Dear Readers:
One week to go and I'm off to Death Valley for my first trail marathon. What if I get lost in the desert and have to live off tarantulas? Or worse, what if I'm thirsty, and I end up guzzling water from a poisonous pond? Or my face could blister from the scorching sun and my lips fall off. What if my rubber soles melt? Well, not to fear -- Dr. Rick is here; the good doctor will take care of things. Yeah, right -- I've heard that one before.
Anyhow, I'm getting psyched for the race and planning to take pictures. My wife is going with me, but the race directors won't let her on the course; spectators have to stay behind. She'll see me when I limp over the finish line. I'm sure there will be stories to tell. This event is the kind of thing that gets me to telling tall tales. I'll try to keep in touch, but if you don't hear from me, it's probably because I'm lost somewhere in a desert canyon.
Until later.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Secret Memos to Myself
Dear Readers:
I've got a marathon coming up in a few weeks. As part of the twelve week training schedule, a 20 mile run needs to happen two to three weeks prior to the race. I like to string in four such runs before the real marathon -- it gives me a psychological boost, and lets me know I'm ready for the real deal. Yesterday I ran 24.5 miles and fretted over the distance the entire time. I thought I'd let you in on my mind's stirrings.
Memos to Myself
I've got a marathon coming up in a few weeks. As part of the twelve week training schedule, a 20 mile run needs to happen two to three weeks prior to the race. I like to string in four such runs before the real marathon -- it gives me a psychological boost, and lets me know I'm ready for the real deal. Yesterday I ran 24.5 miles and fretted over the distance the entire time. I thought I'd let you in on my mind's stirrings.
Memos to Myself
Friday evening.
I'm tired. I wish I didn't have to do a long run this weekend. My wife said I don't have to, but I do have to, if I'm going to be physically fit for the marathon. The forecast calls for mid-forties on Saturday, then colder and snowy on Sunday. Looks like I'll have to pick Saturday for the run. I pull out my park map and string together all kinds of routes that end up totalling at least 24 miles. Finally, I drive to the park and measure the distance on the main park road using the odometer; I can run a complete loop on the road, and it's 3.5 miles per loop. Ah ha! I'll run four loops to total 14 miles, then add 10 miles of hiking trails in the park to make 24.
Saturday morning, nine a.m.
I try to remain in bed. The realization it's still cold outside helps me stall for a few more hours. I'll plan to run at noon when it warms up a bit. If I run under five hours, it'll still be light outside (gets dark around five thirty).
Eleven a.m.
Drat. It's time to prepare. I gulp down my chilled coffee drink and extra water, eat three bananas and a bagel. A new hydration back pack gets filled with sixty ounces of sport drink. Three carbohydrate gels are strapped to my waist. My trail shoes' laces are tied, a few stretches follow, and I'm off to the great outdoors. I feel tense, like I'm facing my final exams in college.
Twelve noon.
My car motors into the park. I know it's time to get going, but I decide to procrastinate. I'll take another drive down the main park road and measure the distance again, just to make sure I got it right. Yep, 3.5 miles. The parking lot is to the right. My car pulls in and comes to a stop. It idles there a few more minutes as I try to put off the inevitable. No time to waste. I better get my butt outside and GET ER DONE.
Twelve-ten p.m. -- time to run.
I strap on my hydration pack, check my gels, and leave the car. A few shuffles and I make it to the edge of the parking lot, then I slowly make my way downhill. It doesn't feel too bad, but I feel a bit sluggish. On the way back up the road I realize I don't feel in shape. No way do I want to run this boring 3.5 loop four times. I complete the loop once, then head onto a park trail. I'm prepared to think of a new strategy for my run. I veer to the right onto "dog path." It's grassy and level for the most part. A nice pleasant run. Peace enters my soul as soon as I saunter into a wooded glen. Civilization seems remote and I'm in my own world. Now, I turn left into more woodland trails and pass a giant dog before opening into two miles of grassy trails. I glance at the dog to make sure it's on a tight leash.
It must have rained a lot in previous days, because the ground is soggy. I jump puddles, run around the edges of the trail, and splash in dirty, cold water. My shoes look muddy, and the trail only gets more slippery on the way back. I make a special effort to avoid a stump that has tripped me before, but am unsuccessful. Some stump artist must have applied camouflage to the thing -- I can never see it. Finally, I've completed the loop, determined not to run it again -- too wet and soggy. So far, 7 miles completed and 14 left to go. Next stage, a dry woodland trail totalling 5 miles. I plan to run around it twice to total 10 miles. At mile 2 the trail stops. A sign signals DANGER, TRAIL CLOSED. Probably some tree fell down, who knows. I detour off the path, find the park road, and head parallel to the trail until I see it again. Then I follow a lightly-flattened, grass path off the side of the road and pick up the trail. I continue running on it some more.
Up and down, up and down. It seems endless. Fifty minutes later I've finished a 5 mile loop. At this rate, I'll be running for five hours! I decide enough of trail running for the day. I'll finish the rest on asphalt paths. There's a 1.5 mile loop at the bottom of the park road. So far I've run twelve miles. I'll do one more of those boring 3.5 mile loops and six of the 1.5 mile asphalt path loops, then I'll have my 24.5 miles.
Three p.m.
Two loops completed on the 1.5 mile asphalt and I'm dying. I've got to do something to spice things up. Maybe I'll run the last four loops different directions. This strategy works. For some reason, running the loop one direction, then turning around and running the opposite way seems to make the distance feel shorter. I empty a gel into my mouth every two loops. The first loop takes thirteen minutes; the last loop takes fourteen minutes. My fatigue is showing. I want to be environmentally friendly and drop the discarded gel packets in a garbage can en route. An empty packet falls to the ground. I strain to pick it up and my back cramps momentarily.
Four p.m.
Finally, I complete six loops on the asphalt. Then it's up the same hill that dogged me when I started this run, and I finish at the parking lot. Ironically, my legs feel stronger going up hill than after plodding along on level asphalt for the last hour and ten minutes. I arrive at the car four hours, two minutes, and twenty-four seconds later. My walk is slow, pained, and awkward. I move like someone stuck a board up my butt. After walking around the parking lot two times to wind down, I open the car door and slowly make my way inside. I pick up my legs to put them inside the car because my hamstrings are ouchy and I want to avoid sudden cramping.
Saturday evening.
I'm zoned out, but it feels good to know I finished my last twenty mile run. I'm chilled to the bone, so I take a very long, hot shower. Then I gulp down three giant glasses of milk and a full can of peaches and fruity syrup. (I really crave fruity drinks after a marathon or long run.) Later that night I heat up like a furnace, and I throw off the covers to cool down.
Sunday morning.
Yeah! I did it. Today I get to eat without guilt. My back's still sore, but the ache clears up as the day progresses. Three more weeks to race time. I'm ready.
Until later.
I'm tired. I wish I didn't have to do a long run this weekend. My wife said I don't have to, but I do have to, if I'm going to be physically fit for the marathon. The forecast calls for mid-forties on Saturday, then colder and snowy on Sunday. Looks like I'll have to pick Saturday for the run. I pull out my park map and string together all kinds of routes that end up totalling at least 24 miles. Finally, I drive to the park and measure the distance on the main park road using the odometer; I can run a complete loop on the road, and it's 3.5 miles per loop. Ah ha! I'll run four loops to total 14 miles, then add 10 miles of hiking trails in the park to make 24.
Saturday morning, nine a.m.
I try to remain in bed. The realization it's still cold outside helps me stall for a few more hours. I'll plan to run at noon when it warms up a bit. If I run under five hours, it'll still be light outside (gets dark around five thirty).
Eleven a.m.
Drat. It's time to prepare. I gulp down my chilled coffee drink and extra water, eat three bananas and a bagel. A new hydration back pack gets filled with sixty ounces of sport drink. Three carbohydrate gels are strapped to my waist. My trail shoes' laces are tied, a few stretches follow, and I'm off to the great outdoors. I feel tense, like I'm facing my final exams in college.
Twelve noon.
My car motors into the park. I know it's time to get going, but I decide to procrastinate. I'll take another drive down the main park road and measure the distance again, just to make sure I got it right. Yep, 3.5 miles. The parking lot is to the right. My car pulls in and comes to a stop. It idles there a few more minutes as I try to put off the inevitable. No time to waste. I better get my butt outside and GET ER DONE.
Twelve-ten p.m. -- time to run.
I strap on my hydration pack, check my gels, and leave the car. A few shuffles and I make it to the edge of the parking lot, then I slowly make my way downhill. It doesn't feel too bad, but I feel a bit sluggish. On the way back up the road I realize I don't feel in shape. No way do I want to run this boring 3.5 loop four times. I complete the loop once, then head onto a park trail. I'm prepared to think of a new strategy for my run. I veer to the right onto "dog path." It's grassy and level for the most part. A nice pleasant run. Peace enters my soul as soon as I saunter into a wooded glen. Civilization seems remote and I'm in my own world. Now, I turn left into more woodland trails and pass a giant dog before opening into two miles of grassy trails. I glance at the dog to make sure it's on a tight leash.
It must have rained a lot in previous days, because the ground is soggy. I jump puddles, run around the edges of the trail, and splash in dirty, cold water. My shoes look muddy, and the trail only gets more slippery on the way back. I make a special effort to avoid a stump that has tripped me before, but am unsuccessful. Some stump artist must have applied camouflage to the thing -- I can never see it. Finally, I've completed the loop, determined not to run it again -- too wet and soggy. So far, 7 miles completed and 14 left to go. Next stage, a dry woodland trail totalling 5 miles. I plan to run around it twice to total 10 miles. At mile 2 the trail stops. A sign signals DANGER, TRAIL CLOSED. Probably some tree fell down, who knows. I detour off the path, find the park road, and head parallel to the trail until I see it again. Then I follow a lightly-flattened, grass path off the side of the road and pick up the trail. I continue running on it some more.
Up and down, up and down. It seems endless. Fifty minutes later I've finished a 5 mile loop. At this rate, I'll be running for five hours! I decide enough of trail running for the day. I'll finish the rest on asphalt paths. There's a 1.5 mile loop at the bottom of the park road. So far I've run twelve miles. I'll do one more of those boring 3.5 mile loops and six of the 1.5 mile asphalt path loops, then I'll have my 24.5 miles.
Three p.m.
Two loops completed on the 1.5 mile asphalt and I'm dying. I've got to do something to spice things up. Maybe I'll run the last four loops different directions. This strategy works. For some reason, running the loop one direction, then turning around and running the opposite way seems to make the distance feel shorter. I empty a gel into my mouth every two loops. The first loop takes thirteen minutes; the last loop takes fourteen minutes. My fatigue is showing. I want to be environmentally friendly and drop the discarded gel packets in a garbage can en route. An empty packet falls to the ground. I strain to pick it up and my back cramps momentarily.
Four p.m.
Finally, I complete six loops on the asphalt. Then it's up the same hill that dogged me when I started this run, and I finish at the parking lot. Ironically, my legs feel stronger going up hill than after plodding along on level asphalt for the last hour and ten minutes. I arrive at the car four hours, two minutes, and twenty-four seconds later. My walk is slow, pained, and awkward. I move like someone stuck a board up my butt. After walking around the parking lot two times to wind down, I open the car door and slowly make my way inside. I pick up my legs to put them inside the car because my hamstrings are ouchy and I want to avoid sudden cramping.
Saturday evening.
I'm zoned out, but it feels good to know I finished my last twenty mile run. I'm chilled to the bone, so I take a very long, hot shower. Then I gulp down three giant glasses of milk and a full can of peaches and fruity syrup. (I really crave fruity drinks after a marathon or long run.) Later that night I heat up like a furnace, and I throw off the covers to cool down.
Sunday morning.
Yeah! I did it. Today I get to eat without guilt. My back's still sore, but the ache clears up as the day progresses. Three more weeks to race time. I'm ready.
Until later.
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