Seneca Creek Greenway Trail 50K - March 3, 2012

(Compliments of Dan DiFonzo)

The Short Version
Started at Damascus Recreational Park. Ran to Seneca Creek State Park.  Ran around Clopper Lake. Ran to Riley's Lock.  Finished 168th of 180. In what time?  Well, that's at the bottom of this report.

There was mud. And 34 miles, not 31.1 miles.  For $10 what would you expect?

The Longer Version
There's not actually a longer version, other than to say that the course was two miles longer than last year and the mud throughout the day took a toll on my thighs as they worked hard to keep me upright as my feet slipped around.  The net result of the mud and the added miles and hills was to add almost an hour and a half (1:27) to my time from 2011.  But I'll discuss themes that came up throughout the day. And some vignettes.

Like we did at the George Washington Birthday Marathon, Jennifer W. and I ran together the entire way.  It's good practice in togetherness, as we plan to run the Black Hills 100K together in June.

Crossing Seneca Creek at Mile 3
(Ken in blue hat, gray shirt.)

The Zen of Running Long I
"If I pass you then I'll be past you.  So I won't pass you," she says on the far side of Clopper Lake. Seventeen miles into a trail run makes the statement perfectly logical.

I had just asked the runner behind Jennifer and me if she wanted to go by.  "If I pass you," she explains further, "then you'll just pass me again in a little bit.  So there is no reason to go by."  That makes sense. No need to waste physical and mental energy leapfrogging each other.

And then she passes us.  And we stayed passed as she pulls away from us.

Anger Mismanagement I
The first hint that I was to have  rare moments of anger during the run came shortly before the preceding zen moment.  I was running in front of Jennifer and another runner had joined us while we circled Clopper Lake.  We were chatting in the companionable manner that trail runners do.  Then several more runners joined our group.  I had offered to let them go by but they were content to follow and let me set the pace for our small  pack.

But for some reason this bothered me.  I'm not sure why. Maybe I felt pressure to run faster than I would otherwise.  Maybe I didn't like the perceived pressure of being in charge of pace-setting. So I dropped back a step to get even with Jennifer and told her to be ready as I was going to pick up the pace and drop the pack.  As soon as we came to a slight downslope with good footing, I appreciably picked up the tempo.  Jennifer and I separated from our group of followers.

Maybe they passed us later.  Maybe they didn't.  I still don't know why I felt a need to change the situation, as I'm generally chatty with whoever I come across on the trail.  But not at that time.

The Zen of Running Long II
At one point Jennifer and I are running alone.  We can't see anyone ahead of us or behind us.  I tell her that since we have no other points of reference, i.e., other runners, at that moment we may be leading the race or we may be last.  It is an observation that I've made at other times, but Jennifer hasn't heard me say it, so that makes it new. At least to her.

Shortly afterward some runners catch up with us.  One of them points out that until they saw and caught up with us they could not tell, within their own frame of reference, whether they were leading or trailing.

Apparently this is a common zen insight - or hallucination - of trail runners.

Anger Mismanagement II
In order for SCGT runners to see a new trail, the Seneca Ridge Trail, race creator and director Ed Schultze has the course leave the Seneca Creek Greenway Trail and follow the new trail, which he helped build.  On this muddy day it has the advantage of being away from the creek and is considerably drier.  On the other hand, it is hilly and it is a couple of miles longer.  And unlike the Greenway Trail, it has no mile posts.  Ordinarily that doesn't bother me, but today is the first time I've been on this trail, and I have not sense of the distance.  And it starts about 20 miles into the race.

As we run the hills - the downhills, by now we are walking the uphills - I am becoming angry.  I'm angry at Ed for adding these hills and these extra miles, as the course was already well over 50K.  I'm angry that I don't know where I am relative to the next aid station.  I'm angry that I've passed a sign that says "2 miles to Pringles and Other Fake Food" when I know that it is well more that two miles to that aid station (more on that below).

I can't help myself.  I yell at him, "If I had a freaking gun you'd be a dead man."  Except that I don't say "freaking" but another word that starts with "f."  Ed chuckles. "Some people had complained that that section was too flat," he says. "I hoped you enjoyed the views."

My anger spent, I concede that the views down to the creek are pretty good.  But then we cross the road and resume another couple of miles on the hills of Seneca Ridge Trail.  The anger returns.

At Route 28 Aid Station
(compliments of Don L.)

The Wit of Don L.
One of the pleasures of SCGT 50K is the aid station at Route 28, at about mile 27. It is run by Don L. and his daughter Kenna, and every year features a food theme.  And to entertain runners along the way and get them in to the mood for the food, Don puts up signs along the trail, starting 15 miles away.

Some years the signs only hint at the themes but this year the signs announce the theme, Pringles.  Don kindly sent me the text of the signs, and I present them here with some comments (mine in [] and Don's in [italics])

Just past the Route 355 crossing (about mile 11):
"What will Ed do now that he has retired as RD?"
[Ed has decided to retire as race director following the first nine years of the race that he created.]

Pringles Supermodel?
"Ed?" with arrow pointing to hand-drawn Pringles can.
[You have to see the Pringles logo to appreciate this.]

Near the underpass of the CSX tracks:
Pringles: Better than tofu!
[Referencing a previous food theme.]

Pringles: Almost better than Peeps!
[A reference to another previous food theme.]

Pringles: 42% real potatoes! Mmm!!
[This is a true statistic by the way.]

Approaching Clopper Lake (about mile 15):
Pringles: The choice of people who love their food from a can! (Dog approved!)
[Parenthetical on the sign.]

Pringles: 1 serving = 1 can

At Riffleford Road (about mile 17):
2.5 times better than potato chips!
(Where "better" means less potatoey!)
[Again, parenthetical on the sign.]

The perfect balanced diet:
Equal amounts of MSG and HFCS!

Everyone's favorite hyperbolic paraboloid!

At the Route 118 road crossing (mile 21?):
World record holder for eating Pringles during 9 consecutive SCG races.
Congrats Cathy Blessing, you maniac!
[9 was placed on an extra layer to suggest the number is being updated.]
[Cathy Blessing is one of only two persons to have run in every SCGT race. Even though she now lives in the Southwest, she returns every year for the race.]

2 miles to Pringles and Other Fake Food
[Yes, we knew the mileage was inaccurate but we were using "Ed miles".]
[This is the sign that added to my anger.]

You'll love our Pringles Original!
[small print] (We can't afford the more expensive flavors!)
[Not true: we actually had some of the more exotic flavors.]
[And the last aid station at Berryville Road (mile 31) also had exotic flavored Pringles including dill pickle.]

Starting at Black Rock Mill (about mile 25):

1 mile to Pringles and Other Lethal Food

Pringles: Stale when fresh!

Jennifer and Ken enjoy Pringles at Don's Aid Station
(Compliments of Don L.)

Pringles: Not proven to be carcinogenic!

Pringles: Because everyone loves food molded from dehydrated, uh, stuff.

1/2 mile to Pringles and Other Not Food

Welcome to Pringleville
[small print] (We also have sawdust!)

[PS: One runner came in to the aid station and accused us of being paid to advertise Pringles. Were our signs not insulting enough?]

Jennifer, who is a Pringles fan, is excited early on about the prospect of having them at the aid station, but Don's increasingly negative signs began to rob her of her excitement as we approached the aid station.

Anger Mismanagement III
Somewhere late in the race I'm feeling tired and beaten down.  A volunteer offers me the ritual "looking good" encouragement.  "Don't lie to me," I snap back.

Mad Dash
Most of the last mile of the race is on the unpaved Tschiffely Mill Road.  As we come off the path in the woods and onto the hard surface I look at my watch and tell Jennifer that if we hurry we can finish under the official cut-off of eight hours.  While the cut-off is "official,"  there are no consequences of failing to meet it.  The race awards no medals, clothing, certificates or prizes for making it.  There is absolutely no reason to hurry now.

SCGT swag
(Note that the bibs are recycled from another race.)

Today for some reason,  it is now important to me to try.  Usually I'm so tired at this point of SCGT50K that I usually walk part of Tschiffely Mill Road.

Not today.  Jennifer and I pick you the pace.  Maybe it is a chance to run on a hard surface without worrying about mud - although we still have to dodge potholes and puddles.  We push hard.  Finally, around the last slight curve in the road the finish line comes in sight.  Jennifer moves ahead of me but we both dash across the line.

Only then does the time on the clock register in my brain.  It says 8:02 and some seconds.  I look at my watch.  It says 7:59.  I want that sub-8:00 finish. "Your clock is wrong," I say to the timekeepers.  "We know" they say, "We are taking three minutes off."   My official time is posted as 7:59:27.  Jennifer is three seconds ahead of me.

George Washington Birthday Marathon - February 19, 2012

ScotchGard
I obsessively check the weather in the days leading up to the George Washington Birthday Marathon. I devour the National Weather Service Scientific Discussions, updated four times a day.  The main conclusion of the discussions is that the weather for Sunday, February 19 is going to be very hard to predict.  The various models are in disagreement and slight changes in the speed or direction of a southward moving cold front and an eastward moving low means that it may rain, or snow, or not, or both, and be early in the day, or later, or not at all.  Some of the extended forecasts end with a cheery admission that meterological forecasting is still subject to uncertainty: "Stay tuned."

I decide not to take any chances and get out the ScotchGard and spray my hat, gloves, shoes and a windbreaker.  Meanwhile the meteorologists change the forecast every six hours, sometimes with precipitation earlier, sometimes later, sometimes greater probabilities of precipitation, sometimes lower.

I've paid my entry fee so I'll be there.  The weather promises a risk of hypothermia, as I know that waterproofing won't stand up to five hours in the rain or snow.  Someone asks me what's my medical insurance deductible, reminding me that there is another component to the cost-benefit analysis.

Sunday's weather is proving to be difficult to forecast, even on Saturday. The chances of precipitation are dropping and moving toward later in the day. Nevertheless, Saturday night I Scothgard the outer shirt I plan to wear on Sunday.

Compost Facility

Jennifer and me around Mile 13

I pick up Mark Z. on the way to Greenbelt for the start of the race.  We get there and meet Jennifer W. and CM M.  Jennifer is ordinarily much faster than me (having run 3:46 at last year's Marine Corps Marathon compared to my 4:29) but she hasn't been running much the past couple of months and just plans to do it as a training run.  She agrees to take the early start with me while the faster Mark and CM plan to take the regular start an hour later.

The weather has decided to cooperate, and while it is a bit cool, there is no precipitation.  The 30 or so early starters cross the line about 9:35 a.m. and Jennifer and I head out.

The course consists mostly of three loops around the US Department of Agriculture experimental facility in Greenbelt.  Around mile 2 the course takes a bit of a one-time pass by the "Compost Laboratory Facility."  In previous years this has been a particularly fragrant portion of the run, but this year this is virtually no odor.  Jennifer grew up on a farm in South Dakota and I had been extolling the virtues of this portion of the course. She seems a bit disappointed for our olfactory disappointment and proceeds to rank the scents of various manures for me: horse, 'almost pleasant;' pig, 'foul;' cow, 'in between;' and rabbit urine' 'the worst.'  She will be visiting the family farm in June so she'll have an opportunity to be reacquainted with them.

After taking the first two miles too fast, we settle into a moderate pace on the rolling, moderately hilly two lane road through fields and woods that make up one of the three sides of the loop.  The first aid station at mile six is manned and we get something to drink before going on.  Last year early starters could not count on aid stations being open early in the day so this is a pleasant surprise.

The roads have a lot of camber to them and I try to run on the double yellow lines in the center.  This is the most level part of the road and I'm trying to avoid aggravating my iliobitial band by running on the canted surface by the edge of the road.  A race official comes by in a giant pick-up truck and reminds me that the roads are open to traffic and that I should get to the side.  I do, and as soon as he drives off, I return to the middle of the road.  A few hundred yards down the road he stops, and I again move to the side.  Once he drive off for good, I return to the center.

Relentless Forward Progress
We finish our first loop and begin the second.  About a mile into it we are passed by the race leader on his first loop.  Soon a couple more leaders go by, and around mile 12 for us and mile 5 for him, last year's winner Karsten Brown passes us. I tell him that there are three runners pretty far ahead.  He replies that it takes the pressure off and that he can just run and enjoy the day.(He finishes fourth in 2:54, seven minutes behind the winner).

Dragging along at mile 17
(courtesy Kenny A.)

Jennifer's lack of training starts to show and we walk some of the uphills.  While she as had some issues with gel causing side stitches in the past, she accepts my offer of one, and later in the day and a second with no ill effects.  She and I also take two Succeed electrolyte capsules each during the day.

Around mile 12 friend Kenny A. flies past.  He's running the second leg on a relay team.  He's fast and his team goes on to finish third in the men's division of the relay race.

The middle miles of a marathon are the least pleasant. The early miles are fueled by adrenalin and the later miles are fueled by determination, but the middle miles are never memorable. They are the place you make relentless forward progress. Between miles 10 and 21 our pace drops to over 11 minutes per mile for each mile save one.  We finish our second loop around mile 17.  Kenny is there and yells words of encouragement.

I try to help make the time pass by singing for Jennifer - more like reciting, as my singing makes children cry and animals flee. Two songs are stuck in my head, Junior Brown's Highway Patrol ("I got a star on my car and one on my chest") and Willie Nelson's Red-headed Stranger ("He shot her so quick they had no time to warn her").  But I can't remember all the lyrics and make a botch of the attempts.

We start our third and final loop.  At mile 21 I look at my watch and see that we have been running for about 3:53.  I tell Jennifer that we have a chance to finish in under 5 hours if we push it a bit.  She agrees to try and we pick up the pace. It's not a big bump in our pace, but we increase the tempo to comfortably under 11 minutes per mile.

And then, before we have reached mile 23 a voice from behind says, "Hi, guys."  It's CM. She's started about 55 minutes after us and is passing us.  She looks fresh and although she badly rolls her ankle a few hundred yards from the finish, she goes on to collect her first sub-four hour marathon at 3:53 and finish third in her age group.

Jennifer and I push on even as we watch CM disappear into the distance.  We thank the mysterious man who every year appears on a particularly lonely portion of the course with a boombox blasting music for the runners.

We even partly run up the notorious 'hill of doom' at mile 25.  Jennifer has caught a second wind while it is my turn to be winding down.  I tell her to go on ahead but she sticks with me.  We run the last two-tenths of a mile down a bike path being reconstructed that requires one to watch one's footing (and causes CM's ankle roll) and finish in 4:50. That's good for 151/207 overall; 104/139 male; 14/24 60-69 AG.)

GW Birthday Marathon Swag

We collect our finisher's medal and head to the Greenbelt Youth Center where the post-race food is being served.  Jennifer gets a couple of pieces of pizza and heads home to take her children to a movie.  I have several pieces of pizza, some spaghetti and meatballs, cookies and Coke and sit with CM, her husband George, friend Holly and her favorite stuffed penguin.

No one has seen or heard from Mark.  He had raced away from CM at the regular start.  Jennifer and I didn't see him pass us and CM doesn't recall passing him.  Calls to his mobile go unanswered.  After a little while in strolls into the center.  Apparently CM had passed him and neither had spotted one another.  He finished in 4:20.

Rosaryville Veterans' Day 50K, November 12, 2011

Jeanne Lou Who

My Name is Beelzebub, but All My Friends Call Me Bud
"I thought that you had fooled me," Rebecca R. says as she spots me waiting for the beginning of the Rosaryville Veterans Day 50K put on by the Annapolis Striders.  Ever since the Marine Corps Marathon I had encouraged her to come out and run the race, pointing out that it was an easy 50K and that since it was three loops, she could drop out after only one or two.  She wouldn't commit, saying maybe she'd run two loops.  I had gotten there early, registered and then sat in the car to keep warm, and she had thought that after all that urging, it was me who had not shown up.

But I was there and she and I both know - I having told her in advance - that I would be trying to persuade her to run the entire race.  "I have a conference call at 2:00 p.m.," she announces, trying to preempt any early attempts of mine to begin lobbying for her to run the entire race.  I smile.  "I'm sure you'll make it.  An ambiguous "it."  The call or the 50K?   The Devil has begun his work.

Jeanne Lou Who sings a stirring a capella version of the National Anthem and the approximately 100 runners are off at 8:00 a.m.   Under six hours is before 2:00 p.m., the time of Rebecca's call.

Rebecca and I take it easy and chat through the first loop.  Caroline W. catches up with us and mentions that she is going to run the Rocky Raccoon 100 miler in February.  It sounds like fun, I think.

Vultures' Banquet

The Circle of Life I

A large solitary bird circles above the edge of a clearing as we run under some power lines. I'm no birder, but I recognize the bird as a vulture.  I'm not sure whether it it a turkey or black vulture, but it is clearly a vulture.  And then on the ground just off the trail I see the reason for the vulture.  A deer carcass lies just off the side of the trail, and it's obvious that the vultures have been feeding on it.  The presence of today's runners is going to disrupt the vultures from doing their job of disposing of carcasses.

Rebecca and I chat about her coming conference call, which is to prepare for a group presentation she has to make in a couple of days.  I ask her who is on it, and what her goals on the call are.  Ostensibly I'm trying to help her prepare, but Lucifer has many wiles, and I working to reduce the pressure of making the call at precisely 2:00 p.m.

Existential Breakfast Aid Station

Do You Have an Extension Cord?
There are two aid stations on the 10-mile loop, about five miles apart.  They have the usual ultra-food of soda, sports drink, cookies, M&Ms, boiled potatoes, Pringles, orange slices and the like and are much appreciated by the runners.  But out in the woods beside the trail are a pair of whimsical aid station-like shrines.  One consists of various bottles and containers. The second has a pair of coffee urns, other pots and metal objects and a toaster.  I joke about the need for a very long extension cord to power up this unmanned aid station.

Back at the aid station at the end of the first loop, Rebecca and I discard some layers of clothing as the day has begun to warm up into the 50s.  It's perfect running weather and the bright sun penetrates through the leafless trees to the trail.  The yellow and brown leaves on the ground provided a burnished golden glow to the course.

A couple of miles into the second loop, Rebecca realizes that she can spot her car parked about 100 yards from the trail. "Well," I say, "you can always start the third loop and quit here to do your conference call."

We press on, both of us enjoying the day.  I've forgotten my watch, so I don't have much of an idea of how we are doing timewise.  I tweet about being "halfway done" at 11:08 a.m., which suggests to me that we are behind a six-hour pace.  But I'm not that concerned about it.  It is to get Rebecca to run her second 50K.

Ken and Rebecca on the First Loop

Belial at Work
Now, halfway through the second loop, at the end of which Rebecca will make her decision whether to go on or not, it's time for The Tempter to lure her over to the dark side.

Earlier I had told her that since I'm parked closer to the finish line, I'll give her a ride to her car so she can make the call.  And, of course, conference calls never start on time.  And since the call is going to review a 50-slide deck, it will take awhile.  And the points she wants to make can easily be made at the end of the call.

The choice should be simple: get on a work-related conference call with her boss or run in the woods. Abaddon's role is to sow confusion and doubt as to which is the right choice.  The seeds have been sown during the first three hours of the run.  Now is the time for The Tempter to reap.  And the best course to do this is to let the day, and the paradise that is the Rosaryville trail this day do the work.

As we approach where the trail leaves the woods for the aid station at the beginning of the third and final loop I ask Rebecca if she has made a decision.  The Old Serpent is preparing for the struggle.

"Yes," she says, "I'm going on." As the Book of Genesis, in 3:6, says, "when the woman saw that the tree was good . . ., and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired . . ., she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat."  No need for further cajoling.

"Let's push the pace," I say.  "We still have a shot at six hours."

The Circle of Life II
A mile or so into the loop a runner exclaims, "Look at the wild turkeys."  We look to the right and down toward the side of a stream.  There are about a dozen large birds milling about.  Turkeys are often hard enough to spot in the underbrush, but a whole flock in a clearing is remarkable.  I look closer. "Those aren't turkeys," I say, but turkey vultures."  As they hop about and some begin to fly off we see what they were doing - feasting on the carcass of another deer.

Second loop after shedding layers

When You Get Passed, You Stay Passed
Our quicker pace has us passing other runners. I tell Rebecca that we are like lions, hunting down antelope on the plains of the Serengeti.  It's a mind game that I frequently play in those infrequent times that I actually have a chance to overtake other runners.  But I recall that she is a vegetarian, so I amend the image.  "We are giraffes," I say, "seeking the blossoms of the jacaranda trees ahead."

I also tell her, after we have passed Brady H. with about three miles to go that in my experience, once you pass someone in the latter stages of a race, they stay passed.

As we come off the trail and onto the road for the last half or three quarters of a mile to the finish, Rebecca asks if I want to know what our time is.  I tell her no, that I want to try to push to get under six hours.

. . . Or Not
Not far up the road, Brady runs passed me.  "You were supposed to stay passed," I sputter good naturedly.  She invites me to keep up, but not only is that not to be, but she goes on to pass another runner further ahead.

As I approach the finish line, I can see the clock.  But unlike last year, when a mad dash allowed me to finish one second under six hours, there is no chance of that this year.  I finish in 6:07:51, with Rebecca nine seconds behind.

Lucifer Keeps His Promise
Rebecca and I hustle to my car, and we quickly dash to the next parking area to her car.  She hops out and gets into her car to join her conference call at about 2:10.  I head back to the finish area to get a bit to eat.

Rosaryville swag - hat and bib

About ten minutes later, she returns.  She got on the call before it was over and made and won the points she wanted to make.

I finished 3/7 in my age group, fortieth male, and 62/92 overall.

And Rebecca got to both run her second 50K and make her work-related call.

Not a bad day for the Devil and his new recruit.

Marine Corps Marathon - October 30, 2011

Vignettes of the weekend of my sixth Marine Corps Marathon

Rather than the usual race report format, I've done this one as brief episodes of things that I stuck with me from the race and the weekend.

Twitpicing the Tweets

On Friday afternoon, Barry S. and I attend the MCM Runners Club mixer at the Capitol Hill Hyatt.  A large electronic screen displays tweets sent with the #36thMCM hashtag.  We both pull out our phones and tweet that we are with each other at the mixer.

As we eat our nachos and enjoy a beer, Race Director Rick Nealis stops to sit and chat with us for a few minutes before he has to go back to work.


I wander over to a table where there are MCM Runners Club pins and MCM light switch covers for the taking.  I can't resist free, so I take one of  each.  Barry does resist, even after I point out to him that the light switch cover also doubles as a drink coaster.

Then an inspiration hits me.  I position myself so that when my tweet appears on the screen I take a picture of it and then twitpic the picture of my tweet - sort of derivative re-tweet.  Barry laughs, says it makes his hair hurt, and then does the same thing.




May I have a shirt? Or two? How about three?
As we sit at the table at the MCM Runners Club mixer, two young women come up to us and ask if we know about the moderated tweeting for the MCM.  They are with myStanly, a firm that moderates tweets and is doing so for the #36thmcm hashtag.  We point out that we have already tweeted with the hashtag.

Then I ask them if I can get one of their teeshirts.  And another for Barry. In large.  They say yes, they think they still have some, and go off to get them.  Not only do they bring back two shirts, but the shirts are in water bottles. A bonus!

This is such a pleasant surprise that I tell them that I have another friend who was not able to join us and can I get a medium size shirt for her.  And they oblige. Barry is impressed, either at my nerve or my charming ability to get them to give me shirt after shirt.

0600 AIS
Equipo Cinco Amigos have agreed to carpool from my house to the MCRRC hospitality suite at the Key Bridge Holiday Inn for the race.  Emaad and I have done this the past few years and not only does it give us a place to put our things and prepare before the race, but it provides a place to return post-race and enjoy the buffet and liquid refreshments afterward.  But getting there requires leaving early enough to avoid road closures and get parking at the hotel.  I'm insistent that everyone be at my house at 0600 AIS - that is, seated in Jennifer's Suburban at 6:00 a.m.  A couple of days before, Emaad asks if it is OK for his friend Matt to come along, and is given a green light, provided that he explain '0600 AIS' to Matt, and the consequences of not complying.  Emaad assures us that he has.

The Cinco Amigos are all on time and we are all AIS at 0600, but Matt is nowhere in sight.  Emaad assures us that he is on the way, but then adds that Matt is scraping the frost off his windshield.  I'm getting agitated.  At 0603 I tell Jennifer to start the engine and back out of the driveway and get pointed in the right direction. "We are leaving shortly," I say to all. At 0604 we see headlights coming down the street.  "That's him," Emaad exclaims, more out of hope than conviction, I think.  But it is Matt, and he is AIS at 0605, just barely avoiding being left behind. (See the "Lateness"  episode of Everyone Loves Raymond for the derivation of AIS. And why the exception to AIS would not have applied to him.)

GU
"How many GUs are you taking with you," I ask Rebecca as we prepare to head out of the suite. "Ten," she replies.  I'm not a fan of them but think that maybe she has a point, and stick a third in my pocket.  I remind her that they have them on the course. "They may not have my flavor," she replies, "and I don't know if they have them where I'll need them.  When I turn away, she packs another pair into her belt.

Keep Breathing
Coming down Foxhall Road I catch up to three women wearing MCRRC first-time marathoner shirts.  They are reminding each other of proper breathing techniques.  As I come along side I greet them and tell them that the only key thing they really need to do about their breathing is to keep doing it. "And," I add cheerfully, "if you do stop breathing, you won't have to worry about after three minutes."

Rebate
Running along Independence Avenue I keep alert for any cracks or holes that could trip me or twist an ankle. My downcast eyes spot a familiar rectangular shape on the ground and I dodge someone's foot to pick up a $10 bill, which from its limp condition has obviously been lost by another runner.  "Great," I say to a nearby runner, "I just got a rebate for running this race."

God Bless America
Along Hains Point, about mile 14,  I came across a runner carrying an American flag. "What's it like to carry that all the way?" I ask.  He nods toward another runner and says that he is just spelling that guy, who is actually the flag bearer.  I ask if I can try and he agrees.  The 3' x 5' nylon flag is on a plastic pole with a foam grip.  It is surprisingly light, and can be carried with one hand, but the gusts of wind make the pole move about and I develop a sense that carrying it for the entire marathon could get tiring, especially in the arms and shoulders.  After a few minutes I pass it back to the runner, and thank him for the honor of letting me carry it during the Marine Corps Marathon.  This is one marathon that such an act does not seem contrived, not only due to the sponsor and the large numbers of service members who run it, but also because of the all too many shirts one sees with the names and faces of service members who, in Lincoln's words "gave the last full measure of devotion. . . that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain."

Speed Trap
Along the west side of Hains Point is a police mobile radar speed sign that provides a readout of approaching cars' speed by displaying, under a "Your speed is" sign, a digital readout of the speed.  The sign is displaying  6s and 7s as the group of runners surrounding me approach it.  I slide right to be on the side of the road nearest the sign, and sprint.  The speed jumps to 10.  A runner behind me yells out, "You're running six minute miles." "Yeah," I reply, "for about 20 yards.  I'm doing this so that everyone can think that they are running a good pace."

Racing Begins At Mile 20
Just past mile 4, approaching the Key Bridge, Emaad and Rebecca catch up with me.  Emaad asks what is my plan for the day.  "Plan?" I reply, "I have no plan. There is no plan in running."  And indeed, I don't have a plan.  The two of them pull away.  I'm just out to enjoy the day.  Throughout the day I click my watch to capture the mile splits, but I don't pay any attention to them.  Throughout the teen miles I just repeat the mantra, "the race begins at mile 20."

At mile 20, just before the mile-long crossing of the Potomac River via the Fourteenth Street Bridge, I feel good and look at my watch.  I've been running for 3:26. "Let's see if I can keep up the pace," I think.

On the far side of the bridge a guy slowly passes me.  I use him for pacing and try to stay up with him, but I can only do that for a few hundred yards.  Still, it feels good, and doesn't exhaust me. Mile 21 passes in about 3:36, meaning I'm maintaining my pace.

Entering the two mile, out and back loop in Crystal City, I start to scan the runners going in the opposite direction.  I figure Emaad is out there somewhere and I want to let him know I'm coming.  I've caught or left him behind in the past couple of MCMs at about this point, and I figure if he knows I'm hunting him, it will provide an incentive for him to push himself, much like the impala must find the reserves to flee the stalking lion.  I never do see him, likely because I was distracted in getting a cup of beer from the Hash House Harriers at the moment our paths crossed.

Each mile after 21 is the same outcome - my pace is not dropping.  By mile 22 I figure that barring a collapse or injury I'll break my old marathon personal best of  4:36.  Now the race is on as to whether I can break 4:30.

I'm focused on the goal.  I've decided to push for as long as I can.  Unlike my usual gregariousness when I run, I've stopped chatting with other runners.  I'm focused on the road ahead and keeping up the pace. Miles 23, 24 and 25 are steady and I'm through 25 in 4:17.  Only about 1.25 miles to go.  A runner passes me on the long downhill on route 110.  I try to speed up to keep up but can't, but I'm still moving pretty well.  The crowd is increasing and cheering the runners on.  I'm focused on the road ahead.  Finally mile 26. Four twenty seven and change.  Turn left and up the hill toward the Iwo Jima Memorial.  Push. Run. No walking as in years past.   There's the finish arch.  No sprint. Just keep the pace up. Don't stop.  Cross the first mat.  Cross the second mat.  Stop the watch. Now look at it. 4:29:49! A PR by more than six minutes.

I finish 77 of 414 in my 60-64 AG, 6329 of 12427 males, and 9133 of 21023 finishers.

Equipo Cinco Amigos

The past several years, Emaad, Wayne and I have run as team Tres Amigos.  But earlier this year, Wayne's wife suddenly passed away and he had to stop running to spend his time raising their three daughters.

Partly in memory of Wayne, we constitute a new team, Equpo Cinco Amigos, with Emaad, me, Barry, Rebecca and Jennifer.

MCM turns out to be good for individual team members.  In addition to my PR, Emaad, Rebecca and Jennifer all run PRs, although Jennifer's joy in her PR is tempered by her failing to qualify for the Boston Marathon by a mere 79 seconds.

Overall however Cinco Amigos comes in seventh of eight teams in the Masters category.

MCM Swag

Gunpowder Keg 50K Fat Ass, September 17, 2011

Fat ass.  If you look up the ordinary definition, you'll see that the term refers to, well, an individual with a particularly large posterior.  It's also used as a jibe toward someone who is lazy.  But ask a runner, particularly a trail runner, and you get an entirely different description of what is a fat ass.

I arrive at the Bunker Hill Road parking lot of Gunpowder State Park, about eight miles north of the Baltimore Beltway off I-83 at 7:30 a.m.  I meet Michele M., Karen D., Dan M. and Marti K., all experienced trail runners from the Washington area.   There are about three dozen runners in total.

Since this is a fat ass the registration process consists of  signing in on a sheet, making a voluntary contribution to a fund for the park ($5 is the suggested contribution) and providing a gallon of water.  I also contribute  Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies and a bag of plain M+Ms.  The water and food contributions are important because in a fat ass, because runners only get to drink or eat what is contributed by the participants.   There are no bibs, no race shirts, no prizes, no medals, no bags of swag. 

The race director describes the course in detail, as Hurricane Irene and a subsequent storm has caused some damage in the park requiring some rerouting. This year it consists of two approximately 15-mile traverses of the course, rather than three ten mile loops as in the past.  But the course is such that runners can decide to do  10-, 15-, 20- or other distances by omitting parts of the course if they so choose.  Since this is a fat ass, such alternatives are perfectly acceptable.

The only admonition the race director gives is that runners who don't finish the first loop by noon should not start out on the second loop.

Dan M. and Michele M. a half hour in.

The race director finishes his directions, herds the runners behind what he says is the start line, and says go.  We run across the parking lot and get on the single track trail.  The trail rolls up and down through the woods.  We run alongside various streams and in some places have to cross the streams.  Damage from the previous storms is obvious but not bad, but there are numerous trees down across the trail.  In other places, the trail passes through grass meadows alongside the stream where the grass was battered down and lies pointing in parallel ranks in the direction the water flowed.

As we hop over one log with a vine on it, Marti warns, "that poison ivy."  My general approach is to treat all green things as poison ivy unless I know for a fact that it isn't.  In various parts of the course there is no way to avoid getting brushed by plants.  When I get home that night I scrub my legs with a generic version of Tecnu which is supposed to wash away the urushiol, the oil that causes the allergic reaction.  Perhaps it helps, as I wind up with only a few welts on my legs.

At various places the trail parallels the Gunpowder River.  Fisherman stand in the stream in their waders.  I ask how the fishing is going, and with the exception of one, no one has caught anything.

In several places the trail comes close to the edge of the stream bank.  Michele M. is running ahead of me. The bank is eroded and as she tries to maneuver around one particularly narrow point, the undercut bank gives way under her right foot.  She grasps for a branch but to no avail.  She slides down the steep bank and slides down the four or five feet into the sandy edge of the stream.  She's gotten some scratches from the brush but is otherwise unhurt.  I offer a hand, and she grasps it as she scrambles up to the trail.

We finish the first loop well before the  noon cutoff.  For various reasons, mostly having to do with obligations later in the day, the others all decide not to go on. Another runner, Eric R. finishes the loop with us and indicates that he is going on.  That clinches it for me.  I decide to go on.  We tell the race director that we are going on and he checks us off on his sheet.

Notwithstanding the forecast that there would be no rain until the afternoon, and then south of Washington, it is there is an intermittent light rain north of Baltimore.  Eric and I change shirts and he tells me to go on as he is going to eat a banana and make some other adjustments.

I head off.  Passing through the archery range section of the park I spot a white-tailed deer dashing away even though there are no archers to be seen.  I stop to use the basic facilities at the range.  Emerging, Eric catches up with me.  

Eric R. searches for the trail over a small stream.

He tells me that the course sweeper is somewhere behind us taking up the small orange flags that mark the course. We run together and engage in companionable discussion.  He is originally from Baltimore but now lives near Richmond, VA.  He is staying at his mother's house.  This is his first 50K and he is running it as part of his training for the Atacama Crossing, a seven-day, 250K race across the Atacama Desert in Chile in March, 2012.

I tell him I'm going to France in October and he gives me pointers on things to see and where to stay in La Ville-Lumiere.

We compare experiences from the August 23 earthquake, or more accurately, his non-experience from it.  He was in his car driving along I-66 in Stafford County (VA) and never felt it.

There are two aid stations on the course, both of which one visits twice.  The first is a water-only stop, manned during the first loop, unmanned when we visited the second loop.  The second aid station is the back of pickup truck with a cap over the bed.  This station is there when we get to it the first time during the second loop, but is gone when we return to it. Perhaps the reason it is gone is that we have done something that happens sooner or later to all trail runners.

Eric is a new receptacle into which I can pour story after story without any fear that this is the third - or maybe fifth - time I have told it to him.  In the middle of one of these incredible gems of oral exposition he interrupts me to say, "I don't think we are still on the course.  I don't recognize that road ahead."

Pretending to run along the Gunpowder River
with 113 year old bridge in background.

Indeed, he is right.  As we head back we are worried that the sweeper may have come along and picked up the course markers.  We backtrack about a half mile and are relived to spot flags still stuck in the ground.  We head the right way, but now I'm hyper-vigilant to stay on course.  We come to what appears to be a trail intersection and I explore one direction while Eric takes the other.  There are no markers on either, but Eric recognizes a feature he recalls from the first lap and we go that way.

Finally we head up the last hill to the parking lot and the finish.  My watch say 7:08:22, but that is too exact for a fat ass, so it really is just 7:08.

When we arrive, there is no one there.  There are a couple of cars in the lot, including ours.  There is a trailer with some cases of bottled water beside it.  We look in vain for a sign-out sheet.  Finally we walk to our cars and spend a bit of time getting out of wet, muddy shoes and socks.  When I get home I email the race director thanks for a fine race and send him our times.  Perhaps he will publish results; perhaps not.

It's a fat ass, after all.

Monster Half Marathon, September 4, 2011

"I'm never coming back for this," were my last words as I left the Monster Marathon in 2010. The race takes place outside Virgil, NY and consists of a double out-and-back on single track trails up and down Virgil Mountain. The half marathon course has 2780 feet of climb and a corresponding amount of descent.

The view of the starting line from my car.

But it is now a year later and I'm explaining to the race officials that my previous statement is only a half lie.  "I'm not running the marathon," I say, "but I'll run the half."

The weather is warm and humid, unlike the pleasant cool temperatures of a year ago. Subsequently, the  race results will describe the weather as, "Partly cloudy, 80s, very humid."  I put a small container with Succeed! tablets in one pocket, put a couple of gels in another and my phone (to take pictures in a third).  Driver's license (for ID) and car keys go in another.  I've lost a few pounds this year and my shorts feel a bit loose.  I try to untie the drawstring to tighten them up, but there is a knot in them and I can't get it undone.  I've run with the shorts before and figure it won't be much of a problem.

One feature of the race is that it is age- and sex-graded, so I get to start 21 minutes before the official starting time of 9 a.m.  At 8:39 I'm off - alone.  Of the 84 starters, I'm the ninth to begin and the second male, with only 67-year old Joe R. starting before me.

Looking for white blazes in the piney woods.

The course starts with about a three quarter mile stretch down a gravel road before turning onto the Finger Lakes Trail.  Even though the race directions are simple - "follow the white blazes" - and I've been on the course last year, I come to the same spot where I got off course last year and still have to stop to search for the path. But I find it without actually going astray and begin the long climb up the mountain.  It isn't long before runners start to pass me. I'm used to it so I step aside to let them go and wish them good running.

But my shorts are becoming a problem.  The combination of things I'm carrying, the lost pounds and the sweat are allowing gravity to have a downward effect on my shorts. I'm quite clearly exhibiting "plumbers crack" to the runners coming up behind me.

I try a variety of things to address the problem.  First I tuck my shirt into the shorts.  But running simply pulls it out as the shorts sag southward.  I try rearranging the phone and gels, thinking that different pockets might change their influence on the sag.  Finally I stop and remove a safety pin from my bib and put a tuck in the shorts.  That fails.

Humidity and sweat lead to blurry pics.

The heat and humidity is oppressive, even in the shaded woods, but that gives me an idea of how to solve two problems at once.  I remove my shirt and tuck it in the back of my shorts.  Unfortunately, the sweat-soaked shirt, even after I ring it out, is too heavy and instead of taking up slack in the waistband, pulls the shorts down further.  I roll up the shirt and drape it around my neck where it remains for the rest of the race.  Then, I tuck my water bottle in the back of the shorts with the same drooping results.  Finally, tucking the bottle in the front of the shorts has positive results, but the bottle does tend to work its way down to regions not intended to share space with water bottles.  With all options exhausted I revert to simply tugging the shorts up when then get too low.  And as the day goes on, I worry less and less about it as it becomes clear that they are not going to drop to my ankles - and there are fewer and fewer runners around to see the low riding shorts.

Last year I ran the first half of the Monster Marathon in 3:05.  My aim today is to finish under three hours.  The plan is simple - 45 minutes between each aid station.  There is a bit of challenge there in the second part, as I should be a bit tired particularly given the heat and humidity, but I figure that since it is net downhill, that will cancel out any weariness.  I get to the first aid station in 46 minutes, a very acceptable result given the climbing in that section of the course.  Despite almost getting off course - a runner calls me back as I miss a turn - I reach the turn-around in 43 minutes, with an elapsed time of 1:30:38, almost exactly on schedule. But even as I keep expecting the midway aid station to be just around the next turn or at the top of the next short climb, it isn't there.  It takes 48 minutes to reach the aid station, more than four minutes slower than I had just run the section in the opposite direction.  I'm disappointed, but retain a glimmer of hope that the trail down Virgil Mountain will enable me to make up the time.

No sooner have I left the aid station than an animal howls from my right.  I swivel in that direction and see, in the crook of a tree, the black and white dappled fronds of the Virgil Monster.  I yell at the six foot tall creature, "Are you the Monster?"

The Monster responds in perfect English, "I am the Monster."

Ignoring the fact that the Monster is wearing athletic shoes, I say, "Wait a minute. Monsters can't speak English."

I'm answered with loud monster-like noises as I run on.

My hopes to make up time on the down slopes of Virgil Mountain are dashed by the steepness and technical nature of the trail.  I put discretion and avoiding injury ahead of competitiveness, and even when a runner catches up and passes me, I let him go.

Monster Half Marathon swag.

On the gravel road headed to the finish I spot a crooked stick.  But as I approach the stick wiggles and a small snake, maybe a foot long, slithers off into the grass by the side of the road..

I reach the finish in 3:08:05, for an age-adjusted time of 2:47:05, good enough for 46th of 80.  In the spirit of the low key nature of the race, and the modest $30 entry fee for day-of-race registration, I am awarded the finishers thin cord necklace of a red plastic leaf with 13.1 inscribed on the reverse.

After changing out of my sweat-soaked clothes I enjoy the iced tea, lemonade, a variety of wraps, salads and chips provided for the runners' enjoyment before heading back to our house in Watkins Glen.

Riley's Rumble Half Marathon, August 7, 2011

The website for Riley's Rumble warns, "If you want the 3 H's (hills, heat, and humidity), this is the race for you." Rather ominously it continues, "It . . . may not be advisable for your first half marathon."  In 2010 the weather conditions were so adverse that the race was changed to a fun run, meaning that the race was not timed and no results recorded.

I am not fond of half marathons.  They are on roads rather than trails and the distance is too short to run slowly and too long to run fast. And Riley's has the 3 H's. Maybe the combination of all those is why I don't run other half marathons. Riley's is the only half marathon that I run; as an MCRRC member, I don't have to pay for it.   Maybe if I ran a flat course on a cool fall day I wouldn't dislike the distance so much.  But I'm not inclined to find out.

I get up at 4:50 a.m. to drive out to the Germantown SoccerPlex where there race begins and ends as I've volunteered to help at registration prior to the race.  Registration work beginning at 5:30 a.m. at Riley's is easy and well organized in that club members who have run previously only need to remember to bring their bib and chip and run and nonmembers who registered online need only to pick up their bibs.  Lines for members who forgot their chips and for nonmembers registering the day of the race never get more than two or three deep due to the organizational skills of registration captain Christina C.  The biggest challenge is illuminating the board with nonmembers bib numbers before the sun rises at 6:14.

I start off with Mark McK. and Barry S.  Mark tells me about the West Virginia Trilogy of a 50K, a 50 miler and a half marathon over three days in October.  Doing the 50K and the half have some appeal and I tell him I'll take it under advisement.

The temperature is not too bad, but the dew point is high and the relative humidity makes it feel like running in a sauna.  Sweat has little evaporative cooling effect as the air is not dry enough to permit the sweat to evaporate. My glasses cloud up and even taking them off does not clear the fog from them.  My ability to see during the entire race comes down to two fuzzy choices: muted fuzzy shapes and colors through clouded lenses or brighter out-of-focus shapes and colors through uncorrected eyes.  I try both.  Neither is superior to the other.

Mark and I gradually pull away from Barry and then I pull away from Mark. The first few miles go by at about a ten minutes per mile pace. Around mile four the poor vision contributes to me missing a broken piece of pavement and I roll my right ankle. I walk and hobble for a bit, but I've rolled that ankle so many times that after about a quarter mile it feels OK and I can resume running.

I've prepared for the weather and brought Succeed electrolyte tables along.  I take three throughout the course of the run and they help fend off any dehydration.

Just past mile 8, the course runs along a country road to a turnaround at mile 8.42 (yes, it is marked that way on the course) where Don L. runs an aid station handing out Freezee pops.  "What flavor are the green ones," I yell to Don as I approach the turn around.  As I get to him, he hands me a green one and says, "It's jalapeño."

Getting to the next aid station Rebecca R. is offering runners the choice of Gatorade with and without ice.  This is extraordinary serve for an aid station and I select "with."

I feel that I'm fading a bit, but then fellow trail runner Liz and several of her friends catch up with me and I work off their energy to pick up my pace.  After a short time I feel something wacking my left ankle.  I look down, figuring it is my shoelace, but the lace is securely fastened.  The wacking continues.  I look again and realize that it my right lace hitting the opposite ankle.  I stop and retie it as the group runs off.  The last portion of the course contains some significant uphills and I walk them.  At the last aid station I take the proffered water and splash it into my face.

While I have averaged just under 10 minutes per mile the first 11 miles, the next two miles the pace falls to 11:25 per mile.  In the last stretch before the finish, a women catches up to me and urges me to keep up with her.  I try, but as soon as she gets a bit ahead, I stop running and resume walking.

But in the last 80 yards I spot a runner a little ahead.  Somewhere I find a bit of energy and sprint, passing him

just before the finish line.  It leaves me gasping for breath, but it is worth it.

I find Mark Z. and he offers to pour water over my head.  I gladly accept the offer and I can feel the cool water that hits my head turn warm in the brief time that it takes to run off my neck.

I finish in 2:13:36, good for 3/13 in my age group, 162/265 males and 241/475 overall.  All in all, not a bad day under the conditions.  And a result that does not justify the frowning visage captured by the course photographers.