Friday, August 14, 2015

Maryland Heat Race 25K - August 8, 2015

One Man's Misfortune is Another Man's Good Luck
"Your lucky day," Don emails, "Doc says 'no running' for a few weeks. So I'm offering you my 25K bib, no charge. The RD says: no transfer fee."

The day before I had indicated to Don that I might be interested in running the Maryland Heat Race with him. Normally I would be more interested in running 50K than half the distance, but a either run on a hot and humid August day did not sound appealing.  On the other hand the 50K was $60 compared to $50, so you got twice the distance for only 20 percent more.

Combined with a long range forecast indicating that the weather would not be awful, a free entry was too much to refuse and I quickly accepted Don's offer.

Paying It Forward, or Backward, or Something
Race director Nick arranges for the transfer of Don's entry to me and as a small token of appreciation I offer to donate some truly fabulous gifts for him to give away.  The race does not have prizes but at the post-race picnic he gives away various items by pulling runners bib numbers from a hat. After I give him a list of what I am proposing to bring he emails, "I'm not sure what the second one is, or how much people will want these items, but who knows. . . . . Maybe I can convince you to announce what they are, since I won’t remember :-)"

The evening before the race brings a flurry of emails - and a possible motive for Don offering me his entry.  Carol starts it off by asking Don if he is registered for the race.  In July he had mentioned to her what a good race it was and that he intended to enter.  She promptly did enter - it was to be her first trail race.  When Don got injured volunteering at a race July 18 he did not inform her that he was sidelined, and now, the day before the race, she found that she was going to be on her own.

Don replies apologetically but mentions that he transferred his "bib to another friend (Ken Swab) who I think you've met and he runs your pace (maybe a hair slower) and adds me to the email chain. She replies to both of us, "I was looking forward to running with you but will look for Ken. . . ."

I'm always willing to run with someone so we exchange pictures and mobile numbers so that we can meet up at the start.

A Day in the Woods
Parking is at a park-and-ride lot just off I-195 and a bus shuttles runners into Patapsco State Park to the pavilion on a less than ten minute ride. Check-in is quick and easy and Carol finds me without any problem.

Since Don had indicated that I was "a hair slower" I ask her about her speed.  "I run 8:30 pace," she replies.  That makes me much more than a hair slower, I think, but she is a bit concerned about her first trail run so she indicates that she is likely to stay with me, at least for the first part of the race.

We toss a couple of horseshoes in the pit next to the pavilion while waiting for the race to begin. The 50K started at 7 a.m. and at 9 a.m. race director Nick gives a brief description of the course and the aid stations positioned every four miles.  Instead of saying "Go!" he leads us on a loop around a ball field then down a short road over the river to where a trail begins.  It takes some exertion to keep up with Carol.

We run on a dirt trail paralleling the river for a bit, then through a short tunnel under a railroad line and head up a hill away from the river.  Carol is strong on the uphill and pulls away from me as I walk the single track.  At the top we hang a right at a four way intersection under the guidance of a course marshal and I make up time on the downhill, finally catching up to Carol.
Nice runnable section just past the power lines.
She's wisely being cautious on the downhills, perhaps because I have told her the slogan, "it isn't a trail run unless you fall or get lost."  A loop takes us back to the intersection with the course marshal who directs us in the proper direction.  In a bit the leaders of the 50K race come flying past.

A bit of rolling course takes us out to a trail under a powerline cut and we head uphill with Carol in the lead. We briefly go back into the woods and pop out at a road where we don't see flagging for where to go.  Three guys sitting on the tailgate of a pickup point us in the right direction, and we debate whether they are volunteers, or just three guys sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck willing to help out confused runners.

Carol reloads at he first aid station.
Now It is a Trail Race
We quickly come to the first aid station on the edge of a field.  A glance at my watch indicates that it has been 56 minutes from the start.  My unofficial plan is to run each four mile stretch between aid stations in an hour, so we are on schedule, assuming the aid stations are four mile apart.

The trail heads downhill, first gently and then more steeply.  Carol and I tread carefully as more 50K runners bound past.  We navigate one of the several stream crossings, but like all of them they are low enough and there are adequate stones to get across dry-foot if one wishes.  We do, but other runners simply splash across.

Headed up after the really steep part.
What goes down must go up. A course marker points right and upward at a 45 degree angle, and it isn't much of an exaggeration,  It is a rocky stretch and I go in parts on all fours until it eases up a bit. Near the top there is a sign pointing to a scenic overlook not far off the trail and we at first consider it and then decide that we ought to keep running.

Carol takes off and I plod on behind.  A bit of rolling up and down and as I turn a corner I see someone bent over a runner on the ground.  It's Carol, and apart from a bump on her leg she isn't injured.  I tell her that it is now a trail race.

We pass a spot where a couple of folks are sitting by ropes that go over the side.  I move close to the edge and quickly retreat having no interest in the rock face that seems to descend a deadly distance.

The Patapsco River from the Grist Mill Trail.
The course turns downward and by the foot of the Bloedes Dam we are on the paved Grist Mill trail next to the Patapsco River.  Carol cranks up the speed once again and I don't try to stay with her.  We make a right onto a pedestrian suspension bridge over the river and arrive at Aid Station 2 in 53 minutes since leaving the first aid station.
Aid Station 2, with Don (back to camera, r.) snapping pics and Carol to his left.

Carol and I clown around at AS 2.
(Photo Courtesy of Don Libes) 

Second Half
After stopping to exchange photo opportunities with Don I grab a handful of chips and M&Ms and head uphill on the trail.  Carol soon overtakes me and we go on together, first downhill, then rolling along a ridgeline above the river. We turn away from the river and run past a couple of collapsed buildings in the woods.
A fixer-upper in the woods.
In a bit I glance at my watch as it ticks (metaphorically) toward one hour. We are still in the woods with no aid station in sight.  But within a couple of minutes (1:02) we arrive at the final aid station.  Just four miles to go now.

Aid Station 3.
Now It is a Trail Race, Part II; or, An Ethical Dilemma Revisited
I'm in and out of the aid station quickly. Carol lingers a bit more but quickly catches up.  We both are felling good and move along smartly.  There is a wider stream crossing than some of the others we have managed and I decide that getting my feet wet isn't a problem so I deliberately avoid trying to skip from rock to rock.  Carol does likewise and declares the water "refreshing".  I concur.

My pace seems to have picked up a bit and I gradually pull away from her.  At various points I slow down and look behind.  At first I can see her with another runner, and then, while I can see her as the course winds around and up and down I can hear her talking with another runner. I have a slight pang of conscience of leaving her behind but rationalize that she is with another runner so it is OK.

And after a little bit more I can't hear her either.  I slow down a bit but keep going.  With about a mile to go a runner catches up to be and asks if I'm Ken.  He then tells me that Carol had fallen and sprained her wrist and that she wanted me to know that she was OK and that I should keep going.

A couple of years ago Rebecca and I had a conversation about what I would do if she fell and was injured.  I told her that I'd dial 911 and leave her, since I'm not qualified to render medical advice.  This becomes one of Rebecca's favorite stories to tell on me (see the section, "What Goes Up" here).

Now I am confronted with the real, not the theoretical, question.  I trot on a bit more, slowly.  Another runner comes by and gives me the same information and same advice to "go on" from Carol.  I go another ten yards.  Then ten more. Then I stop.

Carol comes along.  Her shoulder and back are dirty from her fall and three of her fingers are sore from being jammed into the ground.  She assures me that I didn't need to wait and I tell her the Rebecca story.

The Wall from the back side. Carol on top.
We go on together and come to "The Wall" a twelve foot high flood control  measure on the bank of the Patapsco.  We find a place to climb up it and I clamber down the other side, while Carol walks along the top to find another place to descend.

We cross a beach area busy with picnickers and come out onto the field where we began.  I ask Carol where her 8:30/mile speed is and she immediately kicks into high gear and roars to and over the finish line 100 yards ahead. Despite the fall and the wall, we finish the last four miles in 1:01.

Fabulous Party, Fabulous Prizes
BBQ on a bun, beans, kielbasa, mac salad and a pilsner.
The finish line party is everything that was promised.  Volunteers have grills going full blast, and there are hot dogs, hamburgers, BBQ, black bean burgers, macaroni, fruit and quinoa salads, pizza chocolate cake and much more.  And coolers full of a wide variety of craft beers.
Just some of the beer selection.


Around 2 p.m. Nick jumps onto a table and begins to pull numbers from a hat.  There are no prizes for winners, but raffle prizes for lucky entrants, where 25 or 50K runners. He gives away several restaurant gift certificates and some running gear and then turns to the items I donated.  Rather than draw numbers he simply asks who wants them, one at a time and gives away several of the items I donated: a mini-Nerf football, earbuds, an unopened Baltimore Ravens 1996 Inaugural Season bottle of Coca-Cola Classic, and a pocket sized copy of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. 

Then he calls on me to describe and present the final items. The first is a red presentation box containing a white Chinese ceramic bowl with lid. The last two are identical, and what I described to the crowd as an American version of the Maltese Falcon differing only in that they are eagles rather than falcons, brass rather than black, metal rather than stone, and American rather than Maltese. Other than those few differences, I assure people, I'm sure that Kasper Gutman and Joel Cairo would be after them. 

Me hawking the American version of the Maltese Falcon.

Race Roundup
Carol finishes in 3:35:50 and I'm seven seconds behind her due to her sprint at the end. We are both first in our age groups. OK, there are not many folks in them (3 females, 3 males total), but we did beat the others. Good for bragging rights anyway. I'm 58 of 83 males, and 88 of 146 overall. 

Swag: four gels, sticker, bib.


Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Bighorn Trail 32M Run - June 20, 2015

The Sunglasses and Hats Amigos - Barry, Rebecca, Emaad and Ken awaiting the start
The running gods bear a striking resemblance to Greek gods, sometimes dishing out adversity; sometimes being indifferent; and sometimes providing providence, all without any discernible pattern to the mere mortals whose paths are made straight or crooked by the whims of the divine.

For this year's Bighorn Trail Run the gods were not merely merciful, they were benevolent.

Starting Out
To get to the start of the 32-mile race requires a 40-mile bus ride of well over an hour from the small town of Dayton, WY up into the Bighorn Mountains, first on Route 14 and then on unpaved Forest Service roads. The ride itself has spectacular views as the road ascends about 3500 feet.

We hesitate a bit before getting off the bus making last minute equipment and clothing choices as you can leave a bag on the bus to be returned to Dayton for your pick-up at the end. I decide that it is warm enough to go the entire day with shorts and a short sleeve shirt. Barry does likewise; Emaad decides to start with a pair of shirts and Rebecca, as is her usual, goes with several layers.

The view from the start. We go up Dry Fork Ridge to the left.

The start line
The National Anthem
A very nice rendition of the National Anthem marks the time to move to the starting line. The nearly 300 starters move the few steps from the parking area to stand behind the start line. Those of us toward the back don't hear to start signal but it really doesn't matter as the crowd starts forward at the 8 a.m. start.

Barry with 88-year old Bob Hayes
Dry Fork Ridge looking back around mile 4.
Within a couple of minutes the runners are spread along the road headed for the turn up Dry Fork Ridge.  The sky is a beautiful blue with scattered clouds.  The trees and meadows are spring green.

And then it is time to climb. Over the first two miles we climb about 1000 feet to the top of the ridge according to the elevation chart.  The ridge is about 8400 feet and I feel a little bit short of breath but not too badly.

Emaad feels the altitude a bit more and lags behind.  Barry, Rebecca and I leapfrog one another chatting with the other runners.  We walk and chat a bit with the legendary Bob Hayes of Evaro, Montana, 88 years old and still running ultras. 

Rebecca gets ahead and Barry falls behind and I run chatting with the folks around me.  I spot a Virginia Happy Trails Running Club shirt and introduce myself to 'Smitty.'  We trade tales of races we both ran. He tells me of a coast-to-coast road trip he took when younger, selling his car to buy a pick-up with a cover so he and a friend could cruise the West and attend rock concerts.

What Goes Up Must Go Down
View to the southeast from the Dry Fork Ridge
After stopping to take and pose for photos around mile 4 we reach the Riley Point Aid Station a.  I grab a few cookies and potato chips and head out.  The trail turns sharply downhill and we run through a mix of forest and meadows, with the occasional muddy rivulet to cross, losing about 1700 feet in altitude over 2.2 miles.  About five of us make the descent together, with me being the engine of the 'train' and Smitty being the caboose.  I repeatedly ask, maybe even urge, the others to go by but they insist the pace is fine.  I'm a bit uncomfortable having to set the pace, worried that I'll run faster than I prefer because of a subconscious need to please the rest of the group.  Passing through some wet areas in the forest we spy some large tracks in the mud. "Moose," someone from the rear declares. 

Headed down from Riley Point. It got steeper.
On the way down I spy a bag containing unlabeled white capsules.  Naturally I pick them up.  They look like the Succeed! salt capsules I'm carrying but none of the runners around me are willing to try one. Since I've taken found pills before, I figure they'll make a spare supply if I need one. 

At the bottom of the descent the trail joins the route that the 100 and 52 milers run on the way to the finish.  The 100-milers started their race the previous day on the out and back course and the 52 milers started near the turn-around at 6 a.m. this morning.

Within minutes we join 100-milers as we get to the next aid station at Kern's Cow Camp.

What Goes Down Must Go Up
Kern's Cow Camp aid station, around mile 8, is pretty remote, but provides runners not just with the usual ultra food of cookies, candy, chips, fruit, water, soda and Powerade but freshly fried bacon and potato slices fried in the bacon grease. Runners mill about enjoying the food before heading out.  

Over the next six miles the course generally goes gently up and down for about four miles and then climbs about 800 feet over the last two miles back to near the start at Head of Dry Fork while following the Dry Fork Creek drainage.

Rebecca is at the aid station.  I eat several slices of bacon, grab other food and headed out with 'Minnesota' and Rebecca joins us. 

Minnesota is not the runner's real name, it is Tonya.  I have a horrible time remembering names and have found it easier to remember something else about the person, often where they are from.  So for me today, Tonya is Minnesota. She owns a restaurant back home and tells us tales of the business and her brother, who is the elected local sheriff.  Rebecca and I get to tell her our oft-told tales of races we have run together. Rebecca tells her favorite story on me, how I told her at one race that I would run with her unless she got hurt  - in which case I would dial 911 and leave her. My rationale that I am not trained to deliver emergency medical assistance and hence useless in that situation was unpersuasive.

We join up with a 100-miler and his pacer for the climb to Dry Fork.  Not surprisingly, the pacer is more talkative than the runner, who has been going for nearly 24 hours and still has nearly 20 miles to go.  All things considered, the runner is in pretty good spirits.

One of the food tables at Dry Fork AS
The Gods Toy with Us
We reach the Head of Dry Fork aid station in 3:53.  It is another fabulously stocked aid station, with not only the items in the picture at left, but anther table with hot pizza.  While I'm munching pizza, a volunteer asks if I'd like my drop bag.  I start to decline, then remember that I've put gels in it to replenish my supply.  Once I've filled up with them I'm ready to go.  Minnesota is telling me that she is heading out.  Rebecca comes over and tells me of a runner who lost his bag of salt capsules, and I hand over the bag. Rebecca is going to change socks.  I tell her she'll catch up with us as I leave.
Rebecca at Dry Fork AS.
The uphill resumes upon leaving the aid station.The course climbs about 500 feet over the next two miles before descending about an equal amount over the next three. 

On the way up we pass the father-son pair of Stricklands.  The young Strickland is 10 years old. For him this is no big deal, He ran a 12-hour race at age 9 and a 100K in April.

But it isn't the climb that is troubling. It is the cool wind dropping over the ridge and the dark clouds to our left.  It is the sign of an approaching storm.  We hurry on, going on the the premise that the clouds are moving southward and we are moving east, and if we get far enough east we will escape the storm.  And we do, even if I do so at the cost of leaving Minnesota behind. (It turns out that the running gods were taunting us.  No rain fell, even behind us.)

Looking back toward Dry Fork. Connecticut is on left.
The Stricklands are next on the trail, center.
Cresting the ridge that separates the Dry Fork Creek drainage from the Sheep Creek drainage I turn around and take a picture.  As I do a runner catches up with me.

We exchange pleasantries and names and where we are from. Lyndsay promptly becomes Connecticut.  We run a bit together and then she pulls away.

I walk a bit with a 100-miler who is not having a good day.  He had hoped for a good time but spent 20 minutes heaving due, he said, to a B-vitamin capsule being lodged in his stomach.  In response to his request I give him three of my Succeeds, which he immediately downs.  Having done my duty, I resume running.
On the way down to Lower Sheep Creek AS.
"The Haul" is up the ridge in the center rear. 
I'm running the gentle downhill on a four-wheel drive track following the runners in the near distance.  Then the runners ahead stop and turn back toward me.  I stop, too, and look down the slope to the right where I can see a couple of other runners. The runners in front of me had missed the flagged turn off the four-wheel drive road onto a single track trail.  We backtrack - only about 100 yards for me - and head in the right direction.  Connecticut was one of the runners who went the wrong way and when she catches up with me we stay together as we head toward the Upper Sheep Creek aid station at mile 19.

Hauling the Sound of Music
A 100-mile runner is at the aid station when we arrive. His shirt has a handwritten message, "Happy Birthday to me. I am 40."  He is in good spirits and even points out that yesterday was his birthday.

Connecticut and I hustle thru the aid station. I tell her that lingering at aid stations, a natural tendency in ultras because the food is good and volunteers friendly, can add up to significant loss of time over the course of a day. (For example, she took almost 15 minutes at Dry Fork; I was there for less than 7.)

It's been four years since I last ran here but I remember the course in detail. From the aid station we descend about 100 feet to the small wooden bridge that crosses Sheep Creek. We have arrived at the foot of "The Haul."

The Haul is the name for the half mile long stretch of trail that climbs about 500 feet to the crest of Horse Creek Ridge.  I may remember the Haul but I don't remember just how steep it is. 

Flowers in the meadow at the top of the Haul
On the other hand, the weather has been nearly perfect in the Bighorns this spring and the meadow to our left is full of wildflowers. Connecticut takes out her camera and takes closeup pictures of many of the flowers.  Her mother is an avid gardener and she also has the interest, identifying some of the wildflowers for me. Her gardening opportunities are limited as she lives in an apartment, so she is taking advantage of the run to combine a pair of interests.

More meadow flowers at the Haul.
At the top of the ridge we exchange cameras to take pictures of each other with the meadow, canyon and plains in the background.  I've been carrying and nibbling on cookies from the aid station and finally finish the last one before we head down toward the canyon.
The cookie made it to the top of the Haul but no further.

It is a long descent, perhaps 2500 feet over four miles or so through varied terrain: meadow, fields, dense woods with brush, rock. Sometimes gentle, sometimes steep, occasionally almost flat.  We spot two runners sitting on a low rock outcropping to enjoy the view of the canyon and we also stop but to adjust shoes and socks.  Connecticut is done quickly and resumes running.  I first go to sit on a pile of rocks but then think it is a perfect place for rattlesnakes and choose a spot in the center of a large low boulder.  I feel like there is a small stone under the ball of my foot but removing my sock reveals a blister.  It isn't particularly painful, so I simply replace the sock and get going.

Heading down one section I hear a runner coming up on me.  I move over to let him by and it is the 100-miler that I gave the Succeeds.  He apparently has recovered and is flying.  Smitty also goes by in this stretch. Earlier, Connecticut and I move over for a woman running the 52 miler. Connecticut identifies her as Darcy Africa Piceu, one of the world's best ultrarunners. She on her way to a first place finish (5th overall). (She was in and out of the Dry Fork aid station in 95 seconds, BTW.) And we pass a older couple, wearing matching Superman shirts wearing 18-mile bibs, the first, but not the last, 18-milers we pass today.

In the Tongue River Canyon.
Tongue River Canyon
The Tongue River Canyon is entirely different than the first 24 miles of the course.  The steep canyon walls trap heat and for the first time in the day it feels warm rather than pleasant.  The trail is rocky in some places rather than simply dirt.  Sites of rock slides are evident. Most the trail is in forest. The views are just as good but of a different sort.

At mile 24 I arrive at the Lower Sheep Creek aid station. I glance at my watch and pace card and see that I'm about two minutes behind a nine-hour pace. I'm in no hurry, but a seed has been planted.
The 'bridge' over
Lower Sheep Creek

Tongue River Canyon with the
Needle's Eye ahead.
After crossing the creek, I spend some time taking photos and exchanging cameras with other runners so we can get pictures of ourselves. (No selfies for ultrarunners; the scenery is too big.) I catch up to Smitty and express surprise; he says he is busy taking photos.

Kick It
My goal in coming to Bighorn was simply to enjoy the day and make up for having to drop down to the 18 miler in 2011 due to "the chicken-fried steak" incident.  But at the Tongue River Trail Head aid station (mile 26.6) a glance at my watch and then at my pace card shows that I'm still only two minutes off the pace for a nine-hour finish.  

By now we are about out of the canyon and the remaining course is on a mostly level gravel road, I figure I might as well try to up the pace.  I feel good, the remainder of the course is not photogenic and the temperature is climbing, and there is only about 5.4 miles to go officially.

I'm quick through the aid station.  I estimate that I have enough water in my pack to last. soak my buff to cool off my head, drink a cup of soda and grab some snacks and head out.  Touring is over; there is work to be done and a clock to be beat.

Substitute Spouses
I make good time headed to the final aid station, appropriately named Home Stretch at mile 29.6. On the stretch of road approaching it volunteers ride bicycles handing out ice pops to the runners.  At the aid station a volunteer sprays me with a mist of cool water.  I get a drink and push on.  A glance at the watch and pace card shows that I am now eight minutes ahead of a nine-hour finish. With only 2.4 miles officially to go, I'm confident that I'll make it.

I walk a bit with a 18-mile runner with a British accent.  She's relocated to nearby Sheridan, WY. And I chat a bit with a 100-miler.

But soon I'm running again and take a sip from my pack.  Nothing. I've miscalculated and have another mile or so to go and nothing to drink.

A woman riding a bicycle and towing a child in a bike trailer pedals alongside and asks if I'd like some water. I thank her as I take it.  She tells me that she had come out to escort her husband to the finish but had missed him.  I joke that I can be her substitute husband and she can be my substitute wife as my wife didn't come out to escort me.  She tells how running has become nearly an addiction for him since he gave up smoking several years earlier, and she is glad it has, as addiction runs in his family, with a brother with alcohol and drug problems.  She says she'd like to run and I encourage her, telling her she could even walk the 18-miler.

In Dayton for the last few blocks she peels off and I turn into Scott Park to cross the finish line well under nine hours.

The Gods Strike Down Hubris
When I cross the finish line I strike a Usain Bolt winner's pose. This angers the running gods, and my feet slide out from under me and I fall flat on my back, much to the consternation of the finish line volunteers.  I assure them that I am OK as I get up and grab a chocolate milk to await the others.

The Round Up
I finish in 8:33:47, 4/11 in AG, 100/132 males, 163/233 overall.  Given my split for the last section, I I suspect that the official distance is a bit overstated - at least for that stretch.

Smitty finally stopped taking pictures and finished in 8:43. Lyndsey, aka 'Connecticut' was two minutes behind him. Tonya, aka 'Minnesota' finished in 9:02. The father and son Stricklands finish in 9:11.

Barry and Emaad caught up with Rebecca at the Dry Fork aid station and ran together for awhile before Barry took off to cross the line in 9:14.  Emaad and Rebecca ran and finished together in 9:37.  Emaad's ten-year old daughter runs with him the last 100 yards.

Swag I: Bag, shirt, insulated bag, sticker, buff.


Swag II: Two pint glasses, finishers' shirt, water bottle, bib 

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Madrid Marathon - April 26, 2015

Know the Customs
"See," Rebecca says, nudging me while we sit at at the bar at El Botero Taberna in Toledo, "that couple sitting at the table asked for the menu, so they didn't get any tapas."

It's the day after the Madrid Marathon and we are still picking up valuable insights into Spanish customs.  This is one of the most important ones: so long as you order drinks and don't express any interest in getting food, you get a tapa with your drink.  It doesn't have to be alcoholic: this afternoon I'm having a glass of vino tinto, An is having ginebra y tonica and Rebecca is having tonica and we all have tapas.

A Spanish couple walks in and sits next to us.  They order glasses of wine and get a plate with four tapas.  Maybe they are regulars, or locals, or just Spanish.  Before we leave, after having ordered some media ración (half plates) to share, the couple is on their third glass of wine and third tapas.

Speed Touring Day 1
I arrive in Madrid on Thursday morning (the marathon is Sunday), get to the office of Friendly Rentals to pick up the keys for our apartment in the Chamberi neighborhood and make my way there. After getting settled I head out to explore Madrid. Exiting the Metro at Gran Via brings me up in front of the Telephone Company headquarters where demonstrators are occupying the street and being harangued by megaphone and drum and police stand by, but everything seems calm as pedestrians pass on the sidewalks and the street vendors keep selling (and occasionally raising a clenched fist in solidarity with something said over the loudspeakers).

I wander into the large department store El Corte Inglés and get a take-away something to eat that I consume sitting in the Plaza Puerta del Sol where I watch I watch costumed street performers work the tourists for pictures and tips. A short stroll takes me to the Plaza Major where I stop at a the bar of a restaurant for a glass of wine - and a tapa.  Restaurant prices in Madrid are generally absurdly low, and the wine costs less than two euros.

Refreshed, I continue west to the Royal Palace.  It is an astonishing place, with remarkable rooms each more astonishing than the previous one.

Speed Touring Day 2
On Friday morning I head to the Museo Reine Sofia to see its collection of modern art.  It's generally not my favorite style, but its collection of works by Picasso, Miró and especially Dalí are stunning. And, then there is Guernica, returned to Spain only in 1981 after the death of Franco and the restoration of democracy.

After a lunch of a bocadillo de calamares (fried squid on a short sub roll) and a beer (olives for the tapa)  I walk to the Museo de arte Thyssen to view its eclectic collection of art ranging from the the Middle Ages to modern (and a nice selection of Hudson River School paintings). After a rest on the terrace of the museum overlooking its garden to recharge with a glass of vino tinto (bar kibble for a  tapa) I go back to the apartment to await the arrival of Rebecca and An from their flight.

Off to the Expo
After their arrival and a bit of time to relax we head off to the Marathon Expo so Rebecca and I can pick up our packets.  It is an easy five stop Metro ride that does not require any train changes.

There's a short line to get into the Expo, but once in packet pick up is easy and we wander around after getting something to drink at the snack bar (no tapas, but free bananas at the next stand).  I look over the Havana Marathon booth, Rebecca buys a tank top Madrid Marathon shirt, then buys some banana-flavored marshmallow candy (in the shape of a banana).

We go back to the apartment then go out to eat.  We find a place with tables on the street, order a pitcher of sangria (days later the bartender at El Botero tells us that only tourists drink sangria) and order a couple of media ración. Rebecca picks one that is patatas fritas with something else that none of us can figure out.  When it arrives it is french fries with cocktail franks - especially ironic given that the vegetarian amongst us ordered it.  An and I don't have any problem finishing off the mini-wieners while Rebecca goes at the fries.  We move down the street to eat at another place and share more plates, including a nice bowl of steamed mussels.

Speed Touring Day 3
Detail from
The Hay Wain
by Hieronymus Bosch
Saturday I visit the Prado, simply the greatest museum for painting in the world. One proceeds from one room of El Greco paintings to another to yet another. Room after room filled with Goyas (the online catalog lists 116) exhibiting his extraordinary range of style and culminating in the powerful Third of May 1808.

I spend some time studying the intricate, fantastical and detailed works of Heronymous Bosch like the Hay Wain and The Garden of Earthly Delights as well as grimly detailed paintings such as Pieter Brueghel's The Triumph of Death.

I meet up with Rebecca and An and we go off to meet up with Rebecca's friend Kathryn and her husband King to share a pasta meal.  Katheryn is running the half marathon and then the two of them are off to drive through northern Spain for ten days or so.

Afterwards we head back toward the Prado were Rebecca and An take advantage of the free admission after 5 p.m.  While they go there I head to the Naval Museum a couple of blocks away. It is fairly interesting but the labels are only in Spanish so it is hard for me to understand descriptions more than superficially.  I do note a lack of information about the Armada of 1588.  Also unsurprisingly the section that has material about the Spanish in the Philippines lacks information about the Battle of Manila Bay in 1898.

I meet back up with Rebecca and An in the Prado, and then we head back to the apartment, stopping yet again for drinks, ta
pas and food.

Race Day
Our apartment is conveniently located in relation to the start of the marathon, and a departure at 8:05 for the short Metro ride and walk gets us there in time for the 900 a.m. start.

The weather is more of a problem.  Temperatures are in the 50s and are not predicted to increase throughout the day.  More troubling is that the forecast is for showers and rain throughout the day.  I set out with a hat, buff, long sleeve shirt, short sleeve shirt and arm warmers, a nylon shell and gloves. I make a last minute decision that I won't need the long sleeved shirt and give it to An.

Rebecca happy about km 3
We have approached the start line from the front. We are supposed to line up in corral 5 which would require us to walk toward the rear of the runners lined up.  Since there are 12000 marathoners and 7000 half marathoners, all starting at the same time, (as well as 5000 10K runners starting at 8:30) we simply wait at the entrance to corral 2 until the race is started and runners from the fifth corral come into view (corrals are marked on the bibs).

The first 5.5 kilometers are a steady, but not steep uphill.  Runnable but we know we are going uphill.  There is no rain and as we warm up both Rebecca and I remove layers until we are down to our matching steam-punk themed shirts - the ones we wore at Marathon du Medoc in 2013.

Approaching the twin towers of Puerta de Europa
at  Plaza Castilla about km 5 (and then km 8)
We follow the broad Passeo de la Castellana northward, passing through the twin towers of the Puerta de Europa. In about another kilometer the course makes a U-turn and shortly thereafter a light rain or mist begins.  We put our jackets on,  It is a maneuver that we will repeat several times over the next few hours as the rain comes and goes.

Having turned in the opposite direction, the course now gives us a downhill.  In fact, with the exception of a few short uphills, we will generally run gently downhill for the next 25 kilometers.

Tales of Three Spaniards
On Calle Santa de Engracia(?) about km 15
There are no throngs of spectators, at least toward the back of the pack where we are as the weather is not conducive to standing around unless there is a runner you are trying to see. At one point an elderly man in his Sunday suit decides that he needs to cross the street.  He steps out into a crosswalk, looks steadily ahead, and regally walks slowly across the street as runners dodge around him.

A bit further along I await while Rebecca uses a race Portapotty in front of a church.  A women asks me a question in Spanish.  I have no idea of what she has asked, but it may have something to do with the marathon, so I point to the facilities and in my best tourist Spanish say "mi amiga!"

Still further along I point to a cervecería (they are basically beer bars), jokingly suggesting that we could stop for a drink while I mangle the word. A runner corrects my pronunciation. I try again. Get corrected again. Try again.  Finally my pronunciation is close enough to the satisfaction of the runner.

Around kilometer 14 the half marathoners leave the joint course to head to the finish. Both groups of runners wave good bye to each other.

We run through Puerta del Sol and near Plaza Major and then past the Palace. The course nearly replicates my stroll on Thursday.  We cross a small bridge over Rio Manzanares into the Casa de Campo for about four kilometers, a large park on the west side of Madrid.

Northern Yankees
We pass the site of the expo and come upon several runners speaking English in a accent we recognize.
Onto Gran Via about km18

"Buenas dias, Yanquis," I say.

"We're not Yankees," comes the reply, "We are Canadians."

"Ah, Northern Yankees," I quip.

They are from Nova Scotia and we run along with them for awhile, talking about the weather ("at least it isn't snowing"), visits to Nova Scotia by Rebecca and me and the usual stuff runners talk about.

Bust a Move
The Madrid Marathon is part of the Rock n' Roll franchise so there are a number of bands along the course.  Some of the bands sing in English, others in Spanish.  There is a mix of styles, from classic rock, to punk (or maybe grunge), to metal, to so softer indie play.  I take the opportunity to energetically dance to some of the classic rock, resulting in me huffing along for the better part of a kilometer to catch my breath.

Homestretch
Around kilometer 33 we recross the river.  An, riding a BiciMad electric bike share, intercepts us.  He has been trying all day to intercept us on the course and this is the first he has succeeded.  The next nine kilometers are a steady uphill with a net gain of about 375 feet.  Now we are running in a steady rain.  The streets are accumulating puddles that we try to get around or over.

At kilometer 37 we pass Reine Sophia and the Estación de Atocha, where we will get the AVE high speed train (it will hit 160 mph) to Toledo on Monday), make a slight left to pass the Prado and recross the start line at kilometer 38.

Hell is a Lonely Place
By now I have gotten to a very dark place.  There is no happiness in the last few miles of a marathon.  You are not feeling good "because you are almost done."  You are feeling bad because you have just run 22 or 23 or 24 miles on pavement and you are NOT done.  A marathon is a 10K following a 20 mile warm-up.  That last 10K, especially the last 5K, is never a happy place.

I'm struggling.  I feel like those tormented souls in the Hay Wain.  Perhaps looking a macabre paintings the day before a marathon is not advisable. Now Rebecca is chirping positive thoughts at me.  That makes me angry.  I tell her to stop; that it is not making me feel better.  She says that she isn't doing it for me, but to keep her own spirits up. "Then run off and talk to yourself," I snap. She does and will finish a couple of minutes ahead of me.

But soon enough I enter the Parque de El Retiro, cross the finish line and find Rebecca waiting. I finish in 4:45:13, 72 of 91 in my age group, and 9678 of 10537 male finishers. I take solace in that I picked up 563 places in the second half.

C-c-can Y-y-you S-s-say Hypothermia
The steady rain and mid-50s temperatures continue at the finish.  Having stopped running we are no longer generating heat and soon Rebecca and I are both shivering while our finger go numb.  And we need to find An.  We had agreed to meet at a certain place in the park but we have no idea of how to get there and no one at the finish knows where the intersection that we need to get to is.

We try texting and calling An but the shaking, numb fingers makes use of the device difficult.  We give him a partial location at a snack bar where we have managed to get some shelter and a cup of tea. (An aside: the counter server asks if green tea is OK as he is out of black tea. Rebecca notes later that we would have been happy with a cup of hot water.) Before we can complete the address we exhaust the funds on the prepaid sim card.

Just as we are about to try to head back to the apartment on our own (it was plan B) An finds us.  We walk shivering out of the park, hail a cab and head back to the apartment.  The driver asks if the cab is too warm. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Swag: shirt, buff, backpack, bib, program,
medal, gels, box of supplements


Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Bull Run Run 50 Miler - April 11, 2015

Drafted
By the time I remember to sign up for Bull Run Run 50 Miler entry lottery this year it had already closed.  Fortunately I am able to get on the wait list, although without the priority that being on it from having lost the lottery would have provided.  For the fourth consecutive year fewer people try to enter the race and I move quickly onto the entrants list as people withdraw.

Two weeks before the race legendary ultrarunner (and all-round universally acclaimed nice guy) Tom Green asks me to join his team in an effort to win the oldest team award. "You won't have to do anything except finish the run under 13 hours," Tom cheerily assures me.

I agree to be on the team and then find out that it consists of some of the legends of the BRR: 71 year-old Frank Probst, who has finished 22 BRRs; 68 year-old Bob Anderson with 16 BRR finishes; and 64 year-old Tom, who is the only other person besides Frank to have finished all 22 BRRs. Tom is a few months older than me, making me the baby on the team Huffin and Puffins.  And the least experienced with only six BRR finishes.  The team is a total of 267 years old, easily 30 or 40 years older than the next oldest team.  We'll win if I can finish, because I know that the other three will finish.

The last few BRRs have been a bit of a struggle for me, I've averaged 12:30 in the last three BRRs (12:34, 12:09, 12:47).  I ran some with Tom last year and had to tell him to go on as I stopped on the final hill to empty my stomach - twice.  So he knows that this is not an easy race for me.  Still, he has enough confidence in me to ask that I join this team of legends. Nevertheless, I feel pressure. I can't let the legends down.

Three of These Four Are Legends
(Pick the one that does not belong)

17-time finisher
Bob, 68
(photo by Beni Hawkins)
23-time finisher
Frank, 71
(photo by Beni Hawkins)

























7-time finisher
Ken, 64
(photo by Beni Hawkins)
23-time finisher
Tom, 64
(photo by Beni Hawkins)

Little Big Data
I have aid station split times for five of my six previous Bull Runs.  I ran the 2010 and 2011 BRRs in 11:16 and 11:34 and the 2012-14 BRRs in times ranging from 12:09 to 12:47, averaging 12:30.  I figure that the last three are more representative of what I am likely to run today, so I construct a pace card based on those three performances. When I use the data to extrapolate for a column at 12:45 pace, the last two segments covering the final 10 miles, produces a 13:16 finish, well over the 13 hour cutoff.  The only thing I can do is manually increase the pace for those two segments and rename the column the 13 hour pace column.  In short, I have no room for error if I want to support the Huffin and Puffins.

Been Here Before
Mark shows up promptly at my house at 450 a.m. and we are quickly on our way for the 40 minute drive to Hemlock Overlook for the race.  We stop at Seven-Eleven to pick up a cup of tea, park in the preferred carpool area, pick up our bibs and race swag, place our drop bags in the area for them and chat with old friends.

I run into Tom Green and he tells me that he plans to start off quickly to avoid the early bottlenecks where the back of the pack has to wait for those ahead of them to clear stream crossings or rocky stretches.  (I'll only see Tom once on the course today, as he heads back from the turnaround in the bluebells while I'm still headed toward it. He finishes in 11:38, more than an hour faster than last year.)

A bugler plays a martial air, someone sings the National Anthem and the race is off at 630 a.m. with a thin cloud cover failing to hide a waning moon with moderate temperatures. 

Not too many bluebells this year.
Mark and I start off together and leapfrog a bit with Stephanie, Marshall and Mike.  Stephanie and Marshall are steady runners who can keep a pace for hours, so the fact that they are a bit behind means nothing. (Sure enough they pull away around mile 28 and finish in 11:45.)

The Tyranny of the Pace Card
I get to the first aid station at Centerville Road (mile 7.2) in 1:39, about midway between the 12:30 pace and the 12:45 (now marked 13 hour) pace. That pacing repeats itself at the turnaround in the bluebells (mile 9.4) and back at Centerville Road (mile 11.6) even though my left foot sinks eight inches (that's about two inches above the ankle) into mud at one point.  fortunately I don't lose my shoe.  It repeats at all twelve aid stations through Marina at mile 44.9. Keep it up and I'll be in good shape.  But if something goes amiss there is little margin for error.

Vegan Cheesecake and OK Cupid; or Love on the Trail 
On the return from Centerville Road to Hemlock I run with a couple.  She tells me that they met while at a previous BRR while pacing a friend.  He was running and a mutual friend introduced them, thinking that as fellow vegans and runners them might have a certain degree of compatibility, which, it turns out, they did.

I note that I have recently attended two weddings where the parties had met via match.com.  She had tried OKCupid,com but the only men she met were older and, she thought, more interested in hook-ups than serious relationships. Maybe it was a Washington area problem, she speculated, in that people were more interested in their careers than their personal life.

I mention the abomination of vegan cheesecake that was on an Easter buffet that we attended. Seriously, what is the point of omitting the cheese from the cheesecake? It's called cheesecake for a very good reason - an accurate description of what it is.  You want tofu cake? Fine, just don't mislabel it as cheesecake. I'll report you to the FDA or USDA, or whoever is responsible for proper food labeling.

She tells me that not only is vegan cheesecake tasty, but that there will be some at the post-race food.  Further she describes how it is often made with almond? walnut? flour.  I agree to try some when I finish.  Unfortunately there was none left by the time I did.

Trail Maintenance
BRR is a no sitting race.
Somewhere outbound between Marina (mile 21.1) and Wolf Run Shoals (mile 26.1) I ask a runner I catch up to, "You're Frank, correct?  Getting an affirmative answer, I introduce myself to Frank Probst and tell him that I'm the guy Tom recruited to the team.

We run along together and Frank tells me how he brought a handsaw out to the trail earlier in the year to clear a fallen tree.  He didn't want another notable BRR character, Gary Knipling, to have to lug his chainsaw that far. (Gary is also 71 and will finish his 19th BRR in 11:45 today.)  He points out the tree to me and says that it took him three hours to saw it and then he asked some passing hikers to help him roll the cut log out of the way.

Goodbye . . .
I gradually pull away from Frank.  This is a great relief to me as it means that if I can stay ahead of him, I'm pretty much assured of making the 13 hour cutoff. Furthermore, I can see Mark in the near distance.  If I can catch and keep up with him that will be another bit of assurance of finishing.
Leaving Fountainhead AS and heading into the White Loop I steadily gain on him.  The loquacious Mark is chatting with another runner and as they hook around one of the switchbacks I warn the other fellow, "Be careful, he's paid by the word!"

Spiderman, me and Batman in the Do Loop.
One of these three is not a superhero.
(Photo by Mark Zimmermann)
Shortly thereafter I catch up to them and the three of us trot on through the loop, cross the park road, pass the signs warning of the archery range to the right, go up and down some more of the course's never ending hills and reach the Do Loop AS. Mark has been hankering for a green ice pop there, but all they have are multi-colored ones.  He gets one but I get distracted by refilling my water bottle and getting some watermelon and leave without one.

After running the relatively short - and inevitable up-and-down - path to the loop proper, we get to enjoy the wide, smooth, gradual downhill that takes us to where we have views of the boathouse on the Occoquan and the many boats on the water for a crew regatta. Entering the Do Loop proper provides a psychological boost because it means that one will no longer see runners headed in-bound while you are still headed outbound.

Then it is back to up-and-downs for the return to the Do Loop AS.  Mark mentions that he is feeling a bit tired from his 75-mile effort two weeks earlier at the Umstead 100 (cut short by blisters). We are joined by Mike E. who finished Umstead in a nice sub-24 hour performance.  Mike's back is bothering him a bit. I mention that I'm feeling a bit light-headed or otherwise not quite right but that it feels better when running than walking.

Leave the Weak for the Hyenas
Back at the Do Loop I remember to get an ice pop for the return.  I look around for Mark and don't see him.  Seeing me searching, the runner we had been with in the White Loop says, "Your friend is up ahead,  He took off.  He said something about being concerned that you might not be feeling that you could finish."  I look down the trail and can see Mark, but he is well along. It is the last I will see of him until the finish. (He later apologizes for going off with an adieu, explaining that he was simply trying to not lose too much time in aid stations.  He also buys me a hot dog and drink at Seven Eleven on the way home.)

I feel a bit like the weak and elderly in the herds of antelope in Africa.  If you can't stay with the herd you get left behind.  Without the strength of the herd you are easy pickings for the predators that lurk to pick-off the defenseless, solitary creature on the long journey.

But at least I'm still ahead of Frank!  So long as I can do that I'm safe.

. . . and Hello and Goodbye
At the Fountainhead AS I replenish my supply of Succeed salt tablets.  I've been careful to take a Succeed and a gel every hour to ward off dehydration.  To keep from getting overheated I've been wetting my handkerchief at the aid stations and wiping my face and arms with the cold water.  A sudden insight has me dunk my buff in the cold water and put it on my neck and pull it over my head.  It may look a bit strange but it provides cold water to my head and neck as well as some water running down my chest.  The cooling feels good.

Headed up the long hill back to the Wolf Run AS I'm greeted by an overtaking runner.  It's Frank! He tells me that he started to feel much better in the Do Loop.  That's obvious as he strides past me, restocks at the aid station and steadily pulls away.

I'm back to being on my own again.  The only question is whether the hyenas and lions lie in wait over the last ten miles. In prior years they often have.

Intel is Important
As Frank disappears into the distance (at the age of 71, he'll finish in 12:21, 34 minutes faster than last year) I leave the superhero-themed Wolf Run Shoals AS (mile 39.9) in the company of two other runners.  Ray lives in Manassas and frequently runs this portion of the trail.  He provides valuable information about how far it is to the Marina AS (mile 44.9) based on the trail's mile posts.

And then he let's us in on a secret: the miles are "compressed," that is they are less than a mile apart. This is psychologically encouraging in that it means we don't have to run as far as we have been led to believe, but it is also irrelevant. Time is what matters, not distance, and the cutoffs and the pace card, the damn pace card, measurer of how long it takes to travel from one fixed point to another, regardless of the absolute meters, miles, kilometers or yards between them, has taken distance into account and transformed it into time. The cutoff of 11:30 at Marina and 13:00 at the finish means that there is 90 minutes between them, not 5.5 miles as the official distance says or 5.09 miles as Ray says. The time matters, not the distance.

To the End
In recent years I have never been able to run between the final aid station at Marina and the finish in less than 90 minutes.  So beating the 11:30 cutoff at Marina will not be enough to finish in under 13 hours.  Get there in 11:15 is cutting it close but is doable.  Faster is better.

I get to Marina in 10:54.  It's a huge relief.  More than two hours remain and that means I can walk it in if  need be.  I do walk a fair amount with Ray but finally decide to push on a bit.  I'm doing fine, I try to be careful on the rocky stretches. But crossing a small rocky stream my left foot slips and goes into the water and as I try to step out and over a large flat rock my left shin scrapes against it, I loose my balance, my left knee bangs down and I tumble to the ground winding up on my back. No great harm: a sore right palm, a superficially bloody left knee and a few inches of scraped left shin, with a bit of dirt for a dressing.

Another mile or so then up the final hill toward Hemlock.  I go slowly, not wanting to trigger muscle memory (or more accurately, stomach memory) of the times and places I've vomited here in BRRs gone by.  And I succeed.  Walk a bit more, than run to the finish where I cross the line in 12:30, having made up nine minutes on the pace card.

Tom and I with the Team Champion blankets.
(Photo by Caroline Williams)
I'm the last of the Huffin and Puffins to finish, but I've fulfilled my obligation to get to the finish with the other legends. Tom is at the finish to greet me.  We are announced as the oldest team (but not the slowest!) and Tom and I collect the blankets for ourselves, Frank and Bob. It is the third time I've been on a winning team - twice for slowest team and now for oldest. Tom tells me, "You're now officially old and slow!"

Swag: Bag, Buff, Hat and Bib
atop a BRR Team Champion Blanket




Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Runners Marathon of Reston - March 29, 2015

Free Marathon!
Who could resist such an offer? OK, lots of people but not me, even if it is a week after running a 50K.  Following the truncation of the George Washington Birthday Marathon, the DC Road Runners work a deal with the Reston Runners to allow GWBM runners to run for free in the Runners Marathon of Reston on March 29, 2015.

We get no race premiums and are not eligible for prizes. We run with GWBM bibs, our times are recorded separately and we are awarded GWBM finishers medals instead of Runners Marathon medals. Persons signed up for both races are awarded both medals.  Twenty-two of us take up the offer.

The race is a low-key, early spring, suburban marathon located in the planned community on Reston, Virginia.  The course is two loops of a mixture of about 60 percent roads and 40 percent paved hiker-biker trails largely through neighborhoods of single family houses, town houses, garden apartments and secondary roads with some shopping centers, office buildings and churches.  The scenery is nothing special but not unattractive.  The course has some gentle rolls bun no lung-burners; the difference between the high and low spots on the course is only 164 feet and the two points are nearly seven miles course miles apart

There is also a half marathon that starts with the marathoners. At the end of the day there will be 130 Runners marathon, 22 GWBM and 282 half marathon finishers.  With the half marathoners gone after the first loop there is plenty of space for the marathoners to spread out.  Aid stations every couple of miles are well maintained by volunteers and plenty of course marshals and police provide protection at intersections.  With only 430 runners in the events crowds are not surprisingly sparse.

22 degrees at the start. GWBM shirt.
It's a workman-like day. Nothing particularly special: just show up, book the miles, finish.  A day better described in vignettes that a narrative.

Lyrics Can be Hard to Remember
The start line is about a two minute walk from South Lakes High School where packet pickup and the post-race meal is located.  Someone who is going to run the race is introduced as the singer of the National Anthem.  He goes along nicely until he gets to "O'er the ramparts we watch'd" and then he stops. There is an awkward moment of silence before he picks up again.  To help him along the crowd joins in to sing the rest of the Anthem.

Bad Joke #1
"Nice job!" the volunteer offers as I run pass.

"If it were really a nice job," I reply, "I'd have the weekend off and be getting paid for it."

How Cold Was It?
It was so cold  . . .
. . . that the Gatorade at one of the early aid stations was slushy.
. . . that when I stopped to use a Porta-Potty around mile 11 the stream of urine steamed.
. . . that I didn't take off my outer shirt until mile 25.

Any Sox is Better Than No Sox #1
"Interesting arm warmers," I offer.

"They are my husband's socks," she replies, "Well, they were."

She is wearing white athletic socks as hand and arm warmers, but her fingers are free, as she has cut off the toe enclosure.  A couple of hours later, just after starting the second loop, I spot one on the ground, and a little further along, the other, forlorn-looking with their unravelling ends where toes once kept warm.

Bad Joke #2
A spectator holds up a sign proclaiming "This is a No Walken Zone" with a picture of Oscar-winning actor Christopher Walken on it.

"Nice humor," I offer, then pause. "But don't quit your day job."

Play That Funky Music, Incredibles
Headed up the hill toward the aid station short of mile 24, the 1970s hit from Wild Cherry, Play That Funky Music is booming. Mr. and Mrs. Incredible are there, too, on either side of the path.  I stop in front of them and bust out my finest dance moves, maybe even better than those I did at Potomac Heritage 50K for which I earned a 25 minute bonus.

The Incredibles applaud and then high-five me while I head out.

Running Happy!
(Photo by Brian Kent Photography)
Any Sox is Better Than No Sox #2
I come alongside a women running in minimalist sandals. Her heels are bare but the front of her feet are in pink that match her Marathon Maniacs shirt.

I inquire if she isn't cold.  Her friend answers that the woman often runs barefoot.

"Too cold for that today," the woman says. "But I forgot my toe socks so I have had to put my gloves on my feet."  

A second look confirms that the fingers of the gloves extend beyond the front of the sandals. The two gradually pull away from me but I catch up with them around mile 25, where the toe gloves are still in place .

What's Your Name?
"What year did you run Wineglass Marathon?" I ask the orange-shirted runner ahead of me. We chat a bit and then he introduces himself. "I'm Dave," he says. 

"Ken," I reply.

"I probably won't remember your name by the time we get to the next corner," he says, "I'm awful on names."

"No problem, Charley," I quip, "I've got the same problem."

"Wow!" he exclaims, "We share the same name!"

Dave has not only run the Wineglass Marathon, but he is from Corning and is on the race committee. "I'm the only one on the committee who runs the race," he tells me.  We share tales of running Finger Lakes 50s and Monster Marathon.  I tell of my preference for trail running and he tells how he has given up trails as his ankles give he problems with stability.

Macon Time
In the first couple of miles I run awhile with a fellow from Macon, Georgia.  He's wearing a Marathon Maniacs shirt (there were a lot of them out there).  He's taking his time and I gradually pull away from him. There is a little out-and back section of the course at mile 7 and we exchange greetings as we pass in opposite directions; him outward bound and me on my way back. We do it again on the second loop, now about mile 20.

Well beyond mile 24 he goes booking past me. "I gotta be headed back to Georgia," he says, as he goes on to finish 90 seconds ahead of me after being about 7 minutes behind at the half.

The Details
I finish in 4:33:56 with half marathon splits of 2:10 and 2:23.  I'm 11/13 males and 13 of 22 GWBM runners.  Had I been in the Runners Marathon of Reston I would have won my age group. Had I been in the next oldest age group I would not have even placed.
George Washington Birthday Marathon Swag at the Reston Marathon: A bib and a medal.