Have you ever had someone mention or recommend some event, a running race, a concert, a triathlon, or a movie that sounds really good at the time of the mention, you commit to said event, but when reality wipes away the fog, you are usually faced with a monumental lapse of judgment and decision making? I would count my decision to enter the Boston to Big Sur Challenge as one of those said lapses. The B2B, as it is affectionately called, is the act of running the Boston Marathon and then less than two weeks later, running the Big Sur Marathon. Yes, you heard me correctly, two marathons in less than two weeks and the opportunity to be called “bicoastal”.
I’ve previously described the Head Slapper 2000, a device for which I am seeking a patent, which allows the operator to slap themselves upside the head when faced with poorly reasoned decisions or life choices. Buy the special “undercoating” for your new car – wham, upside the head. Purchase the extended warranty for your Iphone – whump to the back of the head. Go home with that person that looks like Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie after a night of heavy drinking –thunk to the forehead. Sign up for the Boston to Big Sur challenge – whack goes the Head Slapper 2000.
Recovery week after Boston was a painful exercise in movement management. I tried unsuccessfully to minimize the amount of time any neurons would fire in my legs causing muscles to contract and me to cry out in an agony only surpassed by having to watch reruns of Jersey Shore. I managed to propel myself around the office, butt firmly placed in my ergonomic chair, by simply doing arm pulls on the nearest doors, cubicle walls or coworkers. For meetings in other buildings, I would wait in my chair near the exit of my building until an unsuspecting colleague ventured across the parking lot and then I would lasso them with a monitor cable and hitch a ride. Second floor meetings were especially daunting, not so much for the up as for the down. I discovered you can walk down stairs supporting your entire body weight on one arm without letting your knees bend or quads engage. So what if HR has opened a file on me for suspicious behavior.
By the Wednesday after the Boston Marathon, I thought I should try a little running to see if I was still capable of upright forward propulsion using my own appendages. I started slow and tried to suppress the whimpers of pain emanating from deep within me so as to not alarm the other denizens of the group run I joined. Pain receptors fired from parts of my body whose existence was unbeknownst to me at the time. Simply put, the run was ugly. I’m talking Donald Trump giving Rush Limbaugh a naked back rub ugly. I lurched forward, face contorted like Jim Carrey in the Mask, and tried to find my happy place, that mystical realm runners reach when the endorphins flow, your legs stride effortlessly beneath you, unicorns trot alongside you, and rainbows mark your path. Instead of running nirvana, I entered a dark place populated by the anguished cries of angels, visions of my running form being criticized by Simon Colwell on national television, and the tears of newborns as they witnessed the horror of that first post Boston run.
Race day arrived like an out of control freight train. My legs had recovered and I was capable of running without frightening innocent children with my cries. My friend and partner in insanity, Andy, and I drove down Saturday to Monterey to pick up our packets and meet up with the other deranged residents of our race club asylum participating in the B2B. The Expo did not yield any new surprises other than a few products being offered of which I questioned the marketing strategy being employed. At every Expo I’ve attended of late, I always have to smile at some of the products and services companies feel are suited or targeted for runners and triathletes. I can certainly understand if you have a line of compression socks, putting efficacy or outcome data aside, where runners and especially triathletes (who will purchase anything with the promise of increased speed) are the perfect target demographic. The companies I question are the ones hawking legal services, magic balance bracelets, and George Foreman grills. Are runners plagued by excessive legal woes, inner ear problems, and insatiable pannini cravings? At least the attendees are showered with a virtual cornucopia of free schwag at these expos.
After exiting the Expo, Andy and I met up with our team mates in downtown Carmel for dinner at the requisite Italian eatery, trying hard to not be attacked by the roving bands of cougars. Well, to be perfectly honest, we didn’t try that hard. I have to doubt the wisdom of aging cougars and pumas prowling the streets of Carmel. I question whether the prey they seek would be frequenting any of the establishments in the cozy burg. Unless they were seeking one of the emaciated runners in town for the marathon, I think all other prey was already engaged in some form or fashion. I’m sorry to say most if not all of the pack went home alone with wine migraines, sore feet, and crushed dreams.
Race morning was beautiful with clear skies and the absence of the customary coastal fog. The temperature dipped down into the 30’s so we sought refuge in a teammates SUV. We were packed shoulder to shoulder like the sardines which were once the major economic driver in nearby Monterey. We huddled in the car preparing our post race performance excuses until the porta-potty clarion call sounded. Being a well organized race, there appeared to be at least one potty per 3 runners, making the normally nauseating and daunting pre-race evacuation of the bowels a less than onerous task. Some runners camped out in the Safeway store located next to the start/finish area staking out territory in favorite sections. Gaggles of gals occupied the wine aisle while their male brethren enjoyed the beer section.
I went to the start line with my friend and team mate Alexia where we formulated our race strategy. Having run the exact same time down to the second at Boston despite starting in different corrals, we determined we should pace each other. We then decided to simply have a good time and run within ourselves. We had no pressure on us to BQ or PR since the course really was not conducive to either objective. We ran comfortably at a conversational pace drifting between the 3:30 and 3:40 pace groups. The musical interludes along the course were fantastic and kept us entertained the entire way. The volunteers outdid themselves practically falling over each other to ensure we got our needed hydration and nutrition. The sun was shining and the temperature never reached an uncomfortable level. We saw many other B2B lunatics along the way and chatted with those around us, something I rarely do in competition. Without pushing the pace, we came in to the finish line only 6 minutes off our Boston time including one unscheduled bathroom break and multiple photo ops.
The B2B organizers treated us extremely well after the race, plying us with copius amounts of beer and food. We collected our prized B2B jackets and medals and made our way home, taking the time to ensure proper post-race recovery by executing an In & Out Burger drive through. What started with hope banished and dread looming, ended on a high I’m still riding almost three weeks later.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Boston Marathon 2011
The parallels between my qualifying marathon, the Camarillo Marathon in Southern California, and the international athletic mega-event, the Adidas Boston Marathon are simply uncanny.
* Boston had 27,000 participants; Camarillo has a population of 27,000 people.
* Boston had five hundred thousand spectators lining the course while Camarillo had five hundred thousand tomato, strawberry, and onion plants growing along the route.
* Boston participants ran in shoes. For the most part, Camarillo participants ran in shoes.
* Each race had its unique cast of characters; Boston had the Gorilla Guy, the Caveman, the Jester, Celtic cheerleaders, and the dude in the pink tutu. Camarillo had the Good Hair Guy, Booberella, California Triathlete, and Jesus (no, not that Jesus…the other one).
* Boston had incredible on-course runner support including aid stations with water and Gatorade every mile, medical assistance, throngs of cheering fans, Celtic cheerleaders, Wellsley Girls, helicopters overhead taking pictures and video, and food and blankets at the finish. Camarillo had on-course support including a confused migrant farm worker holding a gallon jug of water at mile 9 and a guy that looked like Jerry Garcia making pancakes on a BBQ grill at the finish.
As I said before, the parallels were spooky.
The road to Boston was rather long for me. I began the journey way back in 1999 when I ran my first marathon in Big Sur. I hobbled away from that event thinking it would be kinda cool to qualify for Boston. I did a little research and settled on CIM as my qualifier being that the course was net downhill, close to home, and the end of year timing was conducive to warm weather training. Being a young’un of thirty odd years, my BQ time was 3:15, a mark I missed by 6 minutes at that CIM. I half heartedly tried again at the Athens marathon in 2001, but after having to wade through knee deep water for the first 10 miles, my BQ dreams vanished like politician’s promise. Having qualified at CIM, my wife, Janine, entered Boston in 2003. Having been the bridesmaid, but not the Boston bride yet in three marathons, I decided to give it an all out push to qualify. The Las Vegas marathon was in February, two months before Boston. This was back when you could qualify almost up to the day of the race and still get into Boston. I put in the time and the miles and was prepared, but the running gods had other plans for me. The LV marathon was blessed with 50 MPH headwinds that day slowing even the leaders down to the pace of a line at the DMV, dashing my hopes of a BQ. Janine and I still went out to Boston where I ran the last 10 miles with her and was able to experience some of the charm of the race, but like taking your cousin to Prom, it wasn’t quite the same.
Life and Ironman intruded on my Boston goals as I waded into the deep end to try my hand at Ironman events in Canada and Coeur d’Alene taking my focus off Boston and running. I dabbled in triathlons then life came screaming around the corner and hit me head first with the arrival of my beautiful twin boys in 2007. I entered a new marathon training program of sorts that consisted of feedings, burpings, diaper changes, too few hours of sleep, and minimal time to train for anything other than a sprint to the bathroom after eating some bad fish.
I managed to wedge in a few races here and there including a sprinkle of road bike racing, a dash of 10K’s with the boys in the twin jog stroller, and a pinch of triathlons including the very enjoyable destination race in Santa Barbara. Early in 2010, my friend and teammate, Simon announced he was going to run the Camarillo marathon near Ventura California. Anytime you need to describe a place as being “near” somewhere, it is usually a sign that is not much happening there. The Camarillo marathon was a harrowing experience I’ve described previously, but it did produce my BQ putting me on track for the 2011 Boston Marathon.
I jumped into Simon’s marathon training plan, a recipe of sorts for realizing potential and fulfilling dreams at Boston. Along with Top Chef Simon, other celebrity chef teammates added and modified the training program until I was a well oiled stew simmering for success when I toed the line in Hopkinton.
Along with about 20 teammates, Janine and I flew out to Boston on Friday, spent the requisite time pushing through the crush of humanity that is the Expo, saw a few sights to see, ate our loads of carbs, and took advantage of the absence of the twin alarm clocks that we affectionately call the Twinadoes. Race morning came quickly, I kissed Janine goodbye since she was starting in later wave and did not need to wake quite as early as I did, and began the long journey out to the start line. One subway ride, a bus ride, and a short walk later, I was standing somewhat near the start. Being in corral 9 in Wave 1, I was literally sandwiched between 8,999 runners on one side and 18,000 runners on the other. I was the top slice of bacon in your typical BLT. The anthem was played, a gun went off (I think), and we…stood. A few minutes lapsed before the crowd slowly began to shuffle forward like a great multi-headed beast seeking its elusive prey far in the distance. The Beast coiled and roiled over itself as runners positioned and paced themselves according to their goals. I ran with my training partners and friends Michael, Tara, and Patrick, the Three Musketeers of our race club (oh, does that make me d’Artagnan?). I kept the Musketeers company until around mile 16 when my Garmin decided to pull a Palin and quit working. Without technology, I was adrift in a sea of multiple paces and unknown distances. To accompany my technological challenge, my quads started to tighten and cramp signaling the first throes of the battle to be waged over the next 10 miles.
My pace slowed and I assessed where I was. I knew I would finish since there is literally no way you cannot be carried forward by the energy produced by the runners and spectators in the last miles of the Boston Marathon, the only question would be “when?” I soaked up positive vibes from the people along the route offering high fives, orange slices, Red Vines, Lady Gaga CDs, spare socks, and loose change. I was inspired by the many challenged athletes I encountered along the way overcoming obstacles I cannot begin to fathom. I was humbled by our fighting men and women who hucked the entire course in full fatigues and with 45 pound backpacks. I was literally pushed and pulled forward by the moment, the fervor, and the tradition that is the Boston Marathon.
As I rounded the corner onto Boylston, the cacophony of sound emanating from all sides was overwhelming, so much so that I accidently cut off a runner to my right and almost sent him sprawling. Regaining our composure, we surged forward and crossed the finish line, arms held high, trying to finally get a decent finisher’s photo (no such luck). As I write this missive, I am still on a high from the race and the experience. I’m happy with my performance, but like with most events of this caliber, I think I would like to go back and exercise a few demons that plagued me during the race.
Many thanks to my lovely wife and #1 training partner, to Simon, the Three Musketeers, Carrie, Chris, Amy, Andy, Sarah, Bruce and Page and all my other teammates that made getting to and racing Boston a success.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Is this I-680 or the Donner Pass?
Journal Entry
September 28, 2010
I'm writing this in case I do not make it. My family and the world need to know how our last days were spent trapped on the freeway trying desperately to reach the new Toll Lane in Sunol. We were promised a faster commute, but have been stuck in a level of hell only surpassed by those waiting in line to audition for American Idol.
Like many others, I joined the long line of cars creeping along 680 south at the Bernal entrance. We crept along listening to reports on the radio of congestion extending north to the Oregon border. We measured our commute not in miles, but in inches. By day 2, I had made it as far as the Sunol Blvd exit. I toyed with the idea of getting off the freeway and returning home to my family. But my job beckoned and promises of commute nirvana up ahead in the new toll lane kept me queued in the long line of frustrated drivers.
By day three, all the food and water I could scrounge from my car and along the side of the freeway were gone. Other commuters and I started talking about sending a scouting party ahead on foot to see if there was an overland route we could take. 4 brave souls struck out in their wingtips and ties, but they returned 1 short later in the evening. The details of their harrowing trek will be the stuff of legend if this journal survives. The lost member of their party will be remembered as a hero due to his actions to save the others. We are still not clear as to what occurred, but the survivors seem to imply commuters further south had turned to cannibalism due to the lack of food and coffee. The three remaining members did manage to bring back his Bally wingtips and leather belt. We may try to eat those later.
By day 5, the smell along the freeway was fetid and rank. Most cars had run out of fuel, so the drivers were pushing their vehicles anytime the long string of cars inched forward. Only those driving hybrids seemed to still have power, but none of them were as well armed as the many SUV drivers, so they were easily overrun and their fuel supplies taken. Armed gangs began terrorizing the weakened commuters. Barter systems were setup, people trading bags of airplane peanuts for a few ounces of fuel. I tried a desperate attempt to hike back up the freeway to home, but was forced back into my car by a roving band of Caltrans workers threatening anyone who dared to leave their car and not experience the glory of the Express Lane.
Day 7 dawned over the Eastern hills. I was delirious from the lack of sleep, hunger, and Starbuck's withdrawal. I was awake most of the night fending off a horde of what my little community of commuters called "tollbies" - similar to zombies, but without the insatiable appetite for human flesh. Tollbies had lost their sense of humanity and reason, seeking only to experience the FasTrack enabled rush of Express Lane joy. These poor lost souls wandered down the freeway in small groups between the camps of stranded motorists, waving their FasTrack transponders in the air hoping beyond all hope for that reassuring "beep" signaling they had reached the Promised Lane. My encampment used our laptops and spare tires to create crude barriers to keep the Tollbies from overrunning us. Our latest plan for rescue involves tying a note to a dead cell phone and seeing if we can throw it at a passing ACE train, but we hold little hope any rescue is on it way.
A few of our group have scouted the Northbound lanes for any sign of rescue, but were met with resistance from those stuck in the miles long backup from the evening commute. Small wars are now occurring between the North and South bound commuters as the Northies try to claim the southbound HOV/Toll Lane. The Northies feel they are justified in their seizure since their commute has been horrendous for many more years than the Southies and they have never benefited from a HOV lane. All hope of reconciliation, rescue or free flowing traffic appear to be abandoned.
If anyone reads this, please tell my family I love them. My Blackberry is almost out of battery power, so this will be my last entry. I only hope they have FasTrack in heaven.
September 28, 2010
I'm writing this in case I do not make it. My family and the world need to know how our last days were spent trapped on the freeway trying desperately to reach the new Toll Lane in Sunol. We were promised a faster commute, but have been stuck in a level of hell only surpassed by those waiting in line to audition for American Idol.
Like many others, I joined the long line of cars creeping along 680 south at the Bernal entrance. We crept along listening to reports on the radio of congestion extending north to the Oregon border. We measured our commute not in miles, but in inches. By day 2, I had made it as far as the Sunol Blvd exit. I toyed with the idea of getting off the freeway and returning home to my family. But my job beckoned and promises of commute nirvana up ahead in the new toll lane kept me queued in the long line of frustrated drivers.
By day three, all the food and water I could scrounge from my car and along the side of the freeway were gone. Other commuters and I started talking about sending a scouting party ahead on foot to see if there was an overland route we could take. 4 brave souls struck out in their wingtips and ties, but they returned 1 short later in the evening. The details of their harrowing trek will be the stuff of legend if this journal survives. The lost member of their party will be remembered as a hero due to his actions to save the others. We are still not clear as to what occurred, but the survivors seem to imply commuters further south had turned to cannibalism due to the lack of food and coffee. The three remaining members did manage to bring back his Bally wingtips and leather belt. We may try to eat those later.
By day 5, the smell along the freeway was fetid and rank. Most cars had run out of fuel, so the drivers were pushing their vehicles anytime the long string of cars inched forward. Only those driving hybrids seemed to still have power, but none of them were as well armed as the many SUV drivers, so they were easily overrun and their fuel supplies taken. Armed gangs began terrorizing the weakened commuters. Barter systems were setup, people trading bags of airplane peanuts for a few ounces of fuel. I tried a desperate attempt to hike back up the freeway to home, but was forced back into my car by a roving band of Caltrans workers threatening anyone who dared to leave their car and not experience the glory of the Express Lane.
Day 7 dawned over the Eastern hills. I was delirious from the lack of sleep, hunger, and Starbuck's withdrawal. I was awake most of the night fending off a horde of what my little community of commuters called "tollbies" - similar to zombies, but without the insatiable appetite for human flesh. Tollbies had lost their sense of humanity and reason, seeking only to experience the FasTrack enabled rush of Express Lane joy. These poor lost souls wandered down the freeway in small groups between the camps of stranded motorists, waving their FasTrack transponders in the air hoping beyond all hope for that reassuring "beep" signaling they had reached the Promised Lane. My encampment used our laptops and spare tires to create crude barriers to keep the Tollbies from overrunning us. Our latest plan for rescue involves tying a note to a dead cell phone and seeing if we can throw it at a passing ACE train, but we hold little hope any rescue is on it way.
A few of our group have scouted the Northbound lanes for any sign of rescue, but were met with resistance from those stuck in the miles long backup from the evening commute. Small wars are now occurring between the North and South bound commuters as the Northies try to claim the southbound HOV/Toll Lane. The Northies feel they are justified in their seizure since their commute has been horrendous for many more years than the Southies and they have never benefited from a HOV lane. All hope of reconciliation, rescue or free flowing traffic appear to be abandoned.
If anyone reads this, please tell my family I love them. My Blackberry is almost out of battery power, so this will be my last entry. I only hope they have FasTrack in heaven.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Camarillo Marathon 2010
Oh the Horror!
Nestled just north of the Santa Monica mountains and caressing the Pacific ocean, Ventura is a picturesque burg offering many delights for residents and tourists alike. Unfortunately, our journey to run a new Boston qualifier marathon did not take us to this idyllic setting, rather to its black sheep step cousin next door, the aptly named town of “Camarillo” which in Portuguese means “why does anyone live here let alone want to run a marathon here”. I realize the word count does not quite matchup, but Google Translator does not lie.
My wife and I along with 10 of our team mates from the Forward Motion Race Club jumped at the chance to run in a new Boston qualifier billed as a flat, fast course with stunning views, music/bands at every mile, and a post-event party to rival Burning Man. The bonus was that the location, Camarillo, was only 400 miles away, so 5 hours by plane with check-in, security and a 1 hour flight time or a 16 hour drive through some of the worst traffic known to man (other than that 60 mile traffic jam in China). We opted to fly knowing my patience with traffic (I have none) and my desire for my wife to stay married to me once we encountered said traffic.
We landed in Burbank, the nearest airport capable of accommodating aircraft larger than my sons’ Fisher Price toy planes, hopped in our Nissan Versa rental car (the butt ugliest pregnant rollerskate I’ve ever driven, but hey, it got like 42 miles per gallon, 50 mpg when my wife got out and pushed), and headed onto the freeway. Then we stopped, and stopped some more, and for variety, stopped some more. We had encountered Friday night Southern California rush hour traffic (insert image of Munch’s The Scream here). One of the seven levels of Hell, reserved for those who refuse to vote and fund public transportation, uninformed tourists like us, and Prius drivers. We battled our way through the traffic, me gripping the wheel in a stressed fueled road rage and my wife frantically trying to find a radio station playing anything other than Spanish language music or the latest Katy Perry song. Our little trek took us through the beautiful towns of Studio City (porn capital of the US), Thousand Oaks (I only counted 994), and Oxnard (Nard’s of the Ox). Fortunately, my wife agreed to remain married to me upon our arrival at the Ventura Beach Marriot. We met up with some friends who had decided traveling by car the entire way was just as stressful as our path. Copious amounts of liquid stress relief quieted the inner demons and capped off the day.
Saturday morning we headed out to a nice path along the beach to shake out the legs, test the GPS watch, and take in some fresh ocean air. We found the bike path/trail/boardwalk headed north for many miles passing the Ventura pier, local surfing spots, nicely landscaped parks, and plenty of public facilities like restrooms and water fountains. Please take note of this last sentence and file it away for later reference. My wife commented we would be really fortunate if the marathon the next day followed a coastal route since the cool air and scenic vistas would really help push us to personal bests. In the afternoon, we attended packet pickup at a local strip mall Sports Authority suffering through the crush of the tens of participants. Our first hint that something was horribly wrong should have been the lack of any Expo, actual participants, or the constant reminders to “memorize the course map”.
Our race club gathered in downtown Ventura for a pre-race ritual of pasta, a little red wine, and good conversation with good friends. Race strategies were discussed, predictions were made, and PRPE’s (post race performance excuses) were formulated. We adjourned to our hotels wary of the of the early morning start time of our “flat, fast, scenic views with bands every mile” marathon looming closer.
Race morning we carpooled over to the start of the race heeding the Race Director’s advice that parking would be difficult due to the thousands of participants signed up for the race (actual count for the marathon was 280). Because we arrived before even the bars were closed, parking was a breeze. We stood around in the dark until there was enough light to find the porta-johns and navigate the essential pre-race bowel cleansing. Having successfully cleansed the bowels, I wandered over to the start line, looking hopelessly for a balloon arch, one of those inflatable Wildflower style canopies, or any other sign of an actual start line. What I found was the word “START” scrawled in the middle of the street with chalk. Around 7AM, most participants began to congregate in the middle of the street. All the Forward Motion folks pushed, well not really pushed since there were so few people, we “gathered” at the front of the pack next to no one that looked like a world class marathoner. Three Kenyans, an Ethiopian, and two Russian marathoners I believe read about the Camarillo marathon, but had the good sense to stay away. An air horn sounded and we started running assuming that was the starting gun.
In the lead pack, we had a host of unique characters. There was Black Compression Socks Guy, Booberella (whose store bought body modifications defied the laws of physics), Good Hair guy, and one lonely looking South American dude who looked like he really did not want to be there (the eventual race winner). The FoMo Gang of Five, Chris, Simon, Andy, Jeff M., and Chuck set a blistering pace from the start, so I elected to hold back in order to preserve their egos and run with Jesus (no, not that Jesus, the other Jesus. I don’t think that Jesus was much of a runner, but if he was, I bet he was totally into that whole minimalist shoe thing). I ran comfortably for about 5 miles entering the most scenic part of the entire course, the business park loop, with its stunning views of loading docks, mediocre corporate landscaping, cracked pavement parking lots, and a lonely night watchman snoozing in his photo hut guard shack. It was breathtaking in its beauty and grandeur. I can honestly say I have never seen such “stunning views” since the Big Sur marathon in 1998. I remember thinking “why is this marathon in Camarillo and not in Ventura along the ocean path?” It would be something I would think about for the next 18 mind-numbing miles of soul crushing boredom.
By mile 9, the Gang of Five had dropped me, Jesus had deserted me to lead others down the righteous path, so I was left only with the voices in my head. They were screaming at me to give them some form of visual stimuli other than rows upon of rows of tomato and green pepper fields, broken down tractors, and a seemingly endless stretch of asphalt disappearing into the fog ahead. Although the temperature was only in the low 70’s the humidity was high probably due to the crop irrigation surrounding us. We were well inland on most of the course, far enough from the ocean where only the most navigationally challenged seagulls ventured. I was sweating more than normal so was looking forward to the electrolyte replenishment drink said to be on the course. We had received at least 60 emails prior to the race advertising the race drink of choice would be a brand called “Gleukos”. No one had heard of this mythical drink, but since it was to be provided on the course, many of chose to forego carrying our own.
I started to pass aid stations where the besieged volunteers were faced with delivering the daunting news to incoming runners that they did not have any water cups, only gallon jugs of water. I was handed a partially full jug and told to just put it down along the road when I was done. Does anyone know how hard it is to bend down and place a jug of water on the ground with tired and cramping legs while trying to maintain pace? Well, it was not something I planned to test, so I handed my jug to a confused looking farm laborer who happened to be standing alongside the road. Then I spent the next 3 miles thinking about all the people who had drunk from that jug before me…shivers. Not only were the aid stations without cups, but the mythical Gleukos sports drink was nowhere to be found. When I asked one volunteer at mile 15, I got a “huh?” in return. I started to cramp pretty bad at this point so went into survival mode. I veered off course to the nearest field and grabbed a couple tomatoes remembering from my high school Botany class that tomatoes contained sodium. The two green tomatoes did not solve the cramping so I ran through a farmer’s pasture and happened upon a cow salt lick. Not wanting to lose my pace, I picked up the block of salt and continued on down the road licking frantically with about a dozen heifers in hot pursuit. Having satiated my salt craving I left the salt block on the side of the road for any fellow travelers behind me.
Around mile 20, the aid stations not only lacked cups, Gleukos, and Gu, but even volunteers. Mile markers were non-existent at this point in the race, so I relied on my Garmin and asking the handful of spectators milling around along the course how far from the finish I was. The Race Director toyed with our sanity by making us run past the finish line at mile 23 to do an out-n-back through the Camarillo International Airport (departures to Oxnard and Bakersfield every third Tuesday). I was able to see the Gang of Five looking strong with Chris leading the charge. My goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon loomed near as I watched my race time inch towards 3:20, the qualifying time for my age group. I summoned all my reserves and pushed through the finish line posting a 3:20:17 (Boston gives you the extra 0:59 seconds), so I met my goal along with most of my compatriots.
Our team took home three podium spots, a few blisters, and some great memories. The post-event party, the one billed as being bigger than Burning Man, well, that was actually some guy making pancakes on a rusty BBQ grill. Oh, and those bands at every mile, they must have all be practicing for the National Mime Tour since I failed to see or hear a single one. I am really proud of my teammates for persevering through what can only be described as a very organizationally challenged marathon. Everyone finished with a smile or grimace on their faces, most of us qualified for Boston, and those that did not will be running again soon to meet their goals.
Note: I have to contrast my post-race recovery ritual with one of my teammates “Carrie”, a world class athlete who is one half of an uber couple in our race club. She took an ice bath, ate a nutritious lunch low in calories, and used an electrical stimulation recovery system on her drive home. I meanwhile, soaked in the hot tub, dined on In-and-Out Burger, and washed down 4 Advils with a beer.
Nestled just north of the Santa Monica mountains and caressing the Pacific ocean, Ventura is a picturesque burg offering many delights for residents and tourists alike. Unfortunately, our journey to run a new Boston qualifier marathon did not take us to this idyllic setting, rather to its black sheep step cousin next door, the aptly named town of “Camarillo” which in Portuguese means “why does anyone live here let alone want to run a marathon here”. I realize the word count does not quite matchup, but Google Translator does not lie.
My wife and I along with 10 of our team mates from the Forward Motion Race Club jumped at the chance to run in a new Boston qualifier billed as a flat, fast course with stunning views, music/bands at every mile, and a post-event party to rival Burning Man. The bonus was that the location, Camarillo, was only 400 miles away, so 5 hours by plane with check-in, security and a 1 hour flight time or a 16 hour drive through some of the worst traffic known to man (other than that 60 mile traffic jam in China). We opted to fly knowing my patience with traffic (I have none) and my desire for my wife to stay married to me once we encountered said traffic.
We landed in Burbank, the nearest airport capable of accommodating aircraft larger than my sons’ Fisher Price toy planes, hopped in our Nissan Versa rental car (the butt ugliest pregnant rollerskate I’ve ever driven, but hey, it got like 42 miles per gallon, 50 mpg when my wife got out and pushed), and headed onto the freeway. Then we stopped, and stopped some more, and for variety, stopped some more. We had encountered Friday night Southern California rush hour traffic (insert image of Munch’s The Scream here). One of the seven levels of Hell, reserved for those who refuse to vote and fund public transportation, uninformed tourists like us, and Prius drivers. We battled our way through the traffic, me gripping the wheel in a stressed fueled road rage and my wife frantically trying to find a radio station playing anything other than Spanish language music or the latest Katy Perry song. Our little trek took us through the beautiful towns of Studio City (porn capital of the US), Thousand Oaks (I only counted 994), and Oxnard (Nard’s of the Ox). Fortunately, my wife agreed to remain married to me upon our arrival at the Ventura Beach Marriot. We met up with some friends who had decided traveling by car the entire way was just as stressful as our path. Copious amounts of liquid stress relief quieted the inner demons and capped off the day.
Saturday morning we headed out to a nice path along the beach to shake out the legs, test the GPS watch, and take in some fresh ocean air. We found the bike path/trail/boardwalk headed north for many miles passing the Ventura pier, local surfing spots, nicely landscaped parks, and plenty of public facilities like restrooms and water fountains. Please take note of this last sentence and file it away for later reference. My wife commented we would be really fortunate if the marathon the next day followed a coastal route since the cool air and scenic vistas would really help push us to personal bests. In the afternoon, we attended packet pickup at a local strip mall Sports Authority suffering through the crush of the tens of participants. Our first hint that something was horribly wrong should have been the lack of any Expo, actual participants, or the constant reminders to “memorize the course map”.
Our race club gathered in downtown Ventura for a pre-race ritual of pasta, a little red wine, and good conversation with good friends. Race strategies were discussed, predictions were made, and PRPE’s (post race performance excuses) were formulated. We adjourned to our hotels wary of the of the early morning start time of our “flat, fast, scenic views with bands every mile” marathon looming closer.
Race morning we carpooled over to the start of the race heeding the Race Director’s advice that parking would be difficult due to the thousands of participants signed up for the race (actual count for the marathon was 280). Because we arrived before even the bars were closed, parking was a breeze. We stood around in the dark until there was enough light to find the porta-johns and navigate the essential pre-race bowel cleansing. Having successfully cleansed the bowels, I wandered over to the start line, looking hopelessly for a balloon arch, one of those inflatable Wildflower style canopies, or any other sign of an actual start line. What I found was the word “START” scrawled in the middle of the street with chalk. Around 7AM, most participants began to congregate in the middle of the street. All the Forward Motion folks pushed, well not really pushed since there were so few people, we “gathered” at the front of the pack next to no one that looked like a world class marathoner. Three Kenyans, an Ethiopian, and two Russian marathoners I believe read about the Camarillo marathon, but had the good sense to stay away. An air horn sounded and we started running assuming that was the starting gun.
In the lead pack, we had a host of unique characters. There was Black Compression Socks Guy, Booberella (whose store bought body modifications defied the laws of physics), Good Hair guy, and one lonely looking South American dude who looked like he really did not want to be there (the eventual race winner). The FoMo Gang of Five, Chris, Simon, Andy, Jeff M., and Chuck set a blistering pace from the start, so I elected to hold back in order to preserve their egos and run with Jesus (no, not that Jesus, the other Jesus. I don’t think that Jesus was much of a runner, but if he was, I bet he was totally into that whole minimalist shoe thing). I ran comfortably for about 5 miles entering the most scenic part of the entire course, the business park loop, with its stunning views of loading docks, mediocre corporate landscaping, cracked pavement parking lots, and a lonely night watchman snoozing in his photo hut guard shack. It was breathtaking in its beauty and grandeur. I can honestly say I have never seen such “stunning views” since the Big Sur marathon in 1998. I remember thinking “why is this marathon in Camarillo and not in Ventura along the ocean path?” It would be something I would think about for the next 18 mind-numbing miles of soul crushing boredom.
By mile 9, the Gang of Five had dropped me, Jesus had deserted me to lead others down the righteous path, so I was left only with the voices in my head. They were screaming at me to give them some form of visual stimuli other than rows upon of rows of tomato and green pepper fields, broken down tractors, and a seemingly endless stretch of asphalt disappearing into the fog ahead. Although the temperature was only in the low 70’s the humidity was high probably due to the crop irrigation surrounding us. We were well inland on most of the course, far enough from the ocean where only the most navigationally challenged seagulls ventured. I was sweating more than normal so was looking forward to the electrolyte replenishment drink said to be on the course. We had received at least 60 emails prior to the race advertising the race drink of choice would be a brand called “Gleukos”. No one had heard of this mythical drink, but since it was to be provided on the course, many of chose to forego carrying our own.
I started to pass aid stations where the besieged volunteers were faced with delivering the daunting news to incoming runners that they did not have any water cups, only gallon jugs of water. I was handed a partially full jug and told to just put it down along the road when I was done. Does anyone know how hard it is to bend down and place a jug of water on the ground with tired and cramping legs while trying to maintain pace? Well, it was not something I planned to test, so I handed my jug to a confused looking farm laborer who happened to be standing alongside the road. Then I spent the next 3 miles thinking about all the people who had drunk from that jug before me…shivers. Not only were the aid stations without cups, but the mythical Gleukos sports drink was nowhere to be found. When I asked one volunteer at mile 15, I got a “huh?” in return. I started to cramp pretty bad at this point so went into survival mode. I veered off course to the nearest field and grabbed a couple tomatoes remembering from my high school Botany class that tomatoes contained sodium. The two green tomatoes did not solve the cramping so I ran through a farmer’s pasture and happened upon a cow salt lick. Not wanting to lose my pace, I picked up the block of salt and continued on down the road licking frantically with about a dozen heifers in hot pursuit. Having satiated my salt craving I left the salt block on the side of the road for any fellow travelers behind me.
Around mile 20, the aid stations not only lacked cups, Gleukos, and Gu, but even volunteers. Mile markers were non-existent at this point in the race, so I relied on my Garmin and asking the handful of spectators milling around along the course how far from the finish I was. The Race Director toyed with our sanity by making us run past the finish line at mile 23 to do an out-n-back through the Camarillo International Airport (departures to Oxnard and Bakersfield every third Tuesday). I was able to see the Gang of Five looking strong with Chris leading the charge. My goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon loomed near as I watched my race time inch towards 3:20, the qualifying time for my age group. I summoned all my reserves and pushed through the finish line posting a 3:20:17 (Boston gives you the extra 0:59 seconds), so I met my goal along with most of my compatriots.
Our team took home three podium spots, a few blisters, and some great memories. The post-event party, the one billed as being bigger than Burning Man, well, that was actually some guy making pancakes on a rusty BBQ grill. Oh, and those bands at every mile, they must have all be practicing for the National Mime Tour since I failed to see or hear a single one. I am really proud of my teammates for persevering through what can only be described as a very organizationally challenged marathon. Everyone finished with a smile or grimace on their faces, most of us qualified for Boston, and those that did not will be running again soon to meet their goals.
Note: I have to contrast my post-race recovery ritual with one of my teammates “Carrie”, a world class athlete who is one half of an uber couple in our race club. She took an ice bath, ate a nutritious lunch low in calories, and used an electrical stimulation recovery system on her drive home. I meanwhile, soaked in the hot tub, dined on In-and-Out Burger, and washed down 4 Advils with a beer.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Xterra Del Valle Long Course 5/8/10
Someone needs to invent a machine that allows the user to slap themselves upside the head when they feel the desire to do something potentially stupid. Often, there is not a spouse, mother, family pet, or complete stranger willing to perform this service, so a machine with easy to read directions would be extremely beneficial to those of us prone to poor decision making.
Case in point would have been the decision to sign up for this past Saturday’s Xterra Long Course Triathlon. I sure could have used that Head Slapper 2000 to smack some sense into me. What was I thinking? Yes, I have been on the bike quite a bit over the past few months, but not on the one with the knobby tires and big brakes to enable it to scream down rock strewn dirt cow paths at sphincter tightening speeds. Yes, I owned a Mt. Bike with said attributes, but had hardly even glanced at it for the past three years other than a cobweb shakeout ride last Wednesday. I’m sure my Mt. Bike felt like the old girlfriend who got dumped in favor of the hot new French exchange student, not hearing from me for years, only to be called up one night in a drunken stupor and asked what she was doing Saturday morning. And I will leave that analogy right there. You can fill in the rest.
Race morning was fairly uneventful with the rather civilized 9AM race start. I loaded up old Betsy, all shiny with a new coat of lube, onto the bike rack and headed out to Del Valle Reservoir. The event drew relatively small numbers, probably due to the high death consequences associated with the bike leg of the race. I ran into Lee Cannon while registering and later saw Monica Zucker, Chris McCrary, Dave Stark, and Scott Bergman setting up their gear. As I was laying out my stuff, I noticed a rather large, moderately battered gentleman racked near me. I tuned into the conversation around me and found out the guy was a UFC fighter from the Sacramento area. He competed in many of the Xterra events on the circuit. I made a mental note to be very careful whose feet I tapped in the swim or who I challenged on the bike for the good line. I also quietly moved my gear over to give him a tad more space. Hey, all in the name of good sportsmanship (and self preservation), right?
The swim was unremarkable other than the fact it was two loops bookending a painful pebble laced jog down the beach. The other notable aspect of the swim was the water temp. Compared to the shrinkage inducing temperature of Shadowcliffs and from what I heard, the glacial runoff temps of IM Saint George, the water temperature at Del Valle was positively tropical. The mass start of 120 racers was pretty tame compared to some races, I only took one elbow into the ribs, a foot into the kidneys, and an unidentifiable body part into back of my head (maybe that was a tardy head slap?). I kept a weary eye out for Mister UFC, but either he swam with the fishes up front or he had some poor age grouper in a reverse straight arm choke-out back on the beach.
Chris, Lee, and I came out of the swim together, but they had their act together in transition while I sat and tried to remember if the socks were suppose to go on my feet before my shoes. Once I had that puzzle solved, I tried putting gloves on wet hands without much success so I stuffed them in my jersey pockets and headed out. The bike course started out with a fairly flat section paralleling the shoreline, then took a hard right onto singletrack. Not having spent much time on 12 inch wide trails in many years, I freaked out a bit until I realized I was in front of about 6-8 riders and did not have many options other than to suck it up and ride the singletrack with some purpose. Exiting the single track we encountered the first of many, many, MANY hills requiring gearing so low that 5 pedal strokes got you only 1 wheel rotation. I quickly learned I needed to “ride the nose” of my saddle in order to keep enough weight on the rear tire, but also enough weight on the front tire so I did not go ass over teakettle back down the hill. The remainder of the course followed a similar pattern; a section of single track followed by an insanely steep climbing section, then a knuckle whitening descent, rinse, repeat. Just to keep it interesting, the race organizers tried to conserve resources by placing the minimum number of directional signs on the course leading to a comedy of sorts where no two race finishers probably rode the exact same race.
Towards the end of the bike leg, I found myself riding with Chris and Monica, Lee was off the front probably finished with the run and enjoying the post race BBQ. I followed my teammates down the final hills, but they gapped me due to their utter disregard for their own mortality and my healthy respect for my skin, unbroken bones, and continued ability to feed myself. On one rather steep section, somewhere between “steep” and “vertical”, I thought I had a good smooth line to the bottom of the hill so I let off the brakes and put a little trust in old Betsy to get me to the bottom intact. But, then I saw coming up in front of me, parallel ruts in the trail. At this point I had sort of an out of body experience. I was looking down on myself thinking, “wow, that dude down there is really going to eat sh*t, that’s going to really hurt”, but then I was down the hill and still breathing. Old Betsy had pulled me through it.
Fatigued from the bike, I spent longer in T2 than I should trying to remember which foot was my left one so I could put on my running shoes, in the end playing the odds and jamming a shoe on each foot. I exited transition somewhere between a crawl and a shuffle, but was able to crank it up to a jog when I saw a couple of cute spectators cheering me on. I ran by Sharon McCrary working the aid station at mile 3 and she was kind enough to lie to me and tell me Chris was “just up ahead” and “go get him”. If only my legs were still connected to some part of my conscious brain, I might have tried to close the gap, by every vital system including forward propulsion were on autopilot at that point. The race organizers believed hills were good for the soul, so they served up two rather meaty ones for us on the run. I truly believe they would have had us swim up a waterfall if they had had the choice.
By the end of the run, I had ramped up my pace to somewhere between Simon jogging barefoot over broken glass and Steve Chavez running backwards pulling Carrie in a bobsled. I crossed the finish line under the three hour mark, happy that I was still standing, had all of my skin intact and most of my pride, and a sense of satisfaction of finishing without taking a roundhouse to the head from Mr. UFC.
Case in point would have been the decision to sign up for this past Saturday’s Xterra Long Course Triathlon. I sure could have used that Head Slapper 2000 to smack some sense into me. What was I thinking? Yes, I have been on the bike quite a bit over the past few months, but not on the one with the knobby tires and big brakes to enable it to scream down rock strewn dirt cow paths at sphincter tightening speeds. Yes, I owned a Mt. Bike with said attributes, but had hardly even glanced at it for the past three years other than a cobweb shakeout ride last Wednesday. I’m sure my Mt. Bike felt like the old girlfriend who got dumped in favor of the hot new French exchange student, not hearing from me for years, only to be called up one night in a drunken stupor and asked what she was doing Saturday morning. And I will leave that analogy right there. You can fill in the rest.
Race morning was fairly uneventful with the rather civilized 9AM race start. I loaded up old Betsy, all shiny with a new coat of lube, onto the bike rack and headed out to Del Valle Reservoir. The event drew relatively small numbers, probably due to the high death consequences associated with the bike leg of the race. I ran into Lee Cannon while registering and later saw Monica Zucker, Chris McCrary, Dave Stark, and Scott Bergman setting up their gear. As I was laying out my stuff, I noticed a rather large, moderately battered gentleman racked near me. I tuned into the conversation around me and found out the guy was a UFC fighter from the Sacramento area. He competed in many of the Xterra events on the circuit. I made a mental note to be very careful whose feet I tapped in the swim or who I challenged on the bike for the good line. I also quietly moved my gear over to give him a tad more space. Hey, all in the name of good sportsmanship (and self preservation), right?
The swim was unremarkable other than the fact it was two loops bookending a painful pebble laced jog down the beach. The other notable aspect of the swim was the water temp. Compared to the shrinkage inducing temperature of Shadowcliffs and from what I heard, the glacial runoff temps of IM Saint George, the water temperature at Del Valle was positively tropical. The mass start of 120 racers was pretty tame compared to some races, I only took one elbow into the ribs, a foot into the kidneys, and an unidentifiable body part into back of my head (maybe that was a tardy head slap?). I kept a weary eye out for Mister UFC, but either he swam with the fishes up front or he had some poor age grouper in a reverse straight arm choke-out back on the beach.
Chris, Lee, and I came out of the swim together, but they had their act together in transition while I sat and tried to remember if the socks were suppose to go on my feet before my shoes. Once I had that puzzle solved, I tried putting gloves on wet hands without much success so I stuffed them in my jersey pockets and headed out. The bike course started out with a fairly flat section paralleling the shoreline, then took a hard right onto singletrack. Not having spent much time on 12 inch wide trails in many years, I freaked out a bit until I realized I was in front of about 6-8 riders and did not have many options other than to suck it up and ride the singletrack with some purpose. Exiting the single track we encountered the first of many, many, MANY hills requiring gearing so low that 5 pedal strokes got you only 1 wheel rotation. I quickly learned I needed to “ride the nose” of my saddle in order to keep enough weight on the rear tire, but also enough weight on the front tire so I did not go ass over teakettle back down the hill. The remainder of the course followed a similar pattern; a section of single track followed by an insanely steep climbing section, then a knuckle whitening descent, rinse, repeat. Just to keep it interesting, the race organizers tried to conserve resources by placing the minimum number of directional signs on the course leading to a comedy of sorts where no two race finishers probably rode the exact same race.
Towards the end of the bike leg, I found myself riding with Chris and Monica, Lee was off the front probably finished with the run and enjoying the post race BBQ. I followed my teammates down the final hills, but they gapped me due to their utter disregard for their own mortality and my healthy respect for my skin, unbroken bones, and continued ability to feed myself. On one rather steep section, somewhere between “steep” and “vertical”, I thought I had a good smooth line to the bottom of the hill so I let off the brakes and put a little trust in old Betsy to get me to the bottom intact. But, then I saw coming up in front of me, parallel ruts in the trail. At this point I had sort of an out of body experience. I was looking down on myself thinking, “wow, that dude down there is really going to eat sh*t, that’s going to really hurt”, but then I was down the hill and still breathing. Old Betsy had pulled me through it.
Fatigued from the bike, I spent longer in T2 than I should trying to remember which foot was my left one so I could put on my running shoes, in the end playing the odds and jamming a shoe on each foot. I exited transition somewhere between a crawl and a shuffle, but was able to crank it up to a jog when I saw a couple of cute spectators cheering me on. I ran by Sharon McCrary working the aid station at mile 3 and she was kind enough to lie to me and tell me Chris was “just up ahead” and “go get him”. If only my legs were still connected to some part of my conscious brain, I might have tried to close the gap, by every vital system including forward propulsion were on autopilot at that point. The race organizers believed hills were good for the soul, so they served up two rather meaty ones for us on the run. I truly believe they would have had us swim up a waterfall if they had had the choice.
By the end of the run, I had ramped up my pace to somewhere between Simon jogging barefoot over broken glass and Steve Chavez running backwards pulling Carrie in a bobsled. I crossed the finish line under the three hour mark, happy that I was still standing, had all of my skin intact and most of my pride, and a sense of satisfaction of finishing without taking a roundhouse to the head from Mr. UFC.
Monday, November 10, 2008
USAT Olympic Distance Triathlon Age-Group Nationals
Henry Hagg Lake, Portland, Oregon
I’ve been a bit delinquent on recapping an extraordinary weekend of racing against the best short course triathletes in the country. Immediately after returning from Portland, I had to hop on a plane for a short business trip to Chicago. I wish I could have just used the same suitcase as I had already packed for the race, but my clients would probably not be too impressed with me showing up in my tri top and shorts awash in various Gu and Gatorade stains and fermented in a musky ode de Durban. Hence, I was forced to repack the suitcase Sunday night with fresh undies and a few shirts that passed the sniff test.
I had every intention of sitting down over the weekend to recap Nationals, but I was first distracted by Mike and Clancy’s wedding (and frankly, I’m still a bit distracted thinking back to the bridesmaids’ dresses or lack thereof). Despite being a bit chilly outdoors at the Garre winery, when the wedding party entered, I believe the collective core temperatures went up a bit. Clancy and Mike have an eclectic group of friends who seemed to mesh well as the night progressed, helped I assume, by copious amounts of the local wine and little bottles of Patron tequila Mike was distributing. Although I did not see any triathlete Lycra or Spandex, I did spy plenty of leather and lace and more than one tattoo and piercing. By the end of the evening, many of the triathletes were giving the others advice on speedy transitions and the proper use of a Body Glide while they received recommendations for the best place to get M-dot tattoos and naval piercings.
Friday night was a failure, so I thought maybe I could squeeze in some time Saturday or Sunday to write my race report. The twins thought differently. Saturday was spent getting all the family hair trimmed, a task much more arduous and time consuming now that the Twins actually have hair. After surviving the Great Clip-off, we adjourned to Kelby’s 30th B-Day bash to help educate her on how to avoid the pitfalls of old age. It’s sad to think that just last week, Kelby was a vibrant, vivacious, 29 year old woman, with a positive outlook on life, then “wham” she hit 30. We had to delicately explain to her that it was all downhill from there, the best times were behind her, and she now was relegated to nights of falling asleep to Jay Leno, days spent buying Depends at Costco, and driving 40 MPH in the fast lane in a large beige Buick.
I thought I would get up early Sunday to work on my report, but the Twins beat me to the punch sounding the alarm at the butt crack of dawn. Even roosters have the sense to wait until there is some sunlight filtering over the horizon, but my Boys don’t roll that way. At some hour before 6AM, they greeted us with stereophonic screams delivered at the perfectly tuned pitch guaranteed to make the neighborhood dogs howl, loosen the bowels of the most constipated amongst us, and fracture the slim veneer of sanity I had managed to acquire after 4 meager hours of sleep.
Since my better half had to travel out of town leaving me to do my worst Dustin Hoffman impression on Monday, no progress on the race report was made or even attempted.
So, I sit now at my computer, with the memories of my first Nationals experience slowly fading into the chaotic jumble of my sleep deprived memory and attempt to peck out something coherent and witty. Here goes…
Last year, my good friend Jan suggested I go to National Age Group Championships with him. I had already qualified at the Rancho Seco Tri for Real, so I agreed. I planned my 2008 racing season to give me plenty of opportunities to polish my Oly racing skills. My coach, Patricia, returned to keep me focused and grounded. I hit the track with Steve and Carrie and had Simon drag me on weekly tempo runs. I even participated in an Endurance Performance “spin” class with Jan which was about as related to your local 24 Hour Fitness spin class as the Tour de France is related to a local bike race among 5 year olds on Big Wheels. For 90 minutes, I was clipped into my bike atop a Computrainer while my measly wattage output was displayed at the front of the room for all to ridicule and deride. Needless to say, it was a humbling experience, but constructive in that I realized I had some key work to do on my cadence and pedal stroke.
All the training culminated in the big race on September 20th at Hagg Lake near Portland. Jan and I decided to drive up there to avoid having our bikes disassembled by the airline gremlins and gorillas. Rather than taking a leisurely 1 hour flight, we opted for a 10 hour journey interrupted only by the occasional Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast or Arby’s beef and chedder. Our friend, Dave, joined our now two car caravan somewhere north of Sacramento. Somehow, his friends Jim and Lindy had convinced him to bring their bikes up to Portland for them, while they flew. Lucky, for Jim, he was not in Dave’s age group or I could have predicted Jim would have encountered some mysterious bike trouble mid-race.
The drive was fairly uneventful although anytime we smelled anything remotely like smoke, Jan started to tense up (reference my Pacific Crest race report for details). I assured him that I had brought along two fire extinguishers, a couple bottles of water, and in the case of another complete car-b-que, a bag of marshmallows. While Jan drove, I fired up my computer and we enjoyed the award winning “Harold and Kumar go to Guantanamo Bay”. We had to be careful since Jan almost rear-ended the car in front of us during some scenes when he was distracted by the scrotum wig and the untimely demise of Neil Patrick Harris. I would have hated to explain to the police officer why Jan crashed. Well, he was watching this movie see and this scene came on showing this guy with lots of hair…down there…you know what I mean? It looked like this short bald guy with a curly black afro. At that point, I think both of us would be getting a free ride to the local police station.
When we arrived in Portland, we found Moe to our Larry and Curly. Monica MZ joined us for the weekend to represent the Elite team and show us girly men how to race a triathlon and look fabulous doing it. We caught up with her for a fun night at the local Benihana for a little carbo loading of sushi and Sapporo. I made the major gaffe of the evening when a family seated at our table was celebrating a birthday. The waiter set the birthday cake in front of the young boy of the family and his Dad. After the singing, I asked in my best talking to a six year old voice “how old are you today Justin”. Well, it was not the boy’s birthday and the Dad answered in his baritone of a voice “32!”. From that point forward, 32 became the official number of the weekend.
Friday was filled with the usual pre-race preparations. We went out to Hagg lake which despite the advertisements is not anywhere near Portland. I think it was closer to Spokane than Portland. We registered and ran into about 523 people Monica knew, and then did a quick lap of the bike course. As we were toweling off from a short swim following our ride, I witnessed my first public male castration. Some poor schlep who had come to watch the kids and support his triathlete wife failed to move quickly enough for her. Apparently, he was supposed to be stripped down to his bathing suit and standing in the water in order to keep an eye on the kidlets who were playing at the water’s edge. Rather than quietly and discretely discussing her wishes with him, she broadcast it in front of 50 or so athletes. I think she would have been kinder if she had used a dull knife. Even Monica felt sorry for the guy.
Race morning was made extra anxiety ridden with a miles long back-up of cars waiting to park and then another long line of jittery Joes and Janes waiting to get on the bus to take us to the start line. I’m always fascinated by how serious and stressed triathletes are before a race. I’m sure I’m guilty of pre-race jitters, but I do try to remind myself that triathlon is not my job and the experience should be fun, not a chore and not something to chew out some hapless parking volunteer over. I think the poor guy’s intestines are still lying in that field after the evisceration he took at the hands of a not-so-nice age grouper.
Monica suffered a minor concussion when clueless Curt walked down the aisle of the bus with his helmet dangling from his backpack whacking every person on the right side of the bus in the back of the head. Jan and I were just happy that maybe a concussion would slow her down a bit and we would be able to keep our Man Card after the race.
The race was intense. I was able to stay in the middle of my age group throughout the race, picking up a few spots on the bike and the run; one hapless roadkill even met his fate 20 feet from the finish. This was Nationals afterall, so finisher’s chute roadkill was acceptable in my book. Dave and I traded off the lead on the bike what seemed like 20 times. Everytime I would pull a lead on him on one of the climbs, he would blow by me on the downhills. I finally was able to close the lid on him when we got to the run due to some motivation from Jan as he was finishing up and the fact Dave was suffering from a knee injury. He ran an admirable race coming in mere minutes behind me. Monica looked great in all her Diva-esque glory and Jan made all of us proud by qualifying for Worlds with an impressive 13th AG. Dean Harper, also of the Elite team won his age group and Hanns D. finished strong in his AG. I was proud of my race, but I will not be going to World’s next year unless I am motivated to try again in Tuscaloosa, AL. Although I’m not sure racing a triathlon in the backwaters of Alabama in a lycra tri suit with shaved legs is such a good idea. Is that banjo music I hear?
I’ve been a bit delinquent on recapping an extraordinary weekend of racing against the best short course triathletes in the country. Immediately after returning from Portland, I had to hop on a plane for a short business trip to Chicago. I wish I could have just used the same suitcase as I had already packed for the race, but my clients would probably not be too impressed with me showing up in my tri top and shorts awash in various Gu and Gatorade stains and fermented in a musky ode de Durban. Hence, I was forced to repack the suitcase Sunday night with fresh undies and a few shirts that passed the sniff test.
I had every intention of sitting down over the weekend to recap Nationals, but I was first distracted by Mike and Clancy’s wedding (and frankly, I’m still a bit distracted thinking back to the bridesmaids’ dresses or lack thereof). Despite being a bit chilly outdoors at the Garre winery, when the wedding party entered, I believe the collective core temperatures went up a bit. Clancy and Mike have an eclectic group of friends who seemed to mesh well as the night progressed, helped I assume, by copious amounts of the local wine and little bottles of Patron tequila Mike was distributing. Although I did not see any triathlete Lycra or Spandex, I did spy plenty of leather and lace and more than one tattoo and piercing. By the end of the evening, many of the triathletes were giving the others advice on speedy transitions and the proper use of a Body Glide while they received recommendations for the best place to get M-dot tattoos and naval piercings.
Friday night was a failure, so I thought maybe I could squeeze in some time Saturday or Sunday to write my race report. The twins thought differently. Saturday was spent getting all the family hair trimmed, a task much more arduous and time consuming now that the Twins actually have hair. After surviving the Great Clip-off, we adjourned to Kelby’s 30th B-Day bash to help educate her on how to avoid the pitfalls of old age. It’s sad to think that just last week, Kelby was a vibrant, vivacious, 29 year old woman, with a positive outlook on life, then “wham” she hit 30. We had to delicately explain to her that it was all downhill from there, the best times were behind her, and she now was relegated to nights of falling asleep to Jay Leno, days spent buying Depends at Costco, and driving 40 MPH in the fast lane in a large beige Buick.
I thought I would get up early Sunday to work on my report, but the Twins beat me to the punch sounding the alarm at the butt crack of dawn. Even roosters have the sense to wait until there is some sunlight filtering over the horizon, but my Boys don’t roll that way. At some hour before 6AM, they greeted us with stereophonic screams delivered at the perfectly tuned pitch guaranteed to make the neighborhood dogs howl, loosen the bowels of the most constipated amongst us, and fracture the slim veneer of sanity I had managed to acquire after 4 meager hours of sleep.
Since my better half had to travel out of town leaving me to do my worst Dustin Hoffman impression on Monday, no progress on the race report was made or even attempted.
So, I sit now at my computer, with the memories of my first Nationals experience slowly fading into the chaotic jumble of my sleep deprived memory and attempt to peck out something coherent and witty. Here goes…
Last year, my good friend Jan suggested I go to National Age Group Championships with him. I had already qualified at the Rancho Seco Tri for Real, so I agreed. I planned my 2008 racing season to give me plenty of opportunities to polish my Oly racing skills. My coach, Patricia, returned to keep me focused and grounded. I hit the track with Steve and Carrie and had Simon drag me on weekly tempo runs. I even participated in an Endurance Performance “spin” class with Jan which was about as related to your local 24 Hour Fitness spin class as the Tour de France is related to a local bike race among 5 year olds on Big Wheels. For 90 minutes, I was clipped into my bike atop a Computrainer while my measly wattage output was displayed at the front of the room for all to ridicule and deride. Needless to say, it was a humbling experience, but constructive in that I realized I had some key work to do on my cadence and pedal stroke.
All the training culminated in the big race on September 20th at Hagg Lake near Portland. Jan and I decided to drive up there to avoid having our bikes disassembled by the airline gremlins and gorillas. Rather than taking a leisurely 1 hour flight, we opted for a 10 hour journey interrupted only by the occasional Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast or Arby’s beef and chedder. Our friend, Dave, joined our now two car caravan somewhere north of Sacramento. Somehow, his friends Jim and Lindy had convinced him to bring their bikes up to Portland for them, while they flew. Lucky, for Jim, he was not in Dave’s age group or I could have predicted Jim would have encountered some mysterious bike trouble mid-race.
The drive was fairly uneventful although anytime we smelled anything remotely like smoke, Jan started to tense up (reference my Pacific Crest race report for details). I assured him that I had brought along two fire extinguishers, a couple bottles of water, and in the case of another complete car-b-que, a bag of marshmallows. While Jan drove, I fired up my computer and we enjoyed the award winning “Harold and Kumar go to Guantanamo Bay”. We had to be careful since Jan almost rear-ended the car in front of us during some scenes when he was distracted by the scrotum wig and the untimely demise of Neil Patrick Harris. I would have hated to explain to the police officer why Jan crashed. Well, he was watching this movie see and this scene came on showing this guy with lots of hair…down there…you know what I mean? It looked like this short bald guy with a curly black afro. At that point, I think both of us would be getting a free ride to the local police station.
When we arrived in Portland, we found Moe to our Larry and Curly. Monica MZ joined us for the weekend to represent the Elite team and show us girly men how to race a triathlon and look fabulous doing it. We caught up with her for a fun night at the local Benihana for a little carbo loading of sushi and Sapporo. I made the major gaffe of the evening when a family seated at our table was celebrating a birthday. The waiter set the birthday cake in front of the young boy of the family and his Dad. After the singing, I asked in my best talking to a six year old voice “how old are you today Justin”. Well, it was not the boy’s birthday and the Dad answered in his baritone of a voice “32!”. From that point forward, 32 became the official number of the weekend.
Friday was filled with the usual pre-race preparations. We went out to Hagg lake which despite the advertisements is not anywhere near Portland. I think it was closer to Spokane than Portland. We registered and ran into about 523 people Monica knew, and then did a quick lap of the bike course. As we were toweling off from a short swim following our ride, I witnessed my first public male castration. Some poor schlep who had come to watch the kids and support his triathlete wife failed to move quickly enough for her. Apparently, he was supposed to be stripped down to his bathing suit and standing in the water in order to keep an eye on the kidlets who were playing at the water’s edge. Rather than quietly and discretely discussing her wishes with him, she broadcast it in front of 50 or so athletes. I think she would have been kinder if she had used a dull knife. Even Monica felt sorry for the guy.
Race morning was made extra anxiety ridden with a miles long back-up of cars waiting to park and then another long line of jittery Joes and Janes waiting to get on the bus to take us to the start line. I’m always fascinated by how serious and stressed triathletes are before a race. I’m sure I’m guilty of pre-race jitters, but I do try to remind myself that triathlon is not my job and the experience should be fun, not a chore and not something to chew out some hapless parking volunteer over. I think the poor guy’s intestines are still lying in that field after the evisceration he took at the hands of a not-so-nice age grouper.
Monica suffered a minor concussion when clueless Curt walked down the aisle of the bus with his helmet dangling from his backpack whacking every person on the right side of the bus in the back of the head. Jan and I were just happy that maybe a concussion would slow her down a bit and we would be able to keep our Man Card after the race.
The race was intense. I was able to stay in the middle of my age group throughout the race, picking up a few spots on the bike and the run; one hapless roadkill even met his fate 20 feet from the finish. This was Nationals afterall, so finisher’s chute roadkill was acceptable in my book. Dave and I traded off the lead on the bike what seemed like 20 times. Everytime I would pull a lead on him on one of the climbs, he would blow by me on the downhills. I finally was able to close the lid on him when we got to the run due to some motivation from Jan as he was finishing up and the fact Dave was suffering from a knee injury. He ran an admirable race coming in mere minutes behind me. Monica looked great in all her Diva-esque glory and Jan made all of us proud by qualifying for Worlds with an impressive 13th AG. Dean Harper, also of the Elite team won his age group and Hanns D. finished strong in his AG. I was proud of my race, but I will not be going to World’s next year unless I am motivated to try again in Tuscaloosa, AL. Although I’m not sure racing a triathlon in the backwaters of Alabama in a lycra tri suit with shaved legs is such a good idea. Is that banjo music I hear?
Monday, August 18, 2008
My Man Card
After being with my wife Janine for 15 years, I’ve come to the realization, actually came to the realization long ago, that I’m not worthy of my membership in the man club. Occasionally I may open a jar or lift a heavy object (not too heavy mind you) or get us to our destination without asking for directions, but not nearly enough to assuage my fragile male ego and maintain my man certification in good standing.
When faced with a spouse or partner who consistently excels at an athletic pursuit you yourself also dabble in without the stellar results achieved by said spouse, most men resort to buying large trucks, growing a goatee, or riding a Harley Davidson. Oh, well, yes, I did buy and ride that crotch rocket motorcycle for a few years, but that does not count since I sold it to buy a Janine a new triathlon bike so she could go even faster.
What does this have to do with the TBF Tri 4 Real #3 Olympic distance triathlon this past Sunday you may ask? Well, what was left of my brittle id was shattered into tiny little pieces when Janine completed her trifecta of first place age group finishes to win the overall series title. She smashed the competition by over 20 minutes to win. She joins our own Elite triathlete Clancy as a series champion.
I’ve come to grips with the fact that Janine will be on the podium (despite popping out twins less than a year ago, being in Dara Torres age group, and working a full time job) and I will be taking the pictures from the crowd. Really, I’m OK with it, really. I don’t need my man card anymore anyways. What good is it other than for a discount at Hooters or 10% off motor oil at Kragens? I’m still a man, right? Just because my wife schools me everytime we race together doesn’t mean I’m any less of a man, does it? I still have that subscription to Maxim and can fix a leaky faucet (ah, c’mon, I only called my friend Randy twice for help with that faucet). Those things count, don’t they?
A few others joined us for Rancho Seco last weekend. Christy and Patrick were there with Christy going the distance and Patrick doing volunteer duty. Christy raced to a solid 23rd in her AG. Scott B. came out for his first TBF Tri 4 Real and knocked out a 19th AG, 73rd overall. Clancy scored a 4th AG despite more wedding planning than training the last few months. I eeked out a 6th AG and 15th OA with an improvement in my run time I credit to Tuesday morning track workouts and Friday morning tempo runs with Simon.
Janine offered to let me hold her series champion trophy and to even wear her series champion shirt to work on Monday, but these kind gestures were just not enough to repair my ego and restore my membership in the man club. I think my best plan is to accept my fate, be proud of Janine’s accomplishments, and keep training.
Although…I did hear there is a big sale on trucks down at the Chevy dealer.
When faced with a spouse or partner who consistently excels at an athletic pursuit you yourself also dabble in without the stellar results achieved by said spouse, most men resort to buying large trucks, growing a goatee, or riding a Harley Davidson. Oh, well, yes, I did buy and ride that crotch rocket motorcycle for a few years, but that does not count since I sold it to buy a Janine a new triathlon bike so she could go even faster.
What does this have to do with the TBF Tri 4 Real #3 Olympic distance triathlon this past Sunday you may ask? Well, what was left of my brittle id was shattered into tiny little pieces when Janine completed her trifecta of first place age group finishes to win the overall series title. She smashed the competition by over 20 minutes to win. She joins our own Elite triathlete Clancy as a series champion.
I’ve come to grips with the fact that Janine will be on the podium (despite popping out twins less than a year ago, being in Dara Torres age group, and working a full time job) and I will be taking the pictures from the crowd. Really, I’m OK with it, really. I don’t need my man card anymore anyways. What good is it other than for a discount at Hooters or 10% off motor oil at Kragens? I’m still a man, right? Just because my wife schools me everytime we race together doesn’t mean I’m any less of a man, does it? I still have that subscription to Maxim and can fix a leaky faucet (ah, c’mon, I only called my friend Randy twice for help with that faucet). Those things count, don’t they?
A few others joined us for Rancho Seco last weekend. Christy and Patrick were there with Christy going the distance and Patrick doing volunteer duty. Christy raced to a solid 23rd in her AG. Scott B. came out for his first TBF Tri 4 Real and knocked out a 19th AG, 73rd overall. Clancy scored a 4th AG despite more wedding planning than training the last few months. I eeked out a 6th AG and 15th OA with an improvement in my run time I credit to Tuesday morning track workouts and Friday morning tempo runs with Simon.
Janine offered to let me hold her series champion trophy and to even wear her series champion shirt to work on Monday, but these kind gestures were just not enough to repair my ego and restore my membership in the man club. I think my best plan is to accept my fate, be proud of Janine’s accomplishments, and keep training.
Although…I did hear there is a big sale on trucks down at the Chevy dealer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
