Wildflower 2007 Report: Now I Know Why

Admin note: I feel like I need to make a public safety announcement here, because you’re about to enter a “high risk of eye strain” zone ahead. This is the longest post I’ve ever written – so if your boss isn’t standing by the printer, you may be better off putting this one on paper and taking it on a coffee break (or, perhaps more fittingly, a bathroom break) – then coming back to comment when you’re done. Or read it in small doses, taking time to do some neck and shoulder stretches in between segments. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

(And this is just a half-IM report. God help us when we get to the Ironman this summer. OK, let's get to it ... )

******

“And if your heart stops beating, I’ll be here wondering –
Did you get what you deserve?”
- My Chemical Romance, “Dead!”

This year was the 25th annual Wildflower festival of triathlons, and the slogan for the 2007 event – as seen in advertisements, the race program, and on participant t-shirts – is “Find Out Why.”

As in, find out why this race attracts more than 10,000 triathletes every year. Find out why these races (a half-IM, Olympic, and short course off-road) are almost unanimously regarded as the toughest races of their distance in America. Find out why Lake San Antonio and southern Monterey County are a picture-perfect setting for a spring triathlon.

Or in my case, find out why it’s extremely foolish to try the long course triathlon only 6 days after racing one of the most rugged road marathons in the country.

Another noteworthy attraction of this year’s race is that it served as a kind of Bloggapalooza, drawing a large number of running or tri-bloggers from all over the country. This turned out to be a very cool bonus feature, as I’ll explain at the end of the post. But for now, let’s move on to the report.

The short version of my race report is that Wildflower simply got the better of me. My legs hadn’t nearly recovered enough from the beating I gave them at Big Sur, and I paid the price in the later stages of the race. There’s an old saying that some days you’re the hammer, and some days you’re the nail. Well, I came to Wildflower thinking I’d try to be a hammer, but I ended up being a nail instead.

Actually, even that description isn’t quite accurate. You know how sometimes you’ll pound a nail in about two-thirds of the way, then it ends up going a little crooked, but it’s already too far into the wood to bother pulling out, so you just pound on it over and over again as hard as you can, and end up completely smashing and deforming the thing below the surface of the wood before finally letting it rest?

During the final miles of the race, that was me: Donald, the crooked nail, getting pummeled into oblivion about two-thirds of the way through Wildflower.

So it turns out that I’m not superhuman, after all – which even though I kind of suspected all along, I guess I needed to prove to myself, so I wouldn’t have any misconceptions during my buildup to an Ironman race this summer.

But just because Wildflower didn’t go as well as I hoped, that doesn’t mean I didn’t have a great time there. In fact, the whole day turned out to be very rewarding – which brings us to the long version of the report.

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Pre Race: Don’t look at anyone

When I was a freshman on my college rowing team, our coach gave us some advice before our first big regatta that I’ve never forgotten. The advice was, “Don’t look at anyone.”

What he meant was that when you look at other teams during pre-race preparations, everybody looks fast. It’s easy to get intimidated and think you don’t belong in the race, and it’s easy to discount the amount of time and effort you’ve put into being there. So the best policy is to simply not look at anybody.

I think of this whenever I’m getting settled in the transition area at triathlons, because when I look around, everybody looks fast. It seems like triathletes – much more so than runners – strive for a certain “look” when it comes to wearing the right clothes and having the right gear, and if you don’t play along with the game, it’s easy to feel like you don’t belong there. This is especially true at Wildflower, which hosts some of the best athletes in the country. Even though I’m a better than average triathlete, and even though I know I’ll probably go faster than many of the hotshots I see in the transition area, I still get intimidated when I look around too much.

So next time, I’m following my old coach’s advice: I’m not looking at anyone. It’s much less stressful that way.

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The Swim: San Antonio Bay?

I was really looking forward to the Wildflower swim, and thought I’d be able to break my half-IM PR (30 minutes) here. All of my previous triathlons have been in the ocean waters of Monterey Bay, which are nearly as notorious as San Francisco Bay for having windy conditions, choppy waves and unpredictable swells. I figured that a lake swim would be much calmer, offer less resistance per stroke, and allow me to move more quickly through the water.

And of course, I was completely wrong.

Race morning brought windy conditions, which produced moderate turbulence on the lake, and made breathing almost as unpredictable as swimming through choppy ocean waters. We left the pier with the wind, so we swam into the face of these waves on the way back. There were even some small swells produced by watercraft on the lake.

I mean … under those circumstances, I’d rather swim in the ocean. At least the salt water would help with buoyancy.

I also started farther back in the pack than I prefer, so I struggled more than usual to establish my position, and found it challenging to draft behind anyone for very long. By the time I got into a comfortable rhythm, it seemed like the faster swimmers had already pulled off the front, and I was going too fast to stay with those who had lagged behind.

Basically, I never really locked into a strong groove during the swim segment, but I managed to settle into my own steady rhythm and crank out the yardage without burning too much energy or going anaerobic. I exited the water in just over 33 minutes.

Despite the slower than expected split, I wasn’t too discouraged about things just yet. I've come to believe the swim portion of a triathlon is like winding your way through one of those long labyrinth mazes while standing in line for Space Mountain at Disneyland: it’s really just a precursor for the real excitement that awaits. Sure, you’d like to get through it as quickly as possible, but if it takes you a few more minutes than normal, it’s not going to change the intensity or satisfaction of the ride.

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The Bike: Smooth legs and pointy hats

Tell me if this sounds familiar: let’s say you’ve just started dating a really hot girl - someone who is totally sexy, who maybe even seems out of your league at first glance. Absolutely everything about her feels perfect, and you can’t imagine how there would ever be anything about her that bothers you.

Then a couple of months go by, and you realize that she has a few extra hairs on her eyebrows than you first noticed, or she says “literally” for things that aren’t truly literal, or she's hooked on some TV show that you find annoying. You’re still crazy about her, but you’re starting to see that she has her quirks just like anyone else.

That’s how I’m feeling about my Cervelo right now. It’s an amazing bike - a total hardbody. The first few hundred training miles on it were blissful. But at Wildflower, I had a couple of technical gaffes that made me realize not everything will be effortless every time I get in the saddle.

During this segment, I had to get off the bike twice for mechanical adjustments. Once was on the first major climb away from the lake, when my chain kept jumping from one gear to another on my bottom bracket, never settling on any particular gear. The second time was at about mile 38, when the chain slipped off the front crankset while shifting from the small ring to the big one.

Thankfully, these stops didn’t delay me more than a few minutes. Otherwise, I had a very strong bike segment.

Prior to the race, I heard nothing but bad things about the Wildflower bike course: it’s hilly, it’s breezy, there’s no shade, etc. But here’s the thing: I live in Monterey County. The roads and terrain of the Wildflower course aren’t that different than the ones two hours to the north, where I do the majority of my training rides. So in that regard, the ride felt like a killer workout through a familiar neighborhood.

And now, back to my Cervelo: make no mistake about it, this bike can vroom. I was cruising at 20mph on stretches of road where I would have averaged 18 mph on my old bike. I routinely hit speeds greater than 40 mph, and would have gone even faster on many of the downhills if the cross breezes hadn’t been so squirrely.

Moving at that speed, I positioned myself toward the front of my age group wave, and found myself passing people from earlier waves in droves. Two noteworthy things stood out regarding the people I passed: 1) they almost all had shaved legs, and 2) there were a lot of pointy time-trial helmets.

In the race report for my last triathlon (Big Kahuna), I mentioned how nice it was that I didn’t get passed on the bike by anyone with hairy legs. Yes, this is a ridiculous standard - I realize that. I don’t even know how much time shaved legs will truly spare you in a 56-mile bike segment. However, I do know this: having shaved legs is the most obvious outward sign that a guy is taking this sport seriously. (I mean, aside from any psychosexual symbolism, which could be a whole separate post.) So I think my relief in riding with a group of smooth-legged cyclists is basically the confirmation that I’m here holding my own with these guys who aren’t screwing around. Sure, we may all be maladjusted, but at least we’re not alone.

The aerodynamic time-trial helmet thing struck me as funny for a couple of reasons. The first was that I remembered my old Kahuna report, when I lamented that I never passed any of those guys on the old-school bike I used. The second reason was this conversation that my friend and I had while walking our bikes to the transition area on race morning:

*
Me: Wow, there are a lot of pointy aero helmets here.

Him: Yeah – I read an article that said of all the modifications you can make to your bike, wearing an aerodynamic helmet can cut the most time.

Me: I don’t know … I think if I had one, I’d feel pressure to live up to the image.

Him: I know what you mean.

*
What I meant was, if you’re wearing a pointy helmet, you had better be a badass.

Now you can appreciate my delight when I started passing all these people with pointy helmets. I knew it meant either one of two things: 1) a lot of people have pointy helmets just for the look (that intimidation idea from the pre-race section), or 2) my Cervelo and I can roll with the big dogs. Or maybe, ideally, it means both.

So perhaps I could justify buying a pointy helmet someday. But for the time being, I think I’ll just stick to poking fun at all the other people who wear them. It’s a lot simpler that way.

At any rate, I felt very strong on the bike, and there was nothing to obviously indicate that I was about to suffer a major meltdown within minutes after getting out of the saddle. My bike split was 2:55, and I rolled into transition feeling great about the way the race was unfolding.

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The Run: Dead!

Here’s the question I heard most commonly asked while exiting the transition area towards the half-marathon with a group of 6-8 other runners: “How many miles until the topless aid station?”

Yes, there’s a topless aid station on the course, staffed by Cal Poly students, just after the crest of a major climb near the midpoint of the run. The trouble was, none of us knew a shortcut to get there, so running the course was our only option. And for me, the prospect of actually doing so was growing quite bleak.

I purposely cruised the first mile of the run at a much slower pace than normal. This was my first run since the marathon 6 days ago, and I had no idea how my legs would respond to taking up the task again.

It was during mile 2 that I felt the first sense of alarm, as I realized that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t make my legs go any faster than they were currently moving. During the third mile, I developed some painful muscle issues that pretty much put an end to any hope I had of finishing the race well.

On every uphill, my calves were spasming and cramping. On every downhill, my hamstrings felt twisted into knots. On all surfaces, my quads were hurting with residual soreness that hadn’t quite resolved yet after last week. You could say this is where the wheels officially fell off the wagon.

From that point, I mentally shifted to ultramarathon mode – running when I was able, walking when I couldn’t run, and putting aside any expectation of pace per mile or overall finishing time. My goal was simply to maintain forward progress, and I’d eventually make it to the finish.

I did a LOT of walking. I walked through every aid station (including the topless one - I didn’t mind spending a few extra seconds there) and made sure to douse myself with water to stay hydrated, since my stomach also decided to shut down somewhere during the first miles of the run. I walked almost every major incline, and during the final 5K, I even took walking breaks on the flat sections.

Finally, after more than 2 hours (2:02 to be exact) on the run course, I staggered across the finish line with an overall race time of 5 hours, 36 minutes. And although my first instinct would be to feel disappointed with the giant chunks of time I squandered during the run, I was actually quite satisfied with my performance.

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Post Race, Part 1: The Balloon

I was satisfied, because all along, I knew exactly what I was doing.

Have you ever seen some little kid trying to inflate a balloon as large as possible? He uses big deep breaths, and as the balloon gets larger and larger, he feels the tension increase to the point where he knows there’s not much more it can take, but he’s curious to see whether it can grow just a little bit bigger, or to find out how much more force it takes to make it pop.

Eventually he pushes in too much air, and the balloon ruptures. And the kid gets a look on his face like, “Well, now I know”. His curiosity is satisfied.

Over the past week, I’ve been that little kid. The Big Sur-Wildflower double was my version of inflating the balloon. I wanted to see how far I could push myself before I got to the point of collapse.

I knew that I wasn’t ready to race this triathlon, but that’s exactly what I tried to do. I worked the swim as hard as I do in other races. On the bike segment, I knew that continually vrooming up the mph wasn’t the best strategy to protect my legs for the run, but I kept cranking the pedals. I felt the tension in my legs, and kept trying to push a little bit more, just to see what would happen.

My balloon ruptured at mile 3 of the run, but it wasn’t a disappointment. Because now I know.

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Post Race, Part 2: Bloggapalooza

As I hinted at earlier, Wildflower also hosted a huge convergence of bloggers from all over the country. To be honest, meeting up with bloggers started as one of my lowest priorities of the weekend, but ended up being one of the most rewarding aspects of the festival.

Truthfully, I didn’t really have a choice in the matter once I arrived at the race expo – there were bloggers everywhere you looked. The day before the race, I happened to sit down right next to Bolder, who was as gracious and friendly as I’ve heard everyone say. Bolder introduced me to Roman, and told me where to find the Team RaceAthlete campsite.

In the transition area on race morning, I finally met Jeff, and we traded stories and asked questions like we’d known each other for years. He’s one of those guys who is very easy to like right off the bat. As my swim wave headed to the lake for a warmup, I found myself next to Paul, a fantastic triathlete who makes me feel a little bit guilty about making fun of pointy helmet dudes (he has one) simply because he is so down-to-earth and easy to get along with.

After the race, I spoke with Rick, a friendly and humble guy who did Wildflower as a tune-up for his 50-mile ultra the following weekend. I thought I should spare him my whole balloon analogy about back-to-back races, but, um … I guess if he’s reading this, it’s too late.

Finally, I refused to leave before hunting down my favorite blogger: Stronger, who is as kind and thoughtful and considerate in person as she seems on her blog. She also gave me one of the best post-race massages I’ve ever had (which, for future reference, is a terrific way for someone to get on my list of favorite bloggers – although she was already at the top. The massage just confirmed it.), and it seemed like we could have talked all night long.

Stronger introduced me to her brother Chris, and to the rest of her gang - Curly Su, Kahuna, Wil, TriBoomer, Greyhound, Stu, and Taconite – all of whom welcomed me to their group, and genuinely seemed to enjoy each other’s company, even though many of them had met just one day earlier.

When I first started blogging, my primary intention was to polish my skills as a writer, hoping for a place where I could easily publish things for a large audience, and possibly collect some objective feedback from time to time. I never really bought into the whole “online community” idea that I read about on so many other people’s blogs.

A lot of those feelings changed for me at Wildflower, which brings us (at long last) back to the slogan of this year’s festival. On many different levels, I found out why.

I found out why it’s sometimes easy to meet someone for the first time and already feel like you’re good friends. I found out why so many bloggers seem genuinely interested in the lives and interests of others.

I found out why Wildflower has a magical appeal to triathletes of all abilities and from all backgrounds, and why it’s one of the most challenging races anywhere. I found out why people finish the race battered and depleted, but immediately start talking about what they’ll do differently next time.

And I found out why a bad race can be one of the best times you’ve ever had.

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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.


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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.)

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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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