert in his office to discuss my situation. I get there two minutes early, but he’s not there. I comb the hallway of the building. Nope. I walk over to the Annex where his red Tacoma is parked, only to find the building locked. I sweep the entire RunTex compound. The mystery deepens. I return to his office and he’s sitting there on his phone again.
“Where were you?” I ask, baffled.
“I was here.”
It remains unexplained how Gilbert and I did not run into each other. I consider this proof that Gilbert has the ability to “materialize.”
I begin listing my symptoms. “So the pain kind of roams around, but it’s generally really high up on my hamstring and—“
“Fire the Glutes!”
Pause
“What?”
“Your glutes, man, your glutes!”
Pause.
“I don’t understand what you just said. ”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, your G-L-U-T-E-S.”
Pause.
Another pause. A long one.
“You’re referring to my butt?”
“Of course, your butt. All your power comes from your butt. You need to learn to run with it. The pain isn’t from your hamstring. It’s a nerve. You have adverse neural tension. “
Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
“Go see Pieter at Sports Performance International. Tell him I sent you. He will take care of it.”
In Dr. Ted Spears’ office at SPI the next day, I begin my story: “Hi Dr. Spears, I’m Robert, nice to meet you. So, I injured my hamstring and it got better, but then it came back and—“
“You have adverse neural tension.”
“Okay, that’s good enough for me.”
Factoring in the time writing the check toward my deductible, I’m out of the office in about three minutes. And I’ve got my hands on a script for physical therapy with Pieter Kroon, famed healer of lame Gazelles. Surely his hands can rid me of this demon nerve pain.
(Pt. 2 of the story about my butt will continue in a later post.)
Back in April, about three weeks after my last marathon, I pulled/strained/pissed off my hamstring on my first seven-mile ease-back-into-it jog. Running on it was impossible. I banished myself to the cardio room at the Y for twelve days on an elliptical trainer. A trying time. Breaks like that make some runners seek counseling.
It went away for awhile, but then returned. This time less painful, and it seemed to move up and down the back of my leg. Through all the hard running of the first few weeks of the program, it loomed and irritated, and got worse. I needed Coach’s advice.
I attempt to meet Gilbert in his office to discuss my situation. I get there two minutes early, but he’s not there. I comb the hallway of the building. Nope. I walk over to the Annex where his red Tacoma is parked, only to find the building locked. I sweep the entire RunTex compound. The mystery deepens. I return to his office and he’s sitting there on his phone again.
“Where were you?” I ask, baffled.
“I was here.”
It remains unexplained how Gilbert and I did not run into each other. I consider this proof that Gilbert has the ability to “materialize.”
I begin listing my symptoms. “So the pain kind of roams around, but it’s generally really high up on my hamstring and—“
“Fire the Glutes!”
Pause
“What?”
“Your glutes, man, your glutes!”
Pause.
“I don’t understand what you just said. ”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, your G-L-U-T-E-S.”
Pause.
Another pause. A long one.
“You’re referring to my butt?”
“Of course, your butt. All your power comes from your butt. You need to learn to run with it. The pain isn’t from your hamstring. It’s a nerve. You have adverse neural tension. “
Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
“Go see Pieter at Sports Performance International. Tell him I sent you. He will take care of it.”
In Dr. Ted Spears’ office at SPI the next day, I begin my story: “Hi Dr. Spears, I’m Robert, nice to meet you. So, I injured my hamstring and it got better, but then it came back and—“
“You have adverse neural tension.”
“Okay, that’s good enough for me.”
Factoring in the time writing the check toward my deductible, I’m out of the office in about three minutes. And I’ve got my hands on a script for physical therapy with Pieter Kroon, famed healer of lame Gazelles. Surely his hands can rid me of this demon nerve pain.
(Pt. 2 of the story about my butt will continue in a later post.)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Weeks 3-4: Cue the montage where the dude gets stronger
The next two weeks feel sort of like a movie to me—the part where, to a rousing score performed either by one of those 80’s bands like Europe or Asia or Sylvester Stallone’s brother (seriously, look it up), the protagonist attacks his weaknesses on all fronts and slowly but steadily improves.
Cut to me in the gym as Gilbert shows us the hip flexor machine. I drape the wrong leg over the bar, it lurches upward, and I’m awkwardly splayed against the device. Gilbert and onlooking Gazelles, frightened, jump to my aid—“Hey, dudes, it’s all good!” I confidently assure them.
Cut to my second long run where, in my supreme confidence that I can modify the course and run fewer hills, I turn onto a street called “Hillview.”
Cut to Gilbert at a chalkboard, drawing 1000 meters on a track for me. “Robert, you start on this side of the track, but you end up on the OTHER side . . . “
Back to the gym and Coach is explaining the hamstring curl machine. I lie down and complete a few reps. “No, Robert, this one is for your legs.” “Aah,” as I get up and turn around, “Yeah, this feels better.”
Fade up on the 4-mile tempo run. Once again, my plan is to follow the first few runners and see what happens. When he tells us to take off, everyone bolts. Whoa, this is like a real race. I fall in behind Dan, whom I know at this point is faster than me, but I just want him to pull me a little quicker than my regular pace. Little by little he’s putting on distance, but, hey, at least I’m running slightly slower consistently. Somehow that's kind of good. I guess. Drops of water are hitting me in the face, but rather than falling from above, they are materializing in the air in front of me. It's like a cloud forest has formed around Town Lake. Only grosser and without parrots. At about three and a half, with Dan's shirtless back disappearing in the distance, I ease up a bit. One, because I am about to puke, and two, because I want to save up for the big finish. So I pick it up and give it everything, although the effect is far less dramatic than I had envisioned. I cross the zero mile marker as Frank Stallone’s “Far From Over” swells. Gilbert glances at his watch and stares out across the lake, steely, contemplative: “He’s getting stronger . . . ”
Fade out.
I run 27:36, which I think is okay in terms of my progress in this hot groady weather. Coach tells me I looked like I had gas in my tank. I didn’t really, but I’m glad to know my acting training has been put to good use. I do think that the circuit work and the 3 X/week gym work on my core and legs have been helping. And when I operate the machines correctly, that’s when I really start to notice a difference.
Cut to me in the gym as Gilbert shows us the hip flexor machine. I drape the wrong leg over the bar, it lurches upward, and I’m awkwardly splayed against the device. Gilbert and onlooking Gazelles, frightened, jump to my aid—“Hey, dudes, it’s all good!” I confidently assure them.
Cut to my second long run where, in my supreme confidence that I can modify the course and run fewer hills, I turn onto a street called “Hillview.”
Cut to Gilbert at a chalkboard, drawing 1000 meters on a track for me. “Robert, you start on this side of the track, but you end up on the OTHER side . . . “
Back to the gym and Coach is explaining the hamstring curl machine. I lie down and complete a few reps. “No, Robert, this one is for your legs.” “Aah,” as I get up and turn around, “Yeah, this feels better.”
Fade up on the 4-mile tempo run. Once again, my plan is to follow the first few runners and see what happens. When he tells us to take off, everyone bolts. Whoa, this is like a real race. I fall in behind Dan, whom I know at this point is faster than me, but I just want him to pull me a little quicker than my regular pace. Little by little he’s putting on distance, but, hey, at least I’m running slightly slower consistently. Somehow that's kind of good. I guess. Drops of water are hitting me in the face, but rather than falling from above, they are materializing in the air in front of me. It's like a cloud forest has formed around Town Lake. Only grosser and without parrots. At about three and a half, with Dan's shirtless back disappearing in the distance, I ease up a bit. One, because I am about to puke, and two, because I want to save up for the big finish. So I pick it up and give it everything, although the effect is far less dramatic than I had envisioned. I cross the zero mile marker as Frank Stallone’s “Far From Over” swells. Gilbert glances at his watch and stares out across the lake, steely, contemplative: “He’s getting stronger . . . ”
Fade out.
I run 27:36, which I think is okay in terms of my progress in this hot groady weather. Coach tells me I looked like I had gas in my tank. I didn’t really, but I’m glad to know my acting training has been put to good use. I do think that the circuit work and the 3 X/week gym work on my core and legs have been helping. And when I operate the machines correctly, that’s when I really start to notice a difference.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
6 X 1000 = OMG
For all the marathon training I’ve endured, I’ve never included speedwork in my program. In fact, other than just running a whole lot every week, I haven’t included much of anything. I started training from a Xeroxed copy of a mileage chart from Jeff Galloway’s book, Marathon: You Can Do It! The chart fell under the heading, “Running a Marathon: To Finish.” After finishing ten marathons, I think it’s time for a new chart.
So we all gathered at the Austin High track and Gilbert sorted us into groups. Gilbert put me in the first group and dutily informed me we’d be running six 1000’s. As he shoved us off, Gilbert decreed a 7:00/mi. I had no idea what that meant over six 1000’s. Would that be tough or what? I just followed the group and hoped everything would work out. Other than initially blanking on how many laps 1000 meters is (400m is one lap, so that’s what, like three laps?!), the first interval went smoothly. I could do this six times.
Right??
Two and three go by and, while it’s getting tougher, I still feel in control. After the fourth, I’m spending my cool down period hogging the Accelerade, blocking people from actually getting to it. I am sweating an ungodly amount. I hold on through the fifth, staying in the middle of the pack and thinking I have just enough to squeak out a 7:00/mi. for a sixth time. As we lumber back onto the track and get in our now half-assed starting positions, Gilbert announces, “Okay, guys, for this last one, you are going to DROP THE BOMB!”
What?
Qu’est que c’est, “Le Bomb?”
I ask a fellow Gazelle what that means.
”It’s when you run really fast, much faster than your previous pace.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I hadn’t planned for that. Had I received some notice . . . “
And the group has left me.
I instinctively lurch forward and begin the catch-up game. Man, this sucks. I gradually move about halfway through the pack. I did not leave enough in the tank for this. My form is ridiculously bad, I am flailing my arms, and my head is bouncing around like one of those bobblehead things. The people in front of me begin to RUN FASTER. WTF, dudes! I make it into a line of about seven runners by the end of the second lap. As we round the final turn, Gilbert calls out TO ME and ME ALONE, “Robert, watch your form! You are leaning to the side!” Tell me about it. At this point though it’s hard for me to do that and breathe at the same time. On the final straightaway, the first three runners air it out and I, attempting to stay with them, feel my breakfast make a move upward. I put on the brakes and one or two people pass me as I reach 1000.
That. Was. Tough.
I walk around the track toward Gilbert to give him my times, self-consciously maintaining perfect form. (I can at least walk right, can’t I? Can’t I??) First five were in the 4:20-4:10 range, and the sixth came in at 3:39. I earn a sincere “Good job” from Coach, which gives me a nice lift. I stumble onto the trail for the two-mile lug back to RunTex, and reflect on how running with the Gazelles makes my mornings feel so productive. I get all excited pondering lunch options. Then I realize it’s 7:00am.
So we all gathered at the Austin High track and Gilbert sorted us into groups. Gilbert put me in the first group and dutily informed me we’d be running six 1000’s. As he shoved us off, Gilbert decreed a 7:00/mi. I had no idea what that meant over six 1000’s. Would that be tough or what? I just followed the group and hoped everything would work out. Other than initially blanking on how many laps 1000 meters is (400m is one lap, so that’s what, like three laps?!), the first interval went smoothly. I could do this six times.
Right??
Two and three go by and, while it’s getting tougher, I still feel in control. After the fourth, I’m spending my cool down period hogging the Accelerade, blocking people from actually getting to it. I am sweating an ungodly amount. I hold on through the fifth, staying in the middle of the pack and thinking I have just enough to squeak out a 7:00/mi. for a sixth time. As we lumber back onto the track and get in our now half-assed starting positions, Gilbert announces, “Okay, guys, for this last one, you are going to DROP THE BOMB!”
What?
Qu’est que c’est, “Le Bomb?”
I ask a fellow Gazelle what that means.
”It’s when you run really fast, much faster than your previous pace.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I hadn’t planned for that. Had I received some notice . . . “
And the group has left me.
I instinctively lurch forward and begin the catch-up game. Man, this sucks. I gradually move about halfway through the pack. I did not leave enough in the tank for this. My form is ridiculously bad, I am flailing my arms, and my head is bouncing around like one of those bobblehead things. The people in front of me begin to RUN FASTER. WTF, dudes! I make it into a line of about seven runners by the end of the second lap. As we round the final turn, Gilbert calls out TO ME and ME ALONE, “Robert, watch your form! You are leaning to the side!” Tell me about it. At this point though it’s hard for me to do that and breathe at the same time. On the final straightaway, the first three runners air it out and I, attempting to stay with them, feel my breakfast make a move upward. I put on the brakes and one or two people pass me as I reach 1000.
That. Was. Tough.
I walk around the track toward Gilbert to give him my times, self-consciously maintaining perfect form. (I can at least walk right, can’t I? Can’t I??) First five were in the 4:20-4:10 range, and the sixth came in at 3:39. I earn a sincere “Good job” from Coach, which gives me a nice lift. I stumble onto the trail for the two-mile lug back to RunTex, and reflect on how running with the Gazelles makes my mornings feel so productive. I get all excited pondering lunch options. Then I realize it’s 7:00am.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
If I Only Had a Core
For my third Gazelles workout, Gilbert mandated circuit training. I haven’t done anything like this since junior high soccer practice. We start with a 400m lap, and follow with a sequence of step ups, push ups, crunches, these things called ‘Superman . . .' things or whatever they are, squats while leaning against a fence and lunges. Then it’s back on the track and repeat four times. I find this surprisingly demanding. It’s like digging deep into your closet and pulling out shoes you haven’t worn in five years, but they’re your muscles. It’s like, oh yeah, I have those. But you need them to run better, stronger and faster, so this is all part of my awakening to actual proper running.
When we’re done we gather inside the track for the real fun and games. We hop around on both feet, then one at a time. Then we perform something called ’15-45-90,’ which, in terms of general discomfort, I think ranks just below waterboarding. We lie on our backs and raise our legs together, first at a 15-degree angle for 15 seconds. Then, it’s 45 degrees for 45 seconds. And, finally, 90 degrees, 90 seconds. Oh my sweet Jesus. It was clear who the yoga and pilates practitioners in the group were, because they all passed with flying colors. I, however, did not. At 45 degrees my legs bended and drooped, and my 90 morphed into a 70. I ended the exercise in a crumpled distorted heap, my arms stretching up into the sky grasping for something, anything, that could pull me from this hell. Where did my core go? Do I even have a core? I seem to be core-less. Note to self: Find your core. Get to know it. Work on it.
Finally, Gilbert leads us in a call and response exercise type deal where we pound furiously on the ground with our feet while he sings “Iyo Ngwe” and we repeat back to him. In Kirundi I believe it literally means “Hey, there’s a lion,” or “A lion lies in wait.” But what it really means is “If you don’t have a core, you’re screwed.” I wanted to modify the exchange to say, “Robert’s lying on the ground,” but I didn’t get much support.
Still, this is the best medicine for me. My form is terrible, and if I want to stop flapping my left arm around and leaning to the side—as Gilbert is always eager to point out— I need to strengthen and engage my core muscles. If there was just a way to do that without those pesky 15, 45 and 90 second Guantanamo-style leg lifts, I’d be a much happier camper.
When we’re done we gather inside the track for the real fun and games. We hop around on both feet, then one at a time. Then we perform something called ’15-45-90,’ which, in terms of general discomfort, I think ranks just below waterboarding. We lie on our backs and raise our legs together, first at a 15-degree angle for 15 seconds. Then, it’s 45 degrees for 45 seconds. And, finally, 90 degrees, 90 seconds. Oh my sweet Jesus. It was clear who the yoga and pilates practitioners in the group were, because they all passed with flying colors. I, however, did not. At 45 degrees my legs bended and drooped, and my 90 morphed into a 70. I ended the exercise in a crumpled distorted heap, my arms stretching up into the sky grasping for something, anything, that could pull me from this hell. Where did my core go? Do I even have a core? I seem to be core-less. Note to self: Find your core. Get to know it. Work on it.
Finally, Gilbert leads us in a call and response exercise type deal where we pound furiously on the ground with our feet while he sings “Iyo Ngwe” and we repeat back to him. In Kirundi I believe it literally means “Hey, there’s a lion,” or “A lion lies in wait.” But what it really means is “If you don’t have a core, you’re screwed.” I wanted to modify the exchange to say, “Robert’s lying on the ground,” but I didn’t get much support.
Still, this is the best medicine for me. My form is terrible, and if I want to stop flapping my left arm around and leaning to the side—as Gilbert is always eager to point out— I need to strengthen and engage my core muscles. If there was just a way to do that without those pesky 15, 45 and 90 second Guantanamo-style leg lifts, I’d be a much happier camper.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Gazelle newbie: Week one
So I make it through my first two Gazelle sessions without serious injury or embarrassment. Emphasis on ‘serious.’ In the first one, Gilbert told me to run a 5-mile fartlek and I was so proud of the fact that I broke from the group about a third of the way through and fartlek’d on my own. I show up at RunTex acting all cool, like, “Hey Gilbert, what do you think of that? Can I go straight to the pace run now or what?” Gilbert instructs me to do strides at Auditorium Shores with the faster runners who ran seven. Ooh, ouch. In my face.
Saturday morning marked not only my first long run with the Gazelles, but the first time I have ever been awake at 5:45am on a Saturday. Clearly I do not understand the concept of warming up, as I start out ahead of the entire group for about two miles. The faster ones creep up on me and before I know it I’m hanging out in the second or third group. I start chatting with Margaret, who’s also running New York, and preoccupied with our conversation, we fall in with the wrong crowd—runners of questionable character and judgment whose names I won’t reveal here. Okay, Fletcher and Jorge. I thought they said they were taking the Scenic route—as in Scenic Drive-- but what they meant was the “scenic” route up to 45th and east, then north through UT campus and back to RunTex. As we venture forth on the revised course, Gilbert drives by in his Tacoma and yells, “Robert, turn back. Do not run with them.” Thanks, Gilbert, that was embarrassing. What is the big deal? Oh, Fletcher runs like a 2:45 marathon. And uh, I don’t. Oops! My 10-mile run ends up being about thirteen, and Margaret and I pull up to Auditorium Shores a few minutes behind the crazy fast people.
Saturday morning marked not only my first long run with the Gazelles, but the first time I have ever been awake at 5:45am on a Saturday. Clearly I do not understand the concept of warming up, as I start out ahead of the entire group for about two miles. The faster ones creep up on me and before I know it I’m hanging out in the second or third group. I start chatting with Margaret, who’s also running New York, and preoccupied with our conversation, we fall in with the wrong crowd—runners of questionable character and judgment whose names I won’t reveal here. Okay, Fletcher and Jorge. I thought they said they were taking the Scenic route—as in Scenic Drive-- but what they meant was the “scenic” route up to 45th and east, then north through UT campus and back to RunTex. As we venture forth on the revised course, Gilbert drives by in his Tacoma and yells, “Robert, turn back. Do not run with them.” Thanks, Gilbert, that was embarrassing. What is the big deal? Oh, Fletcher runs like a 2:45 marathon. And uh, I don’t. Oops! My 10-mile run ends up being about thirteen, and Margaret and I pull up to Auditorium Shores a few minutes behind the crazy fast people.
Friday, June 27, 2008
My new running coach
I walk into the office building behind RunTex on Riverside to meet with Gilbert Tuhabonye. I’m thinking about taking his fall marathon training class since I’ll be running New York this November. Loaded with plenty of questions and prepared not to commit to anything— my natural approach to all things—I step cautiously into a small conference room where I find Gilbert on his phone looking relaxed in sporty après-running attire. He probably just ran 20 miles.
I introduce myself. “Hi, I’m-“
Gilbert looks up and beams with recognition. “Yes, Robert! I remember you. I helped you with some shoes in the store. You have incredibly narrow feet! You tried on almost every shoe we had. You finally settled on the Mizuno LTW DS XT 3 Wavesomethingorother. 11 1/2. B .”
Why yes. Yes, all of that is true. He did help me that one time at RunTex, I do have embarrassingly narrow feet, and he did put me in those shoes. It was my only previous encounter with Gilbert. And it occurred five years ago.
I was a bit stunned by Gilbert’s remarkable memory.
We begin to discuss his program, my intention to run New York and what my goals could or should be. As I’m detailing my long and tedious history as a do-it-yourself marathoner, Gilbert adds up some numbers and interrupts, “I’ve seen you run, man. You are strong. I think you can BQ.”
“What do you mean, when have you seen me run?”
"I've seen you."
"No way. I'm ultra low profile on the trail. I'm stealthy."
“You run with your left arm out like this.”
He imitates what looks like a dolphin trained to wave at the crowd with his fin at Seaworld.
Oh my god. I do run like that. I DO RUN LIKE THAT. First the shoes and now this. Is he all seeing? Is he following me around or something? What else does Gilbert know about me?!
We discuss my 10-marathon history further, detailing the highs and lows— bonking without fail at mile 22, running five marathons on zilcho sleep, puking three times in Houston (and once in the marathon. ha ha), sliding on ice in the Austin Freezescale, the blood, the sweat, the port-a-pottie melee. Good times.
Gilbert laughed as if he’d heard all this before, “Man, we are going to have fun.”
He then recounts success stories that even I, a relative cynic, find truly inspirational. From 4:04 to 2:57 in three marathons? Are you kidding me? Gazelles dropping 65 pounds? Completing marathons after beating cancer? He talks of the variety of runs we’d be doing, stuff I’ve never done and never heard of, the balance of gym work and recovery. He says all this, not as a coach lecturing his player, but as a guy who’s going to be going through everything with you. And he’s totally excited about it. Gilbert’s affability—and his psychic powers—are winning me over.
We begin deliberations on meeting time and I hold strong that I want to run at the 7:30am Mon/Wed slot.
“No, man, that won’t work,” he tells me. “You are too fast.” (Although apparently I run like Shamu.) “You won’t have anyone to pace with. You need to be here at 5:45.”
“Listen, Gilbert, I wear many hats. One is I’m an actor, which means my schedule is all irregular. I often don’t get home til midnight.”
Gilbert contemplates. “I have a suggestion. When you’re through running, how about you go home and take a nap?”
This never occurred to me. Such an amazingly sensible response. Of course I could do that. Why not?
I sat in silence.
I’m receiving a drubbing from Gilbert in this debate.
Now he has me leaning heavily toward the full-on “running-at-5:45am-every-Monday,- Wednesday-and-Saturday-until-November-God-help-me” plan. But before I sign my name to this ridiculousness, I ask him if he really thinks I can BQ.
“Do you think you can BQ?” he asks cryptically.
Hesitation. “Yes. Yes I can.”
He writes down the qualifying time in question, ‘3:15,’ in his notebook.
“Okay, that will be your goal. And this,” as he writes ‘3:00’ below it, “This will be my goal.”
Whoa. Did you just write that?! Oh no you didn’t! I felt like a little schoolkid. 3:00?? Gilbert, don’t tease me! That is too cool to even contemplate. Now I totally wanted to do it, not just to reach my BQ goal, but to help Gilbert meet his goal of me meeting my goal!
I committed to it all and as I walked out I told Gilbert I’d see him on Wednesday at 5:45 with my travel coffee mug in hand, prepared to run like the wind. Funny, that wasn’t my plan when I entered the room.
I introduce myself. “Hi, I’m-“
Gilbert looks up and beams with recognition. “Yes, Robert! I remember you. I helped you with some shoes in the store. You have incredibly narrow feet! You tried on almost every shoe we had. You finally settled on the Mizuno LTW DS XT 3 Wavesomethingorother. 11 1/2. B .”
Why yes. Yes, all of that is true. He did help me that one time at RunTex, I do have embarrassingly narrow feet, and he did put me in those shoes. It was my only previous encounter with Gilbert. And it occurred five years ago.
I was a bit stunned by Gilbert’s remarkable memory.
We begin to discuss his program, my intention to run New York and what my goals could or should be. As I’m detailing my long and tedious history as a do-it-yourself marathoner, Gilbert adds up some numbers and interrupts, “I’ve seen you run, man. You are strong. I think you can BQ.”
“What do you mean, when have you seen me run?”
"I've seen you."
"No way. I'm ultra low profile on the trail. I'm stealthy."
“You run with your left arm out like this.”
He imitates what looks like a dolphin trained to wave at the crowd with his fin at Seaworld.
Oh my god. I do run like that. I DO RUN LIKE THAT. First the shoes and now this. Is he all seeing? Is he following me around or something? What else does Gilbert know about me?!
We discuss my 10-marathon history further, detailing the highs and lows— bonking without fail at mile 22, running five marathons on zilcho sleep, puking three times in Houston (and once in the marathon. ha ha), sliding on ice in the Austin Freezescale, the blood, the sweat, the port-a-pottie melee. Good times.
Gilbert laughed as if he’d heard all this before, “Man, we are going to have fun.”
He then recounts success stories that even I, a relative cynic, find truly inspirational. From 4:04 to 2:57 in three marathons? Are you kidding me? Gazelles dropping 65 pounds? Completing marathons after beating cancer? He talks of the variety of runs we’d be doing, stuff I’ve never done and never heard of, the balance of gym work and recovery. He says all this, not as a coach lecturing his player, but as a guy who’s going to be going through everything with you. And he’s totally excited about it. Gilbert’s affability—and his psychic powers—are winning me over.
We begin deliberations on meeting time and I hold strong that I want to run at the 7:30am Mon/Wed slot.
“No, man, that won’t work,” he tells me. “You are too fast.” (Although apparently I run like Shamu.) “You won’t have anyone to pace with. You need to be here at 5:45.”
“Listen, Gilbert, I wear many hats. One is I’m an actor, which means my schedule is all irregular. I often don’t get home til midnight.”
Gilbert contemplates. “I have a suggestion. When you’re through running, how about you go home and take a nap?”
This never occurred to me. Such an amazingly sensible response. Of course I could do that. Why not?
I sat in silence.
I’m receiving a drubbing from Gilbert in this debate.
Now he has me leaning heavily toward the full-on “running-at-5:45am-every-Monday,- Wednesday-and-Saturday-until-November-God-help-me” plan. But before I sign my name to this ridiculousness, I ask him if he really thinks I can BQ.
“Do you think you can BQ?” he asks cryptically.
Hesitation. “Yes. Yes I can.”
He writes down the qualifying time in question, ‘3:15,’ in his notebook.
“Okay, that will be your goal. And this,” as he writes ‘3:00’ below it, “This will be my goal.”
Whoa. Did you just write that?! Oh no you didn’t! I felt like a little schoolkid. 3:00?? Gilbert, don’t tease me! That is too cool to even contemplate. Now I totally wanted to do it, not just to reach my BQ goal, but to help Gilbert meet his goal of me meeting my goal!
I committed to it all and as I walked out I told Gilbert I’d see him on Wednesday at 5:45 with my travel coffee mug in hand, prepared to run like the wind. Funny, that wasn’t my plan when I entered the room.
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