"Instead of taking action, why don't you begin routine. And instead of being tired, why don't you become machine?"
In the past, I used to identify most with the line about becoming a machine. Now, I can most identify with beginning routine. My routine is this:
I wake up around 7:30. Open my eyes, and assess the situation. After a long night of gut-wrenching dreams that are not reality, I decide that things have not gotten any better over night.
I get out of bed, make my bed (still keeping it up), and go downstairs where I make my breakfast and coffee. I read my book for approximately 30 minutes while I enjoy the last bit of my coffee. This keeps my mind occupied for a short period of time.
Then it is off to the library. I leave by 9:50 so that I can get there as the doors open at 10, where I join the mad rush of the other lonely/nerdy souls who have nothing better to do at 10 AM on a week day morning but browse through the non-fiction section or hole up in a silent study room that I am unlucky enough to miss out on if I don't make it by 10 on the dot.
I study mindlessly for 2 hours for a test that I will most certainly pass in 6 weeks, but have nothing better to occupy my time/mind with these days. I do allow for a 5 minute "lap around the library" walking break to break up the 2 hours.
At some point in the afternoon comes the best part of my day. As was once written by John L. Parker Jr., endurance athletes use their training to self-medicate for their manic depression. Well, these days, I am definitely self medicating -- although I do not think that my depression is manic. Whether it be a run, a hard bike ride, or most recently, a weight lifting session, the flood of endorphins I get usually is enough to stabilize me through the rest of the evening.
I eat dinner, maybe watch some baseball, and retire to my quarters by approximately 10 pm, where I read some more before lights out.
Rinse and repeat.
I used to have a reputation of being a mean, manipulative, cold-hearted bastard when I wanted to be. If I believed I was wronged, the opposing party would pay the price -- and I didn't feel bad about doing it. I would rather encase my heart in ice and inflict pain on the other person than allow myself to feel the hurt that they were inflicting on me. It saved me a lot of heart-ache over the years, and also probably made me look like a prick a lot of the time.
About a year and a half ago, I somehow lost the ability to do this. Now, I feel every last ounce of heart-ache that is inflicted on me. I have no ability to put up a wall and go cold. On the contrary, I am full of emotion. Maybe, it's because this time the thing that is inflicting the heart-ache actually means something -- I don't know.
For the time being, I will keep self-medicating. Since this is supposed to be a blog about training, I will say this: I am motivated, if for no other reason, to keep my mind busy. Unfortunately, I find myself getting the biggest adrenaline shot from that one Gotye song when it comes through my headphones these days.
To Max and Kyle, if you think that I am the most pathetic piece of shit on the face of the earth, I am. Whatever.
--Ant
And P.S. If this is Austin...
Monday, May 21, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Time on Feet
Time on feet is the amount of time that one spends on his feet. It's a vital part of training.
This evening, after spending an entire day working on my feet and fifty minutes running on my feet, Kyle convinced me to spend an additional ten minutes on my feet. During those ten minutes, we slogged-up some hills. We complained about our aches. We discussed the staleness that we were feeling. And we mourned the blow-up that we suffered on the W&OD.
This blow-up came at the hands of a pale, boyish-looking man, who was wearing a white tank-top, headphones that blasted techno beats, and basketball shorts. That's right -- basketball shorts. Legend has it that this fellow was sprinting to meet Tory and Damien at the basketball court. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. Regardless of this runner's destination, he crushed us.
Embarrased
Us
Bad.
Blew by us.
Instantaneously.
The embarrassment that we felt obviously weighed heavy while we completed the day's time on feet. It noticeably affected our strides. For me, that meant that we had had enough time on feet for the day. For Kyle, we needed ten more minutes.
Time on feet.
Time on feet.
So, after some bullying, we spent ten more minutes on our feet. Well, I spent ten more minutes on my feet. Then, as my chronometer ticked to 60 minutes, I packed-it-in. And Kyle kept going for a Duke Dog Mile.
Thanks to this extra time on feet, one thing is certain --
We'll get you next time, JJ Redick. See you on the trail.
I got a Basketball Jones
As Max and I were in the midst of a less than satisfactory 8 miler, we realized that no one has contributed to the blog in some time. Thus, we made a pact. A pact sealed in blood, by the means of a bear claw cutting our wrists, and with the alternative purpose of collecting each others' blood to wear around our neck in vials, smearing on our face and drinking it so that we can integrate into each others genomes thereby creating 2 equal and perfect training partners(There's more about collecting feces and leg hair but perhaps Max can elaborate on those details....).
I think it's about my 4th week back to any semblance of training now, and i'm on track for about 45 miles this week(Note to self: start a log). I've been steadily increasing mileage while at the same time trying to do 1 workout a week to keep the legs used to a quicker pace. The workouts have been as follows:
1. 12 minute warm up, 15 minutes at what was supposed to be 5:45 pace, and about 20 minutes cool down.
- At first the pace felt fine, then not so fine, then sort of uncomfortable, then uncomfortable, then uncomfortable but sustainable, then laboring until finish. We ended up with a mini progression of 5:47/48 to start, followed by a final mile in sub 5:30. I was very satisfied with how the workout went and we finished with a few striders.
2. warm up, Fartlek ladder of quick to hard pace for a specified duration, followed by an equal amount easier pace, cool down. 1-2-3-3-2-1.
- This workout went surprisingly well as well. While not by any means easy, the last 2 intervals felt smooth and by slight prodding from Max, i showcased some of my weaponry and blew the doors off the last 10 seconds with my newly acquired Jamaican speed. However, my legs have been sore since and i'm not sure when i'll next be able to perform such a feat of strength...
Yesterday was a day off, and as happens the day after most days off, i felt like crap on the run. Max and I had intentions of going 8 miles and while my spirits were high, my legs and lungs didn't quite seem to want to cooperate. What was sore became more sore, what was heavy felt more heavy, what little breath i was able to suck down I only seemed to exhale more, and to top it all off....we got passed. We got straight up passed by a Basketball Jones. I heard the muted techno blaring from the side, but it didn't quite register until a flash of lightening wearing a tight white underarmor shirt and baggy shorts struck by our meager pace as if thrown from the hand of Zeus himself. Defeated and demoralized, it took every ounce of our strength to not throw in the towel and walk in the last 4 miles. We finished the run, Max paying homage to the Tribe by finishing with a customary Tribe Mile , and I with a customary Duke Dog Mile/Ride Upon Black Beauty.
(Play This as you read the next paragraph slowly....)
Building up mileage is not pleasant, and there are very few days when i feel fresh. But i'm confident that balance will be brought to the force, that i will reach equilibrium, and that running will start to feel effortless once again. A day may come, when the courage of men fail, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship....but it is not this day. I will remain vigilant in my cause. I will persevere. I will endure this discomfort, this monotony, and yet i will only initially find even more discomfort and monotony in double the mileage...but there may also be GLORY. And i intend to find it...
-Kyle
I think it's about my 4th week back to any semblance of training now, and i'm on track for about 45 miles this week(Note to self: start a log). I've been steadily increasing mileage while at the same time trying to do 1 workout a week to keep the legs used to a quicker pace. The workouts have been as follows:
1. 12 minute warm up, 15 minutes at what was supposed to be 5:45 pace, and about 20 minutes cool down.
- At first the pace felt fine, then not so fine, then sort of uncomfortable, then uncomfortable, then uncomfortable but sustainable, then laboring until finish. We ended up with a mini progression of 5:47/48 to start, followed by a final mile in sub 5:30. I was very satisfied with how the workout went and we finished with a few striders.
2. warm up, Fartlek ladder of quick to hard pace for a specified duration, followed by an equal amount easier pace, cool down. 1-2-3-3-2-1.
- This workout went surprisingly well as well. While not by any means easy, the last 2 intervals felt smooth and by slight prodding from Max, i showcased some of my weaponry and blew the doors off the last 10 seconds with my newly acquired Jamaican speed. However, my legs have been sore since and i'm not sure when i'll next be able to perform such a feat of strength...
Yesterday was a day off, and as happens the day after most days off, i felt like crap on the run. Max and I had intentions of going 8 miles and while my spirits were high, my legs and lungs didn't quite seem to want to cooperate. What was sore became more sore, what was heavy felt more heavy, what little breath i was able to suck down I only seemed to exhale more, and to top it all off....we got passed. We got straight up passed by a Basketball Jones. I heard the muted techno blaring from the side, but it didn't quite register until a flash of lightening wearing a tight white underarmor shirt and baggy shorts struck by our meager pace as if thrown from the hand of Zeus himself. Defeated and demoralized, it took every ounce of our strength to not throw in the towel and walk in the last 4 miles. We finished the run, Max paying homage to the Tribe by finishing with a customary Tribe Mile , and I with a customary Duke Dog Mile/Ride Upon Black Beauty.
(Play This as you read the next paragraph slowly....)
Building up mileage is not pleasant, and there are very few days when i feel fresh. But i'm confident that balance will be brought to the force, that i will reach equilibrium, and that running will start to feel effortless once again. A day may come, when the courage of men fail, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship....but it is not this day. I will remain vigilant in my cause. I will persevere. I will endure this discomfort, this monotony, and yet i will only initially find even more discomfort and monotony in double the mileage...but there may also be GLORY. And i intend to find it...
-Kyle
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Words of Wisdom
Ant, i promise i will take the time to read your Boston saga....
However....
I'd like to say one thing to all shoe companies out there, specifically Saucony in this instance....
DON'T CHANGE YOUR FUCKING SHOES.
Do you want to know why the Kinvara was your highest selling shoe the past few years? Because it was a good shoe. You want to know what happens when you start arbitrarily changing what was once good? You make it FUCKING BAD.
THE KINVARA WAS PERFECT. NOBODY COMPLAINED ABOUT A LOW HEEL. SO DON'T MAKE IT A FUCKING INCH HIGHER CAUSING LACERATION AND MUTILATION OF THE ACHILLES.
Thanks,
Kyle
However....
I'd like to say one thing to all shoe companies out there, specifically Saucony in this instance....
DON'T CHANGE YOUR FUCKING SHOES.
Do you want to know why the Kinvara was your highest selling shoe the past few years? Because it was a good shoe. You want to know what happens when you start arbitrarily changing what was once good? You make it FUCKING BAD.
THE KINVARA WAS PERFECT. NOBODY COMPLAINED ABOUT A LOW HEEL. SO DON'T MAKE IT A FUCKING INCH HIGHER CAUSING LACERATION AND MUTILATION OF THE ACHILLES.
Thanks,
Kyle
The Legend of the Marathon: 2012 Boston Ed.
It's somewhere around mile 18 and I glance to my right. There, on the sidewalk, I see an amputee seated on a portable stool, changing his liner and sock in order to prevent blistering. "If this guy can do this race on one leg, I can do this," I think to myself. I am immediately filled with a shot of adrenaline, and pick up the pace ever so slightly. After approximately 15 seconds, I start to walk. Again...
The 10-day forecast called for a high of 63 degrees with a chance of thunderstorms. I was bitter. 63 degrees is on the warm side, compared to the 45 that would be ideal marathon running weather. The thunderstorms just seemed like adding insult to injury. As I'm sure all runners did in the day's leading up to the race, I checked weather.com religiously, often hourly, to assess the latest forecast. I watched as it crept to 72, then back down to 62, and bounced around temperatures somewhere in between. Then things got weird. 80 degrees. 82 degrees. I got on the plane to Boston on Saturday morning with the forecast calling for a high of 83 degrees -- but no rain! In my head, I was in denial, knowing that on race day, it would be a cool 57 that might hit the mid 60s by the end of the race. But it just kept going up. And up.
By Sunday night, the high was projected to be 89 degrees, and every major media outlet had written a story on the potentially dangerous heat facing the runners in the oh-so-prestegious Boston Marathon the next morning at 10:00. By this time, I had been drinking Nuun electrolyte supplement for the past 36 hours, doing everything I could to prevent my body from going into the uber-dehydrated state that seemed inevitable the following day. I was peeing like a race horse -- seemed like I was right where I needed to be.
I woke up the next morning and took down a cup of coffee (stupid? caffeine is a diuretic...), a bagel, and a banana. At 5:45, we were off to the buses, to meet up with the rest of the 24,000 who would become my brethren-in-arms in our soon to be battle against Boston's notoriously difficult course, the heat, and ourselves. Interestingly enough, however, no one seemed to be worried. The atmosphere was light, and the runners seemed cool and collected. Although this was my 7th marathon, and 2nd Boston, I felt like I was the rookie -- or maybe the coward. Why weren't these people sucking down bottles of water and gatorade for last minute hydration? Talking race strategy about the best way to prevent dying (literally) of heat stroke at mile 15? Everyone seemed like this was just another race -- another 26.2 mile fun-fest that would be over a few hours after it started, and then we could all just get back to our normal lives. I certainly did not feel that way.
I was afraid. I spent the previous day thinking about how painful this was likely to be. No matter how conservative I planned to be, I knew it would eventually get ugly. I didn't know just how ugly, and that the beat down would begin only 2.5 miles into the race.
When the cannon fired at 10:00 on the dot, I was already sweating and had to pee. The first 3 miles is a steep down-hill, so I made sure to keep my pace easy. 6:50 on the dot for the first mile. Followed by a 6:48 for mile two. For me, this was conservative, just like I'd planned. The weird thing was, I couldn't feel my left foot, because my calf was so tight. WAY too early for something like this to happen. And I still had to pee. At mile 2.5, I felt the back of my leg catch the other leg as some moron cut behind me, causing me to almost hit the pavement. After a super-athletic save, and a "F- you" (in my head) to that guy, I settled back in, only to realize that two of my Gu packets were no longer bouncing at my hip, where I had safety-pinned them before the race. Less than 3 miles in, and I had already gone from my standard 5 gels to 3, without having taken any. This was already going swimmingly.
At the water station after the third mile, I decided that I needed to stretch. Yes. I stopped running 3 miles into a marathon. I pulled off to a guard rail behind the water stop, and stretched my calf. And then I did something else that I'd never done in a marathon: I peed in my pants. It was a beautiful combination, stretching to relieve my tight muscle while simultaneously relieving my bladder. After approximately 60 seconds, I was back on the road, took off my singlet, removed my nipple guards, and settled into an even more conservative 7:05 pace. I was on my way.
Mile 5, 6, 7 go by. I'm bitter. I'm mentally defeated and know that I might end up running over 3:10 because this is just not the day for running a decent marathon. At the 10k, I briefly think about the fact that I still have 20 miles to go, and that the sun is RELENTLESSLY beating down on me. No shade. Zero. At this point, I may have already pulled to the side to stretch, again. I have zero mental toughness, and I'm pissed at myself.
I'm drinking water and gatorade at every water stop. Walking through the aide stations and losing more and more time off of my per-mile average pace. I watch as my Garmin shows me 7:45 pace, and I think that I am now running slower than an average training run, let alone the 6:35 pace that I had trained at for the last 4 months. I'm embarrassed.
At mile 12.5, I run past the Wellsley girls screaming, search for a "Kiss me, I'm a Redskins fan," but find none. No kiss for me this year either. After approximately 2 minutes, the novelty is over and I am back grinding it out, left leg numb, hips starting to cramp, and calves closely behind. And I'm just getting to the half way point. 3 miles ahead lie the hills...
When I get to mile 16, I have talked myself into being tough through the next 5 miles. I do some quick calculations and realize that if I average a 9-10 minute mile through these hills, I can run under 3:20. At this point I deem this respectable. I quickly pussy out, and start walking.
My hips are in pain like I've never felt. The insertions of my IT bands on my tibias feel like I may have an avulsion fracture by the end of this race. My calves cramp like little aliens are living in my gastrocs. I walk. I run. I do enough to stay at a respectable 9:45 per mile. As long as I'm under the double digits, I am not a complete waste of a runner (I know that I am, I'm just telling myself that to make myself feel better). As I approach Heartbreak hill at mile 20.5, I tell myself that "I WILL NOT WALK ON THIS HILL." If nothing else, I will be able to tell people that I did battle with Heartbreak, and won. Psyche. I lost. I started walking approximately half way up the hill. As I looked up and could see the crest of the hill, I started to run. I'd make it from this point.
Fat chance. Start walking again.
Miles 21 -26.2 are a blur. I quickly realize that it becomes incapable for me to run more than 0.1 miles without having to stop due to the cramps in my calves. At this point, I am also cramping in my right bicep and neck. Weird. Oh yeah. I stopped sweating at mile 16.
Jog, walk. Jog, walk. Suffer, walk.
As I turned the corner to reach the home stretch, down the last 0.5 miles, I told myself I would not walk. And I didn't. I danced my way across the finish like in 3:35, one minute slower than my slowest ever marathon. I walked through the sea of bodies strewn about, politely declined medical attention from the medical staff, watched as countless others were escorted away in wheel chairs. I walked on. I got a protein drink.
I finally found the bus with the bags from bibs 4000-4600, and headed off the meeting area for the people who's last name begin with P. As I approached the area, my lip started to tremble. And for the second time following a marathon, I began to cry. I sat down on a curb, buried my head so no one would see, and sobbed. The last thing I wanted was for my parents to see me cry. So I sobbed -- I'm not sure if it was disappointment, sadness, or just the emotional drain of the experience I'd just gone through in the last 3 hours and 35 minutes. But I sobbed. Then I got up and walked to the P section and sat down and sobbed some more.
A couple minutes later, after I'd stopped crying, the kid sitting next to me says "Starting the pity party?" "Yep," I say with a chuckle. "We all are," he says.
The temperature reached 86 degrees during the course of the race, and 89 for the day. A record high for that date in Boston, and the 3rd highest ever in the race's 116 year history. The defending race champion, who ran the fastest ever time just one year before (2:03:02), dropped out at mile 18. The winner (A Kenyan!) ran 2:12, a mediocre time for the 2nd tier elite Americans. Over 200 were treated medically, with 50 taken to the hospital (actually probably lower numbers than it could have been).
Never a more painful experience in my life. Never a more humbling experience in my life. Never an experience that made me feel like a bigger pussy. And I will NEVER again enter a race as un-prepared, mentally or physically, as I was for this on. I was defeated before I started (my MO?)
I will now heal my wounds, and begin training, relentlessly. I'll save that plan for another blog. But for now, I will say this. Ramp up to 60, 70, 80 miles per week. Become an aerobic monster. When the time is right, add the speed. Add the strength.
Richmond 2012, let's go.
The 10-day forecast called for a high of 63 degrees with a chance of thunderstorms. I was bitter. 63 degrees is on the warm side, compared to the 45 that would be ideal marathon running weather. The thunderstorms just seemed like adding insult to injury. As I'm sure all runners did in the day's leading up to the race, I checked weather.com religiously, often hourly, to assess the latest forecast. I watched as it crept to 72, then back down to 62, and bounced around temperatures somewhere in between. Then things got weird. 80 degrees. 82 degrees. I got on the plane to Boston on Saturday morning with the forecast calling for a high of 83 degrees -- but no rain! In my head, I was in denial, knowing that on race day, it would be a cool 57 that might hit the mid 60s by the end of the race. But it just kept going up. And up.
By Sunday night, the high was projected to be 89 degrees, and every major media outlet had written a story on the potentially dangerous heat facing the runners in the oh-so-prestegious Boston Marathon the next morning at 10:00. By this time, I had been drinking Nuun electrolyte supplement for the past 36 hours, doing everything I could to prevent my body from going into the uber-dehydrated state that seemed inevitable the following day. I was peeing like a race horse -- seemed like I was right where I needed to be.
I woke up the next morning and took down a cup of coffee (stupid? caffeine is a diuretic...), a bagel, and a banana. At 5:45, we were off to the buses, to meet up with the rest of the 24,000 who would become my brethren-in-arms in our soon to be battle against Boston's notoriously difficult course, the heat, and ourselves. Interestingly enough, however, no one seemed to be worried. The atmosphere was light, and the runners seemed cool and collected. Although this was my 7th marathon, and 2nd Boston, I felt like I was the rookie -- or maybe the coward. Why weren't these people sucking down bottles of water and gatorade for last minute hydration? Talking race strategy about the best way to prevent dying (literally) of heat stroke at mile 15? Everyone seemed like this was just another race -- another 26.2 mile fun-fest that would be over a few hours after it started, and then we could all just get back to our normal lives. I certainly did not feel that way.
I was afraid. I spent the previous day thinking about how painful this was likely to be. No matter how conservative I planned to be, I knew it would eventually get ugly. I didn't know just how ugly, and that the beat down would begin only 2.5 miles into the race.
When the cannon fired at 10:00 on the dot, I was already sweating and had to pee. The first 3 miles is a steep down-hill, so I made sure to keep my pace easy. 6:50 on the dot for the first mile. Followed by a 6:48 for mile two. For me, this was conservative, just like I'd planned. The weird thing was, I couldn't feel my left foot, because my calf was so tight. WAY too early for something like this to happen. And I still had to pee. At mile 2.5, I felt the back of my leg catch the other leg as some moron cut behind me, causing me to almost hit the pavement. After a super-athletic save, and a "F- you" (in my head) to that guy, I settled back in, only to realize that two of my Gu packets were no longer bouncing at my hip, where I had safety-pinned them before the race. Less than 3 miles in, and I had already gone from my standard 5 gels to 3, without having taken any. This was already going swimmingly.
At the water station after the third mile, I decided that I needed to stretch. Yes. I stopped running 3 miles into a marathon. I pulled off to a guard rail behind the water stop, and stretched my calf. And then I did something else that I'd never done in a marathon: I peed in my pants. It was a beautiful combination, stretching to relieve my tight muscle while simultaneously relieving my bladder. After approximately 60 seconds, I was back on the road, took off my singlet, removed my nipple guards, and settled into an even more conservative 7:05 pace. I was on my way.
Mile 5, 6, 7 go by. I'm bitter. I'm mentally defeated and know that I might end up running over 3:10 because this is just not the day for running a decent marathon. At the 10k, I briefly think about the fact that I still have 20 miles to go, and that the sun is RELENTLESSLY beating down on me. No shade. Zero. At this point, I may have already pulled to the side to stretch, again. I have zero mental toughness, and I'm pissed at myself.
I'm drinking water and gatorade at every water stop. Walking through the aide stations and losing more and more time off of my per-mile average pace. I watch as my Garmin shows me 7:45 pace, and I think that I am now running slower than an average training run, let alone the 6:35 pace that I had trained at for the last 4 months. I'm embarrassed.
At mile 12.5, I run past the Wellsley girls screaming, search for a "Kiss me, I'm a Redskins fan," but find none. No kiss for me this year either. After approximately 2 minutes, the novelty is over and I am back grinding it out, left leg numb, hips starting to cramp, and calves closely behind. And I'm just getting to the half way point. 3 miles ahead lie the hills...
When I get to mile 16, I have talked myself into being tough through the next 5 miles. I do some quick calculations and realize that if I average a 9-10 minute mile through these hills, I can run under 3:20. At this point I deem this respectable. I quickly pussy out, and start walking.
My hips are in pain like I've never felt. The insertions of my IT bands on my tibias feel like I may have an avulsion fracture by the end of this race. My calves cramp like little aliens are living in my gastrocs. I walk. I run. I do enough to stay at a respectable 9:45 per mile. As long as I'm under the double digits, I am not a complete waste of a runner (I know that I am, I'm just telling myself that to make myself feel better). As I approach Heartbreak hill at mile 20.5, I tell myself that "I WILL NOT WALK ON THIS HILL." If nothing else, I will be able to tell people that I did battle with Heartbreak, and won. Psyche. I lost. I started walking approximately half way up the hill. As I looked up and could see the crest of the hill, I started to run. I'd make it from this point.
Fat chance. Start walking again.
Miles 21 -26.2 are a blur. I quickly realize that it becomes incapable for me to run more than 0.1 miles without having to stop due to the cramps in my calves. At this point, I am also cramping in my right bicep and neck. Weird. Oh yeah. I stopped sweating at mile 16.
Jog, walk. Jog, walk. Suffer, walk.
As I turned the corner to reach the home stretch, down the last 0.5 miles, I told myself I would not walk. And I didn't. I danced my way across the finish like in 3:35, one minute slower than my slowest ever marathon. I walked through the sea of bodies strewn about, politely declined medical attention from the medical staff, watched as countless others were escorted away in wheel chairs. I walked on. I got a protein drink.
I finally found the bus with the bags from bibs 4000-4600, and headed off the meeting area for the people who's last name begin with P. As I approached the area, my lip started to tremble. And for the second time following a marathon, I began to cry. I sat down on a curb, buried my head so no one would see, and sobbed. The last thing I wanted was for my parents to see me cry. So I sobbed -- I'm not sure if it was disappointment, sadness, or just the emotional drain of the experience I'd just gone through in the last 3 hours and 35 minutes. But I sobbed. Then I got up and walked to the P section and sat down and sobbed some more.
A couple minutes later, after I'd stopped crying, the kid sitting next to me says "Starting the pity party?" "Yep," I say with a chuckle. "We all are," he says.
The temperature reached 86 degrees during the course of the race, and 89 for the day. A record high for that date in Boston, and the 3rd highest ever in the race's 116 year history. The defending race champion, who ran the fastest ever time just one year before (2:03:02), dropped out at mile 18. The winner (A Kenyan!) ran 2:12, a mediocre time for the 2nd tier elite Americans. Over 200 were treated medically, with 50 taken to the hospital (actually probably lower numbers than it could have been).
Never a more painful experience in my life. Never a more humbling experience in my life. Never an experience that made me feel like a bigger pussy. And I will NEVER again enter a race as un-prepared, mentally or physically, as I was for this on. I was defeated before I started (my MO?)
I will now heal my wounds, and begin training, relentlessly. I'll save that plan for another blog. But for now, I will say this. Ramp up to 60, 70, 80 miles per week. Become an aerobic monster. When the time is right, add the speed. Add the strength.
Richmond 2012, let's go.
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