Big Sur Marathon 2007 Report

(OK, you asked for it. Here’s the full race report from Sunday’s Big Sur Marathon. It’s a long one – but you must have expected that.

I’m not sure if I’ll get around to posting again before I leave for Wildflower on Friday. If not, I’ll post my results here as soon as possible, with a report to follow next week.

And if you’re one of the thousands of people at Wildflower this weekend … I’ll be the tall, awkward-looking guy with a loopy grin and a black race uniform like you saw in the previous post. Feel free to say hi if we happen to cross paths.)

***

From time to time, someone will ask me what it is about running that I find so attractive. I usually reply with the laundry list of standard answers – health benefits, alone time, stress relief, and so on.

By the time I mention that races are also a nice competitive outlet, I’ve lulled the listener into believing that this final aspect is merely a bonus, like the “director’s comments” feature on a DVD – not something you’d purchase separately, but since it comes along with everything else, you may as well use it.

The real answer is a far different, and much simpler truth: competition is the lifeblood of my racing experience.

That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy all those other benefits of training. But when I’m lining up at the start of a race, I’m ready to run (or swim or ride – but that’s for another day) right into the fire, and my performance is the only thing that matters. Sometimes the competition is against others – but more likely, it’s a competition against the course, against the clock, or against my own inner demons. When it comes to inconsequential crusades, I’m the Don Quixote of running.

Last Sunday’s Big Sur Marathon was an example of how I sometimes fight all of these battles simultaneously. And just how slim the margin between success and failure can be.

I also spent a lot of time during the race thinking about opportunities, with three main premises:

1) Some opportunities just present themselves to take advantage of, whether you’re ready to respond or not.
2) Others can be created by our own actions, and …
3) Some may be hard to recognize, because they are disguised as painful or unpleasant circumstances.

During the course of the morning, I’d have experience with all three types.

Here’s an example of the first type of opportunity: Conditions on race morning were as nice as we could ask for. Air temperature was about 50 degrees at the start, with fog and moderate breezes for miles 6-20, and overcast skies at the finish. (In other words, it was a “no excuses” day by Big Sur standards – and if I couldn’t meet my goals, I wouldn’t have the weather to blame.)

The next opportunity I found was in the form of my friend Andrew, who I’ve referenced in previous posts. Normally, he and I shake hands on the start line, the gun sounds, and I watch him vanish into the distance ahead of me. But for whatever reason, he decided to cruise the first few miles this year – and I jumped at the chance to have him pull me along.

In my newspaper article (two posts ago), I wrote that those first two miles were the easiest 6-minute miles I’ve ever run. What I didn’t say was that for the most part, Andrew didn’t know I was there. When I saw that he wasn’t pulling away, I sped up a bit to tuck in behind him, and ran as silently as I could manage. That was my competitive instinct kicking in – a little voice telling me to use the situation to my advantage for as long as possible, without wasting time or effort on civilized things like companionship or small talk we could have had if we were running side by side. (I’m never much for small talk – as I’ll describe more in a minute).

I knew I shouldn’t hang with him for too long, though, so I drifted back as he eased into his customary race pace by mile 3. But that initial momentum was enough of a boost to help me click off the first 5 miles well ahead of my average pace, while still feeling very comfortable.

Miles 6-9 are mostly uphill, and entirely exposed to the wind, which was starting to blow fairly strongly in our faces. That’s where I found my next opportunity, in the pair of out-of-town first-time Big Sur runners I mentioned in the Herald article – one from Maine, one from Chicago.

The three of us were somewhat isolated from other packs of runners, so I was trying to keep a low profile and get as much drafting assistance as I could through this stretch, without having to pull at the front too often. And when they asked me if I knew anything about the course, I wanted to disappear completely.

Actually, that’s not entirely accurate – what I really wanted to do was lie. I wanted to say, “Nope – it’s my first time” and continue letting them think I was naïve. The last thing I wanted was to tell them that I’ve run the course more than a dozen times – because I didn’t want to open the door to several follow-up questions.

I know it sounds arrogant, but there’s no way I was going to get chatty at mile 7 of the Big Sur Marathon. I didn’t want to waste my breath, and I didn’t want to give the impression that I knew what I was doing – because I was afraid that the other guys would start setting their pace off of me, instead of vice-versa. Part of pack running is a poker game, where you try to sense how others in the group are doing, without revealing your own hand until you can make a decisive move. Telling these guys my story would be like announcing a pair of face cards at the table.

I settled on the morally defensible position of not lying – but not showing my cards, either. I gave my “it gets harder” line, then quickly followed that with, “I hope I’m not going out too fast” - which was misleading, but not untrue - just to plant some uncertainty in their heads. We stayed together until the base of Hurricane Point at mile 10, at which time I pulled away, and never saw them again.

(Thanks for the lift, fellas. Have I mentioned that I can be a little competitive sometimes?)

It was shortly after this episode – and perhaps due to some kind of runner’s karma after my deception – that I had my first “Uh-Oh” moment of the race, on the downside of Hurricane Point toward the midway point at Bixby Bridge. Along this downhill stretch, I started to feel soreness in my quadriceps.

Pain in my quads isn’t unusual during the last 10K of a marathon. But during mile 13, it’s cause for concern. I was wondering what the impact of my low mileage training would be, and I think this was where it became evident. My 40ish miles per week of running hadn’t adequately prepared my body for that kind of pounding in nearly the same way that one month of 80-mile weeks would have.

So I was a bit nervous as I cruised across the Bixby Bridge, glanced at the 1:28 split on my watch, and realized I had a small halftime lead. Given the condition of my legs, I had no idea if I could maintain the pace.

Miles 13-22 consisted of many little opportunities that I created for myself. Although I was reeling people in fairly consistently, I also got passed a handful of times by runners who looked much stronger than I felt. Each time that happened, I cranked up my intensity level just one notch, to try and match strides and/or draft the person for as long as I could.

It was a calculated risk. Increasing my effort through this section increased the chance that I would hit the wall later on – but the time that I might gain could be enough to offset whatever I would lose in Carmel Highlands (miles 22-24). My competitive side played a role here as well - otherwise I might have just stayed comfortable for as long as possible. But on Sunday, I made a conscious decision to keep pace with as many people as possible, and to make each little opportunity build upon the one before. I was also praying that I would be ready to respond to that opportunity when I needed it most.

This stretch was where the race became very difficult - my quads were hurting, my legs were heavy, my energy felt drained – but I managed to maintain mile splits of 6:40-6:55, which meant I was still running at just under three-hour pace. I knew it wouldn’t last for the duration of the race, but I wanted to make my time cushion as large as possible before I got the beatdown that awaited me in the Highlands. I hit the 20-mile mark at 2:14 and change, meaning I needed a 45-minute 10K to break three hours.

I don’t know what else to say about Carmel Highlands that I haven’t already written. Punishing? Merciless? Backbreaking? Demoralizing? I’ve used all of these descriptions in previous years. And they were all applicable again this year. There were countless stretches when I wanted to stop and walk, wanted to stretch my legs at the side of the road, wanted to scream in pain and despair.

However, one primary difference this year is that I sort of welcomed the darkness of those miles, instead of dreading them. I mean, I’ve written about the strong emotions and desperate passion I experience in the Highlands so many times, that a small, twisted part of me wanted to revisit that part of the race to analyze it in more detail. It was like I was fact-checking all of those powerful feelings, and mile 23 was the only place I could go to confirm them.

(Sorry, that’s a strange tangent to throw at you this far into the report. Can you tell that those miles drive me crazy?)

I managed to keep running all the way through this section, although my pace had slowed to about 7:30 miles. At the 24 mile mark, I had 16 minutes to run 2.2 miles and break three hours: Game....On.

When I saw those numbers, I was absolutely certain of two things: 1) The last two miles were going to hurt like crazy, and 2) There was no effing way I was going to miss breaking three hours.

Part of this resolve was my competitive side: I had simply battled too many things for too many hours to back down now. I was fighting the course that always manages to punish my body and break my spirit. I was racing the clock that told me I didn’t have what it takes to catch it any more. And I was shouting down the small voice in the back of my head that said I’d be just as happy settling for the easy way out.

The other thought that kept me running was recognizing the opportunity amidst the crisis.

When I first broke three hours here (four years ago), I thought it was a breakthrough performance that ensured future success whenever I came back to try again. But the next year, the weather was bad and I ran a few minutes slower. The year after that, I was on pace for most of the race, and collapsed towards the end (guess where!) before coming up short. And last year, I ran a very solid race, but only managed 3:01. Over the past year, I occasionally found myself wondering if I could do it again.

The point is, I had realized that nothing is guaranteed: certain opportunities only come along every so often - if ever - and when they do, you have to be ready to commit every ounce of yourself to capitalize on them.

I knew that being on pace to break three hours at Big Sur with two miles remaining wasn’t something I could count on happening another day. What initially felt like a crisis (the pain of the next two miles) was really an opportunity I might not see again. There was no doubt whatsoever about what I had to do.

I raced to the finish line with 10 seconds to spare, and suddenly, all of those little things that happened during the race became big things in the final analysis. Ten seconds. The extra time I gained by drafting my friend in the first two miles. The time saved by staying focused instead of becoming a tour guide from miles 6-10. Ten seconds. Each time I strained to keep up with a passing runner when I felt like staying comfortable. Every time I resisted the temptation to walk during the dark miles in the Highlands.

Ten seconds. My margin of error in a three-hour race.

I’m not exactly proud of being such a competitive dude when I’ve got my game face on, but I know one thing for certain: if I hadn’t been, I would be sitting here writing about how I just barely missed my goal time again. So I can’t honestly say I have any regrets in that regard. Sure, I’ll probably spend time in some sort of runners’ purgatory some day, but for the time being, my Machiavellian approach to racing seems to work just splendidly.

On that note, I’d be remiss to end this report without describing something else happened as I crossed the finish line: I went completely bonkers.

I’m normally a pretty reserved guy who keeps his thoughts to himself (well, except for this blog – but that’s too complicated to explain right now) and his feelings in check. But when I saw the finish line and knew I would make it, I simply let loose and let my emotions take over.

I pumped both fists into the air and let out a yell that would make a rock star proud. I passed through the chute saying “Yes!” and “All right!”, slapping high-fives and giving hugs to all the volunteers, and generally carrying on like those ladies on the Oprah show on the day she gave all of them a car.

It was a moment of pure bliss – and it was worth all of the pain and suffering that preceded it. I don’t know any other feeling like it – a combination of joy and satisfaction and pride and relief, with a dose of humility (since, all of a sudden, I couldn't walk normally anymore) thrown in for good measure. In that moment lies the convergence of preparation, determination, and opportunity, and it represents everything I love about racing in general, and the Big Sur Marathon in particular.

It was a moment I’ll remember forever – and one I’ll try to duplicate every time I race.

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Exhausted

I meant to have a Big Sur report posted today; but what started out as a "rest day" at home gave way to a couple of errands, a 30-minute dip in the ocean, and several hours of work on our outdoor remodeling project. Then I finally sat down to start my race report ... and about two paragraphs into it, I fell asleep in the chair.

Apparently the race made me somewhat exhausted. Marathons tend to do that.

Anyway, I need at least a 24-hour continuance before filing my Big Sur report. However, I do have something else to share from the race. It's a picture that was taken a few minutes before the start:


I've mentioned my friend and writing partner Mike several times, and - just so you don't think he's my Mr Snuffleupagus - I'm posting a picture of him here to prove that he really exists. He's the guy on the left. He ran 3:13 on Sunday at age 60.

The guy in the middle is Andrew, the one I drafted for a couple of miles before he dropped me on his way to a 2:55 marathon. Keep in mind, he was taking it easy on Sunday - he's run the Big Sur course more than 10 minutes faster than that. He's just an animal, and one of the best training partners I could ask for.

Andrew's also modeling the latest uniform of our running club, which has been the object of some local debate due to it's, um, "distinctive" color. I think it looks terrible. Mike and Andrew like it. I think they might be color blind.

As for the guy on the right ... you already know him. He's the guy who snuck in under the wire at three hours, and owes you a race report soon. Right after he catches up on some sleep.

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Scenes From a Marathon: 2007

"Pain - I can't get enough -
Pain - I like it rough - 'cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all ... "
- Three Days Grace, "Pain"

And so begins post-race day 1.

I can barely walk right now. To answer your question, Mike - No, the race didn't hurt a little bit ... it hurt a LOT.

But the pain is all muscle soreness - no blisters or injuries or weird joint things going on, so that's good. And I've always found post-race pain to be reassuring, in a strange way - it's like confirmation that I really gave a maximal effort and pushed my body to the limit. I'd honestly be bummed out if I didn't have pain today.

So I'll walk around a bit this morning and start working the soreness out. I might also spend about 20 minutes sitting in our 55-degree ocean for another effective cold-water bath.

And then I'll sit down and type a race report, hopefully for posting here on Tuesday (but maybe Wednesday). In the meantime, here's the post-race report my friend Mike and I wrote for today's Monterey Herald. A couple of the items reference a column we wrote on Saturday which I didn't post here, about how to be a good marathon spectator. I'll post that one sometime as well.


*******

Running Life 4/30/07 “Scenes From a Marathon”

The 22^nd running of the Big Sur Marathon is history, and it was a fantastic morning for everyone involved. We’re leaving it to the legitimate reporters to tell you about the winners, while we’re reporting some “inside stories” from the middle of the pack that otherwise might have fallen through the cracks.

Here are some scenes from the 2007 Big Sur Marathon:

Test that toothpaste: About 15 minutes before the race start, one of the female elite runners was spotted vigorously brushing her teeth in the bushes on the side of the road – for about 10 minutes. If she had won the race, we would have been suspicious of something besides fluoride on that brush. We’d also be trying the same thing ourselves next year.

We’re all doves: Big Sur has the classiest opening ceremony of any marathon we’ve seen. Between the Marine Corps color guard, the bagpipe player, the benediction, and the National Anthem, it’s a guaranteed goosebump situation.

They also release 26 doves, who take off and circle the canyons of Pfeiffer State Park. When they leave the box, the birds almost seem disoriented, which makes us wonder about what kind of morning they’ve had. Sure, everyone worries about the runners, but those doves also had to get up pretty early, and they too are facing a long journey to get back to their homes.

These are the kind of thoughts runners distract themselves with at the start line, instead of thinking about the 26 miles of road ahead. That is … until the gun goes off.

It’s nice to have big, fast friends: Our friend Andrew is over 6’ tall, and blazing fast. He decided to take it easy during the first miles of the race, so Donald tucked right behind him and drafted his way to the smoothest, easiest 6-minute miles he’s ever run. Andrew was also wearing an orange shirt – more on this later.

Obvious advice: During mile 5, Donald was in a pack with two other runners – one from Chicago, one from Maine. Neither one had run Big Sur before, which led to this conversation …

Chicago runner: Do either of you guys know about the course?

Maine runner: I think there are some hills. (To Donald) What do you think?

Donald: Um … yeah. It gets harder from here.

Put bib numbers on them!: Near the Point Sur lighthouse, the cattle were restless. More than 100 cattle were running north and south in the large roadside pasture. When Donald came by, the cattle were headed north – at a faster pace than he was. It’s not exactly encouraging to get outrun by a 700-lb heifer.

The new black?: We couldn’t help but notice the large amount of orange clothing this year. The mens’ race shirts are rust orange; the new race uniforms of Monterey’s running club are orange; and we counted a ton of orange jerseys by Asics or Nike. In fact, this was a topic of conversation between us while waiting for the morning bus – Donald hates the new shirts, while Mike likes them. Does the Herald have a fashion columnist? We need a tiebreaking opinion on this one.

Editors are pretty smart: Herald sports editor Dave Kellogg ran last year’s marathon, and did the 10-mile walk this year. When Mike passed him this year, Dave shouted, “The 10-mile is easier!” Observant guy, that Dave.

Convincing evidence that not very many people read our column: On Saturday, we pleaded with spectators to not yell “Almost there!” when runners went by. Sadly, we heard a ton of “Almost there!” cheers throughout the course – even as far south as Point Sur.

On the other hand … : We also suggested that “Nice buns!” would be a great cheer, and each of us heard this several times from race walkers along the course. We may have created a monster with this one.

Take nothing for granted: At about mile 17, Donald ran alongside a friend of his who was working as a bicycle medic. They had the following conversation:

Medic: Are you doing the whole marathon?

Donald: Well … so far I am.

Our favorite signs: At the finish line, Mike’s 3-year-old grandson Jeremy held a sign that said GO on one side, and STOP on the other. He turned it from Go to Stop when Mike crossed the line.

Donald’s father-in-law is a contractor. So when he saw his three kids standing on the Carmel River Bridge holding GO DADDY signs made of reinforced poster board fastened with galvanized nuts, washers, and bolts to a broomstick, with handles made of pipe insulation wrapped in electrical tape, he knew right away who helped the kids make them.

Where’d all these sharks come from?: Last year, Donald ran 3:01 and won an age group award. This year, he ran 2 minutes faster, and finished 7^th in the same age group. On Sunday, Mike broke the course record for 60-year-olds, but came in second to another 60-year-old who ran six minutes faster.

The Big Sur Marathon used to be a nice small-pond event for local runners to collect some awards and feel like big fish for a day. Now it’s like there’s a new inlet to our little pond, and a lot of big, fast fish are swimming here from out of town and eating up our shrimp flakes.

Actually, we don’t have any hard feelings about getting beaten at our favorite race – because it doesn’t detract at all from the enjoyment and satisfaction we find on race day.

Congratulations to everybody who completed the marathon on Sunday. You all have reason to be very proud. Let’s do it again next year!

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2:59:50

"Done, done, on to the next one -
Done, I'm done, and I'm on to the next one ... "
- Foo Fighters, "All My Life"

Here's the executive summary: Sub-three. Just barely. But it counts - I got it done. Pack your massage table, Carrie.

I'll post more later, but first I've got to hammer out a Monterey Herald article for Monday's paper. I'll post that one here as well, hopefully sometime tomorrow.

Honestly, if you're really dying to know how the race went, just scroll back a couple of posts to my "Anatomy of an Upset." My race played out in exactly the same manner I described - so accurately that I could probably just re-publish it under the title "Big Sur Race Report" and it would be 100% accurate.

I had no idea I would be so clairvoyant with that post. Maybe I should start my own cable access show or something.

At any rate, I'll get a couple of post-race reports up here soon. But right now I've got an appointment with an ice bath.

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Crazy in Love

(Admin note: I sat down to organize some final thoughts before Sunday’s race, and before I knew it, out came this post that was way more philosophical and sentimental than I anticipated. I swear, I turn into a lunatic when I’m tapering.

Anyway, this is my last post before Big Sur. See you on the other side.)

***

This may sound strange, but I’m starting to remember why I love the marathon. Then again, maybe it’s not so strange - considering that I pretty much predicted (in this post) that this would happen.

At the beginning of the week I wrote about how Big Sur kind of snuck up on me, and it was the truth. I was so focused on Wildflower and tri-training that I hadn’t really considered what I’d do to prepare for this weekend’s marathon. I maintained a high volume of training until just the past several days, when I started tapering as a token acknowledgement of the task at hand on Sunday.

Of course, my mind became excessively idle once I started tapering (as evidenced by back-to-back 1200-word posts), and I spent more time thinking about Big Sur. I looked at the race website for the first time in almost two months. I re-read old newspaper articles I have written about the race. I scanned blog posts from others who were preparing for this year’s race. And as I did, I sensed all of my burning ambitions and stubborn insecurities and fond memories bubbling to the surface again, and they felt just as strong as ever.

Gradually, it hit me: Big Sur is my race. It’s shaped and defined me more than any other event over the past decade. It’s become a part of me.

Year after year, this race presents me with a challenge (sub-three hours) that is perfectly situated between unattainable and commonplace, in an event (the marathon) that is - for too many reasons to list here - singularly dear to my heart, in a location (the Big Sur coastline) that is equal parts inspirational and humbling. And it all takes place within 20 minutes of my house.

Every time I think about it, it seems like it’s simply part of the grand design for me to have settled down on the Monterey Peninsula, and to have participated in this race year after year. In which case, it’s almost disrespectful to turn my back on it, or give it anything less than my best effort.

It’s a gift for me to be a runner, and a gift to live where I do, and a gift to have such a fantastic race right outside my door. Under those circumstances - as Steve Prefontaine famously said - to give anything less than my best is to sacrifice the gift.

So I want to run well at Big Sur. Whether that means going under three hours, or having a strong run that comes up a bit short, or facing difficult conditions and coming in much slower, doesn’t really matter. I want to give an effort I can be proud of - without making excuses afterward about how I didn’t want to push very hard, or how I was saving myself for another event on another day.

In other words, I’m not going to worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow has enough worries of its own.

When it comes to my preparation for Wildflower, going for broke at Big Sur is a pretty crazy strategy. But I guess love makes you do crazy things.

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Anatomy of an Upset

Have you ever watched a major upset in some sporting event? You know - the type of game where one team is generally considered to have absolutely no chance against a bigger, stronger, more talented team – but somehow they scrape and claw their way to an improbable victory? It happens a lot in college football (like when my UCLA Bruins beat USC last fall – I’m still not sure how that happened), or in the NCAA hoops tournament when a small conference team goes up against a traditional powerhouse.

If you watch a lot of sports – like me - you’ll see it happen quite often. If you’re also someone who has run a lot of races – like me – you begin to identify with the underdog story when facing a difficult challenge. And that’s the context that I’m using to discuss my strategy for this weekend’s Big Sur Marathon. But before I talk about the race, first consider the anatomy of an upset, when you’re cheering for the underdog …

Before the game, you’re just hoping it won’t be a ridiculous blowout, and that your team will make a respectable showing. The other team looks completely intimidating, and you wonder if your guys even deserve to be on the same field (or court).

Then the game starts, and you score a few quick points that briefly stun the other team, but you can tell that they’re not too concerned about it. Through the first half, your team plays out of its mind, and keeps the game much closer than anyone imagined. They might even have a small lead at halftime, but you know there’s almost no chance that they’ll be able to duplicate that effort in the second half.

Towards the end of the third quarter and into the fourth, the sleeping giant finally awakens, starts pushing your guys around and scoring with ease, and it looks like your team has finally run out of gas. But the underdog continues to fight, and the contest stays tight. Midway through the 4th quarter, you look at the scoreboard, and for the first time, an unlikely thought crosses your mind: your team actually has a chance to win this thing.

During the final minutes, as they’re clinging to a slim lead, you see something in the eyes of your players. They’ve come too far and fought too hard to come away empty-handed. They pick each other off the ground, slap each other on the back between plays, and even though they’re running on fumes, they somehow crank up the intensity one more notch. It’s like they’ve collectively decided, no effing way do we lose this game now.

The seconds tick away and the pressure mounts, until the contest is finally over – and to everyone’s disbelief (including your own), your guys found a way to hang on. Probably 9 other times out of ten they wouldn’t be able to, but on this day, they did. And as you watch the celebration, you can’t help thinking to yourself – is this really happening? Did we really just win?

Whether you’re a player or a fan, it’s one of the greatest feelings in sports. It’s the same feeling I’m hoping to capture at this weekend’s race.

I honestly don’t expect to run under three hours, for reasons I discussed last time. But that doesn’t mean there’s no chance of it happening. In fact, it could play out just like an upset on the football field. Here’s how I see it going down …

The first 4 miles of the Big Sur Marathon are mostly downhill. I’m smart enough to not go crazy here, but I will definitely put a little bit of time in the bank early on – kind of like returning the opening kickoff for a touchdown. It’s not enough to determine the outcome, but it provides a little spark of hope.

Miles 5-8 are gradually uphill, but it’s still early enough in the race that I’ll have a lot of energy, and I’ll be able to find packs of runners I can draft. This is where I start working harder, but I shouldn’t lose too much time here. Miles 9 and 10 are sharply up and down: one slow mile and one fast one that pretty much cancel each other out from a pace standpoint. Which brings me to the base of Hurricane Point.

Climbing Hurricane Point during miles 11-12, I mentally shift into race mode, and let myself work at a high effort level. I’ll lose a couple of minutes over the two-mile climb, but I’ll gain some of it back on the 1-mile downhill. By the halfway point at Bixby Bridge, I’ll be clinging to a slight time advantage – but very uncertain as to whether I can sustain it for the entire race (that whole "bridge to the unknown" idea).

I’ll keep a strong pace for the next few miles, before the key stretch of road during miles 16-23. The relentless hills simply wear a runner down, like when the favored team storms back and starts beating down the upstart team. If I fall off of sub-three pace, this is undoubtedly where it will happen.

But I’ll continue fighting, and trying to keep the margin tight. And if I somehow survive those miles with a slim time advantage … that’s when things will get interesting.

There will come a point in the final 3 or 4 miles when I’ll look at my watch and think – hey – I’m still pretty close. I’ve still got a chance. And if you happen to be near enough to me in that last 5K to look into my eyes, you’ll see a noticeable change. When I’m that close to the finish after that kind of effort, my resolve stiffens, and I tell myself, no effing way am I screwing up this race now.

The minutes and seconds will tick away, but I’ll continue to scrape and claw my way toward the finish, utilizing every ounce of energy I have at my disposal. (In this scenario, Wildflower won’t be a factor in my exertion. Not one bit.) Somehow, I’ll find a way to hang on to the pace. I’ll cross the line in under three hours, then marvel at how I was able to manage it, as a volunteer keeps my legs from collapsing in the finishing chute.

At least … that’s one way it could happen. Probably nine times out of ten, the race doesn’t play out that way. It’s more likely that I’ll fall so far behind by the time I hit the last 10K that there’s no hope of making up enough time to break three-hours – and at that point, I’ll just cruise to the finish with a solid effort level, and be satisfied with whatever time I get.

But occasionally, and sometimes when you least expect it, everything works out just the way you hope. You have to be prepared to capitalize on the opportunity if it arises – really, that’s what marathon training is all about.

Because you never know when upsets are going to happen. The only thing you know for certain is that inevitably, every now and then, they will.

Hopefully Sunday will be one of those days.

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The Experiment

"One night, and one more time -
Thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories ... "
- Fall Out Boy, "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs"

One year ago, I used a lot of this space to ponder the notion of a sub-three hour marathon, and the likelihood that I would ever be able to do it again. Then after a rain-soaked 3:03 at Napa, and a near-miss 3:01 at Big Sur (see reports at right), I probably spent even more blog space lamenting the missed opportunities.

If you weren’t reading my blog back then – trust me, it’s not worth going back through the archives to get up to speed. Just understand that it involved a lot of hand-wringing and insignificant rambling (long-time readers are nodding their heads right now), and that I eventually came to terms with the outcomes – at least, that’s what I tell my therapist.

But now the Big Sur Marathon approaches again, and the question looms: how fast am I going to run it? Will I come close to 3-hours? And - most importantly, from your standpoint - if I don’t, am I going to subject you to another series of melancholy posts about what might have been?

The short answers are: I have no idea; I sure hope so; and (thankfully) not a chance. For the longer versions, keep reading.

In more than 10 years of marathoning, I’ve never gone into a race with a poorer sense of my capability than the race I’m running this weekend. That’s not necessarily a bad thing – it’s just unfamiliar. And yes, the responsibility for this lies squarely on my triathlon training.

Typically when I’m preparing for a marathon, I have a consistent buildup of mileage, with benchmark workouts to give me a sense of how fast I am in comparison to previous seasons (I don’t keep track of every workout, but one or two primary ones on a weekly basis). The race outcome is usually predicted in the numbers - for example, if I run 80 miles a week, and my 13-mile marathon-pace runs are under 90 minutes, and if I’ve done several workouts of mile repeats at 6-minute pace, I know that I’ll probably be close to three hours in the marathon.

This year, all of those calculations may as well be tossed out the window. I haven’t run nearly as much mileage as in previous years, on account of all the time I’ve spent on the bike and in the pool. And I don’t have any experience preparing for a marathon-Half IM double to compare with my current level of fitness.

Essentially, this weekend’s marathon is a grand experiment, revolving around a crucial question: For marathon success, is it better to be a dedicated high-mileage runner, or a moderate-mileage runner with good all-around conditioning? I don’t know the answer – and that’s why I have no idea how fast I’ll run.

I have some reason to be optimistic. I’ve managed to do long runs on a fairly consistent basis, topping out at 23 miles 2 weeks ago. The workouts I keep track of (marathon-pace runs and track intervals) are all faster than I did last year. My body weight is looking at the underside of 180lbs for the first time in a couple of years. I don’t have any nagging injuries threatening to derail me.

However, my skeptical side instills reason for concern. My highest running week was 65 miles – and that was back in February. Since then, weekly mileage has alternated between low 50s and mid-30s, depending on whether I did a long run or bike ride on Saturday. Yes, 20-mile runs are good, but I don’t think a 20-mile run at the end of a 50-mile week taxes your legs nearly as much as a 20-miler at the end of an 80-mile week.

I used to be a 40 mile per week runner; not coincidentally, those were the same years that I was a 3:20-3:30 marathoner. It wasn’t until I bumped my mileage up to the 70s and 80s that my marathon times dropped significantly and I started running sub-three hours – so that’s the training model I’ve come to rely upon. The idea that I might still run a fast marathon on 40 miles per week just seems counterintuitive. Although stranger things have happened, I guess.

(I actually have a strategy of how this might happen – which will be the topic of my next post.)

As far as what my reaction will be after the race – well, on that topic I’m fairly certain. It’s not going to bother me at all. The nice thing about having no expectations is that there’s no reason to be disappointed.

If the race plays out well and I end up breaking three hours, obviously I’ll be ecstatic. But if I give the race an honest effort and end up running 3:15 or 3:20, I think I’ll be OK with that. And if I come breathtakingly close and finish in 3:01 … well, I’ve been there before, too.

Remember, this race is a booty call: something to keep me occupied for a while, before I return my energy and attention to my primary interest (Wildflower) the following weekend. Booty calls always feel good at the time; it’s only when you start analyzing them afterwards that you become dissatisfied with your actions.

So I pledge that that won’t happen here. Not this year. I’ll take whatever Big Sur has to offer, then say “Thank you, Ma’am,” before slipping out the back door and taking my bike for a spin the next day.

But if you're a big fan of the anguish that comes from this blog sometimes ... don't worry, I'm sure it will be back before you know it.

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