Hanging up the phone, I'm gratified for the opportunity to help my Mom welcome in another year. Eighty is a milestone that demands a celebration. A trip to Albany NY is in order, especially when I discover the Mohawk - Hudson Marathon is on the same weekend. My lucky day! The website displays sun dappled fall foliage along a wide river, trumpets a lack of uphill and 400 feet of elevation drop, and that it is a fast flat Boston qualifier.
I return to the site a week later and to my chagrin the race is full. I am put on the wait list and shamelessly e-mail a plea to the race director for a special dispensation for a West Coast entrant. With crossed fingers, my training continues with Bend Fit. Amid a stifling mid August afternoon an e-mail arrives notifying me that I am in. Happy that I stuck to the training schedule, I recommit to September long runs.
On a red-eye into upstate NY I gaze out over a carpet of of fall color, and after landing emerge into thick moist air, an environmental flip from the thin dry air of the monochromatic high desert. Somehow between San Francisco and New York my phone and I became separated. I push through the groomed coolness of cell phone users to a pay phone, and feel like Neanderthal Man as I tell my parent's voice mail machine that I've arrived. I hunt around the airport for an hour and finally spot them walking from their car. They look a little older than last year, and I suppose I do as well.
My brother and 5 year old nephew are in from Atlanta and have already taken up residence in the upstairs bedroom of the parental home. By default I unpack in the downstairs apartment, and settle comfortably over the next few days into the memories and routines of the late teenager - a well-stocked frig with snacks and beer, half-read magazines and newspapers, a trip to the mall and local art museum. The weather seesaws between a sunny haze on Friday and a cool drizzle on Saturday. Sunday, marathon day, is forecast to be cool and cloudy from 8 am to 12 noon, with showers moving in from 12:15 through 2:15 pm. I am amazed at the detailed forecast and even more at its accuracy. Meteorology is an intuitive art in Bend. Here it is a science, as precise as arithmetic.
My Mom's birthday dinner is held at Yonos, a celebrated Indonesian restaurant in downtown Albany. The food is fabulous though portions are disappointingly small. I've had a healthy appetite for years now. This of course is the real reason I run - I eat and drink whatever I want and don't count calories. I admit to a little belly fat, which I consider my reserve fuel.
After two birthday cakes and singing both the English and Dutch versions of Happy Birthday at least ten times, my thoughts turn to the marathon. The Marathon Expo is downtown, and after parking my car I follow a parade of thin lanky people past bus stop smokers into the Hotel Albany. The room hums with nervous energy and I notice a lot of stone-cold faces. Runners trying out their game face a day early. I pick up a pack of shot blocks and look for sodium tablets. I have a hunger for salt lately and taking a tablet halfway through a long run wards off that craving. The tablets are sold out, so I substitute a bag of potato chips.
Waiving off another late night and another round of birthday cake, I am in bed by 10 pm and stare at the ceiling. My brother's voice booms through the walls. I am not sleepy nor confident. My finish times have gotten worse since 2009 and my son Isaac no longer gives me a high five at the finish line. Isaac won't be at this marathon, but he did promise a high five if my time is 4:30 or less. I am sure I can do that, barring injury, and I publicly proclaim 4 hours as my goal time. But privately I worry - can I, at age 49, break 4 hours? Maybe I should just take it easy at the start. I debate strategy - go fast at the get-go and gut it out at the finish, or slow and easy at the start and fast at the end? I conclude that finishing fast is a fairy tale, so quick at the start (or as quick as I can manage) it is.
I wake up early Sunday morning, bright and alert due to the time difference and the wisdom of passing on the third IPA. After feeding on bagels, yogurt and coffee, I settle into a stretching routine. The portable heater is on and the room quickly warms up. I push away thoughts of failure and practice slow meditative breaths. I fall into the downward dog pose on the floor, then the child pose and soon find myself drifting off on a cloud. I dream that I am running fast and scared of something behind me. I look behind me and my legs suddenly are as heavy as wet sand. I see a small boy in the distance, coming towards me. It is my nephew Hudson, his arm is stretched out, he is giggling and has something on the end of his finger...I realize it is a booger, and awake with a start to the sound of creaking. My dad walking in the kitchen upstairs.
We drive to the start line in Schenectady's Central Park. It is cold and a wood fire is burning in the pavilion, my fellow tribe members huddled around it for warmth. The morning ambiance is filled with the usual camraderie, anticipation, cheerfulness and nervous energy, scented throughout with a good helping of fear. I say goodbye to my Dad and hand him the Goodwill sweatshirt I intended to toss by the side of the road. No need to wear it now as I've warmed up from the fire and the radiant body heat. At the start line I meet the 4 hour 10 minute pace leader Allie and her hopeful followers: Steve from Massachusetts, a tall guy with a thick Georgia accent and Ted from Buffalo who is wearing a Penn State sweatshirt.
-Gonna toss this as soon as it gets hot!
-I can see why. No need to affiliate with Penn State!
I see several other runners wearing Penn State gear. The Sandusky debacle has rendered the proud Nittany Lion into a sacrificial lamb.
For the second day in row, I hear the song "All The Young Dudes" and realize this is the land where old rock songs go to die. I'm not quite a young dude as Steve asks me how old I am. I tell him 49 and he swears he thought I was 35. I take off my hat and show him my sides of gray temple and little bald spot. He says Ah with an enlightened look. There is a bit of mumbling over the PA and suddenly the crowd surges forward. Springsteen's "Born to Run" blares from the speakers and we pass over the start line.
-Here we go again!
-Only 26 more miles to go!
-The forecast calls for pain!
A crowd two deep lines the path, watching us leave Central Park. They look sleepy and obligated, and it appears most would prefer to be home in bed.
-C'mon people make some noise!
-Do we gotta do everything?
-They must think we're a bunch of idiots!
Laughter ripples through the crowd. Leaving the park, I run with the 4:10 pace group through picturesque neighborhoods, houses with wrap around porches and toy strewn yards, yellow leaves twirling through the sky. Thirty years ago I couldn't wait to get out of here. When, I wonder, did Schenectady became so quaint and inviting?
At the mile 3 water station it becomes imperative for me to run faster, and a mile later, on a sloping downhill to the mighty Mohawk, I join the 4:00 pace group. Running with the pack is a festive occasion in the early phases of a marathon. Endorphins kick in and I float over the miles, distracted by the disjointed conversational swirl: a running commentary on the scenery (the reclaimed landfill! a revolutionary war memorial!) interspersed with ejaculatory longings for finish-line bacon 'n beer. A location check is shouted out ("Bennington!" "North Adams!" "Saratoga!"). The nasal East Coast accents seem exotic. The flat directness of our democracy of runners is a refreshing change from the hierarchy of regular society.
At a mile 12 water station the pack slows down. Not thirsty yet, I continue and soon cross under twin bridges with some unpronounceable Polish name, and then pass the halfway mark. I am a minute shy of two hours. Quick mental math yields a finish at this pace of four hours. The malady of runners brain, a condition in which a runner is in no condition to answer complicated questions, has not yet set in. Give me another hour and I'll be stumbling over addition.
I know from past experience that the pain starts at mile 20, and thus it is almost certain my pace will slow. I feel good now and bank some time by picking up the pace. I pass a handful of people and play a game of "You passing ME?!" with one runner. We are on a paved trail lined with huge Maples shedding red leaves. The trail looms over the Hudson river and the Berkshire Mountains rise in the East. Near mile 18 the trail emerges from the forest and spits us out into a dilapidated neighborhood, chock a block with brick houses shouldered next to each other. My left foot is suddenly aching and I wish my two week old shoes were a bit more broken in. I stop momentarily to stretch the foot. A pretty girl rushes over and asks me if I need help. I tell her I am just tying my shoe and she offers to tie it for me. Is she flirting with me? She is! I gleefully ponder this prospect ("Still got it!") then reconsider: I am on the ground and probably look like I need medical assistance. Runners brain is setting in.
At mile 20 my time is three hours. 6.2 miles to go. I need to average 9.68 minutes per mile to get 4 hours (I just used my calculator to get this answer. You think I could mentally calculate that at mile 20?! Come on!). Miles 20 to 22 are on the shoulder of a road against traffic. A great way to get hit by some idiot, I think. I am getting the grumps. My legs are heavy and my left foot throbs painfully with each step.
Mile 22 and we are back on a footpath with the Hudson river on our left. I gut it out over the next few miles, exhorting myself to NOT WALK, just keep moving. A girl is alternately running and passing me and then walking and getting passed by me. She is annoying and I try to run faster to leave her behind. Some loudmouth walking along the path is yelling about the need to GO GO GO. I would think he is drunk or deranged if he didn't have a bib pinned to his shirt. There is an mean edge to his voice I don't like. He looks like wasted shit, and he obviously can't GO GO GO any longer. I leave that ball of rancid fat behind me in the dust.
Mile 25 mile marker. Just one more mile to go.
Mile 26 and the crowd is lining up by the side of the path. I suddenly see my Dad on the left with his camera, and my Mom, brother and sister and nephew on the right. I break into a sprint with a quarter mile to go, then slow a bit as I feel a muscle cramp. Don't want to go down now! I cross the line and Hallelujah!
--------------------------------------
Results
My finish time is 4:04, pace of 9:20 minutes per mile
Refreshingly this race showed me that I can go faster. I felt for the first time, between miles 13 and 20, that I was actually in a race. It felt great passing other runners and not being passed by them.
Next up is either Eugene or Vancouver. I will train differently this time with a faster pace over shorter distances. I think that 4 hour mark is in reach!
The schwag is good, the medal solid and heavy. Unlike some race shirts that are covered with ads and turn you into a walking billboard, this shirt is relatively free of ads. It's one I'll be wearing with pride for years to come.
On a red-eye into upstate NY I gaze out over a carpet of of fall color, and after landing emerge into thick moist air, an environmental flip from the thin dry air of the monochromatic high desert. Somehow between San Francisco and New York my phone and I became separated. I push through the groomed coolness of cell phone users to a pay phone, and feel like Neanderthal Man as I tell my parent's voice mail machine that I've arrived. I hunt around the airport for an hour and finally spot them walking from their car. They look a little older than last year, and I suppose I do as well.
My brother and 5 year old nephew are in from Atlanta and have already taken up residence in the upstairs bedroom of the parental home. By default I unpack in the downstairs apartment, and settle comfortably over the next few days into the memories and routines of the late teenager - a well-stocked frig with snacks and beer, half-read magazines and newspapers, a trip to the mall and local art museum. The weather seesaws between a sunny haze on Friday and a cool drizzle on Saturday. Sunday, marathon day, is forecast to be cool and cloudy from 8 am to 12 noon, with showers moving in from 12:15 through 2:15 pm. I am amazed at the detailed forecast and even more at its accuracy. Meteorology is an intuitive art in Bend. Here it is a science, as precise as arithmetic.
My Mom's birthday dinner is held at Yonos, a celebrated Indonesian restaurant in downtown Albany. The food is fabulous though portions are disappointingly small. I've had a healthy appetite for years now. This of course is the real reason I run - I eat and drink whatever I want and don't count calories. I admit to a little belly fat, which I consider my reserve fuel.
After two birthday cakes and singing both the English and Dutch versions of Happy Birthday at least ten times, my thoughts turn to the marathon. The Marathon Expo is downtown, and after parking my car I follow a parade of thin lanky people past bus stop smokers into the Hotel Albany. The room hums with nervous energy and I notice a lot of stone-cold faces. Runners trying out their game face a day early. I pick up a pack of shot blocks and look for sodium tablets. I have a hunger for salt lately and taking a tablet halfway through a long run wards off that craving. The tablets are sold out, so I substitute a bag of potato chips.
Waiving off another late night and another round of birthday cake, I am in bed by 10 pm and stare at the ceiling. My brother's voice booms through the walls. I am not sleepy nor confident. My finish times have gotten worse since 2009 and my son Isaac no longer gives me a high five at the finish line. Isaac won't be at this marathon, but he did promise a high five if my time is 4:30 or less. I am sure I can do that, barring injury, and I publicly proclaim 4 hours as my goal time. But privately I worry - can I, at age 49, break 4 hours? Maybe I should just take it easy at the start. I debate strategy - go fast at the get-go and gut it out at the finish, or slow and easy at the start and fast at the end? I conclude that finishing fast is a fairy tale, so quick at the start (or as quick as I can manage) it is.
I wake up early Sunday morning, bright and alert due to the time difference and the wisdom of passing on the third IPA. After feeding on bagels, yogurt and coffee, I settle into a stretching routine. The portable heater is on and the room quickly warms up. I push away thoughts of failure and practice slow meditative breaths. I fall into the downward dog pose on the floor, then the child pose and soon find myself drifting off on a cloud. I dream that I am running fast and scared of something behind me. I look behind me and my legs suddenly are as heavy as wet sand. I see a small boy in the distance, coming towards me. It is my nephew Hudson, his arm is stretched out, he is giggling and has something on the end of his finger...I realize it is a booger, and awake with a start to the sound of creaking. My dad walking in the kitchen upstairs.
We drive to the start line in Schenectady's Central Park. It is cold and a wood fire is burning in the pavilion, my fellow tribe members huddled around it for warmth. The morning ambiance is filled with the usual camraderie, anticipation, cheerfulness and nervous energy, scented throughout with a good helping of fear. I say goodbye to my Dad and hand him the Goodwill sweatshirt I intended to toss by the side of the road. No need to wear it now as I've warmed up from the fire and the radiant body heat. At the start line I meet the 4 hour 10 minute pace leader Allie and her hopeful followers: Steve from Massachusetts, a tall guy with a thick Georgia accent and Ted from Buffalo who is wearing a Penn State sweatshirt.
-Gonna toss this as soon as it gets hot!
-I can see why. No need to affiliate with Penn State!
I see several other runners wearing Penn State gear. The Sandusky debacle has rendered the proud Nittany Lion into a sacrificial lamb.
For the second day in row, I hear the song "All The Young Dudes" and realize this is the land where old rock songs go to die. I'm not quite a young dude as Steve asks me how old I am. I tell him 49 and he swears he thought I was 35. I take off my hat and show him my sides of gray temple and little bald spot. He says Ah with an enlightened look. There is a bit of mumbling over the PA and suddenly the crowd surges forward. Springsteen's "Born to Run" blares from the speakers and we pass over the start line.
-Here we go again!
-Only 26 more miles to go!
-The forecast calls for pain!
A crowd two deep lines the path, watching us leave Central Park. They look sleepy and obligated, and it appears most would prefer to be home in bed.
-C'mon people make some noise!
-Do we gotta do everything?
-They must think we're a bunch of idiots!
Laughter ripples through the crowd. Leaving the park, I run with the 4:10 pace group through picturesque neighborhoods, houses with wrap around porches and toy strewn yards, yellow leaves twirling through the sky. Thirty years ago I couldn't wait to get out of here. When, I wonder, did Schenectady became so quaint and inviting?
At the mile 3 water station it becomes imperative for me to run faster, and a mile later, on a sloping downhill to the mighty Mohawk, I join the 4:00 pace group. Running with the pack is a festive occasion in the early phases of a marathon. Endorphins kick in and I float over the miles, distracted by the disjointed conversational swirl: a running commentary on the scenery (the reclaimed landfill! a revolutionary war memorial!) interspersed with ejaculatory longings for finish-line bacon 'n beer. A location check is shouted out ("Bennington!" "North Adams!" "Saratoga!"). The nasal East Coast accents seem exotic. The flat directness of our democracy of runners is a refreshing change from the hierarchy of regular society.
At a mile 12 water station the pack slows down. Not thirsty yet, I continue and soon cross under twin bridges with some unpronounceable Polish name, and then pass the halfway mark. I am a minute shy of two hours. Quick mental math yields a finish at this pace of four hours. The malady of runners brain, a condition in which a runner is in no condition to answer complicated questions, has not yet set in. Give me another hour and I'll be stumbling over addition.
I know from past experience that the pain starts at mile 20, and thus it is almost certain my pace will slow. I feel good now and bank some time by picking up the pace. I pass a handful of people and play a game of "You passing ME?!" with one runner. We are on a paved trail lined with huge Maples shedding red leaves. The trail looms over the Hudson river and the Berkshire Mountains rise in the East. Near mile 18 the trail emerges from the forest and spits us out into a dilapidated neighborhood, chock a block with brick houses shouldered next to each other. My left foot is suddenly aching and I wish my two week old shoes were a bit more broken in. I stop momentarily to stretch the foot. A pretty girl rushes over and asks me if I need help. I tell her I am just tying my shoe and she offers to tie it for me. Is she flirting with me? She is! I gleefully ponder this prospect ("Still got it!") then reconsider: I am on the ground and probably look like I need medical assistance. Runners brain is setting in.
At mile 20 my time is three hours. 6.2 miles to go. I need to average 9.68 minutes per mile to get 4 hours (I just used my calculator to get this answer. You think I could mentally calculate that at mile 20?! Come on!). Miles 20 to 22 are on the shoulder of a road against traffic. A great way to get hit by some idiot, I think. I am getting the grumps. My legs are heavy and my left foot throbs painfully with each step.
Mile 22 and we are back on a footpath with the Hudson river on our left. I gut it out over the next few miles, exhorting myself to NOT WALK, just keep moving. A girl is alternately running and passing me and then walking and getting passed by me. She is annoying and I try to run faster to leave her behind. Some loudmouth walking along the path is yelling about the need to GO GO GO. I would think he is drunk or deranged if he didn't have a bib pinned to his shirt. There is an mean edge to his voice I don't like. He looks like wasted shit, and he obviously can't GO GO GO any longer. I leave that ball of rancid fat behind me in the dust.
Mile 25 mile marker. Just one more mile to go.
Mile 26 and the crowd is lining up by the side of the path. I suddenly see my Dad on the left with his camera, and my Mom, brother and sister and nephew on the right. I break into a sprint with a quarter mile to go, then slow a bit as I feel a muscle cramp. Don't want to go down now! I cross the line and Hallelujah!
nu=3233)443);+3)WSNRCG=359;;7835+339nu0mrj.jpg) |
| With Johanna and Mom at Finish Line |
nu=3233)443);+3)WSNRCG=359;;78362339nu0mrj.jpg) |
| With Parents, Johanna and Hudson |
--------------------------------------
Results
My finish time is 4:04, pace of 9:20 minutes per mile
Refreshingly this race showed me that I can go faster. I felt for the first time, between miles 13 and 20, that I was actually in a race. It felt great passing other runners and not being passed by them.
Next up is either Eugene or Vancouver. I will train differently this time with a faster pace over shorter distances. I think that 4 hour mark is in reach!
The schwag is good, the medal solid and heavy. Unlike some race shirts that are covered with ads and turn you into a walking billboard, this shirt is relatively free of ads. It's one I'll be wearing with pride for years to come.
2 comments:
Great race report! Nice writing style. I am signed up to run this race this October and am looking forward to it! Congratulations on a solid run!
Haha... didn't know you posted this. BOOMING voice
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