Today, I Ran

It was neither long nor fast. It was clunky, awkward and uncomfortable. It was downright painful for some of it. But for two minutes at barely above a brisk walking pace on a treadmill, it was glorious. 

So what's the big deal about a little run? To the rest of the world, it's obviously nothing, as it should be. To me, it was huge. You see, those were my first bonafide running steps in almost six months, 171 days and 23 hours since the fateful step that brought it all to a unceremonious halt. No, I didn't count each day during those months, but yes, I did figure it out down to the hour because I wanted to know exactly how long this chapter was so I could close the book on it. 

As previously noted in this blog, running is important to me and I've missed it. Being able to run again was always the primary goal, but never a given. My medical help was clear with me that while they were optimistic, the kind of injury I had could get in the way of running even after it was healed. We wouldn't really know until we tried and there was a lot of work to do before we could try. While it hurt to run, it hurt in all of the right places and none of the wrong ones. It doesn't mean I'm in the clear, but it was a monster step.

Over the course of my rehab, I've been able to get back on the bike and build up to some true hammer sessions where I darn near entered the puke zone. It felt so good to sweat buckets again and ride until my quads burned. It's just not the same as running, though. That was my first love in the athletic world and I don't want to have to do without it. 

I'd known this day was coming for about the last two weeks and I'd be lying if I didn't admit I was anxious about it. As we slowly increased the pace of my walk on the treadmill at the PT's office, I got a bit nervous. We finally got up 4.4 mph and I knew that was as fast as I could go and still walk. Then the order came to bump it up. Ok, this is going to force me to run. Here we go. And I went. And I didn't die. And my ankle didn't fall off. It hurt, but it was still working and I could actually run. Oddly enough, I pretty much shrugged at first. I thought it was cool, but I was too focused on remembering the mechanics of running to notice that hey, I was running. This went on for two minutes followed by a few balance exercises, some range-of-motion work, some massage, some congratulations and plans for future visits. It seemed like no big deal to me, which surprised me, although my PT was excited. Then, I left the building. 

In the 25 feet from the front door to the car came this flood of memories of the fateful step, the endless days in the boot, the physical therapy, the watching friends run races while I watched. Boom. There it was. Holy shit, I just freakin' ran! I felt lighter and I could breath easier. Suddenly, that light at the end of the tunnel was whole lot brighter and it wasn't a train. I had to just sit in the car for a few minutes to collect myself before returning to the office for work. I know this should't be this big of a deal in someone's life, but it is, at least to me.

There is still a long way to go and much more physical therapy work to do, but it finally feels like I'll be able to clear this last hurdle. For now, I've got to go order some new running shoes. After all, runners need running shoes. I wonder what new models have come out since I last looked ...

**** happens. It sucks. Then we have to move on.

Injuries are part of the game in athletics and endurance sports are no exception. Most of the time, they amount to a short nuisance and a little bit of missed training time. Sometimes, the level of suckitude goes much higher. This, unfortunately, is one of those times.

Today was Ironman Arizona, which was supposed to be my second ironman race of the year. Instead, my Arizona experience consisted of spending quality time with the computer, tracking friends and watching them finish. Not exactly what I originally had in mind. Having said that, they did fantastic and it was a pleasure to cheer them on, albeit from afar. 

As discussed in my last post, this particular ironman journey started last year when I went there to volunteer so I could sign up for this year's race. Actual training for this race started in late July when I got back onto the training horse after taking some time off from Ironman Coeur d'Alene. I was coming off a big PR in that race and a couple of other fast shorter races and was feeling good. I looked forward to getting back to some longer distance training to prepare to give my best effort on the Arizona course. 

The "**** happens" part

Six weeks ago, I was in Yakima running in a community "fun" run following a series of high school races my daughters' high school team was racing. I had been looking forward to this race for quite some time because it was on a course I used to run in high school and I thought it would be fun to race it again almost 30 years later. My only concern was getting hurt. In fact, as I lined up at the start, I mentioned to one of my daughter's teammates that I didn't know how hard I was going to run and would just play it by ear. "I just don't want to get hurt," I said. I should have stepped off the course right then and there. Schmuck. 

After easing into the race for a while, everything was great. It was one of those glorious races when everything was easy. I was running fast, but not anywhere near my limit. I was passing people at will. Most importantly, I was having a great time running that course after such a long time. I was literally smiling my way around the course. This race was going to be a good gauge of where my fitness was at leading into my last heavy training block before Arizona and I was excited about how it was going. I was on schedule to run the fastest three-miles I had run in years.

At the same time, I was being careful about where I stepped because I'm hyper-sensitive about running on uneven ground since I blew out my right ankle three years ago when I stepped in a hole while running. I was constantly scanning the ground for the best place to step. We came to a narrow part of the course with a chain link fence on our right and ground that sloped to the left off of the path. I caught the runner in front of me, but decided to wait to pass until the ground flattened out. Again, I was just being careful and didn't want to do anything stupid. I was actually feeling pretty proud of myself that I was playing it smart and not doing something stupid by trying to pass on uneven ground. I waited patiently until the path widened and the slope of the ground evened out. I took one step to the left to go around the runner, felt my left leg give out and I face-planted on the grass. Insert the expletive of your choice here. I ran through the gamut. 

The "It sucks" part

It's amazing how quickly the mind can work sometimes. I had no idea what I had stepped on or what exactly happened, but I knew in an instant it was all over. My ankle was a mess. Arizona was out and I was facing months of rehab and reconditioning to get back to the fitness level I was at just seconds ago, if I could get there at all. I was stunned and I was pissed. Oddly, I was also rather matter-of-fact. I had fallen at the feet of one of the local high school runners who was watching the race. She alarmingly asked if I was ok. "No. No I'm not," I said calmly and quietly. It didn't hurt right away and I hadn't heard a pop or anything like that, but I knew it was bad. 

Long story short, my daughters and the team helped get me and my stuff back to the van for the 3-hour drive home. I've been through this nasty ankle sprain drill before and I knew there's not much a doctor can do right away other than wrap it and brace it so I just wanted to go home and deal with the doctors there in the next day or two. That was not the funnest drive I've ever had since the ankle started to blow up like a balloon, but it went ok. We got home about 10 pm and by midnight it was hurting like crazy so I gave in and headed to the ER for x-rays and some pain meds. I came back four hours later with the meds, a boot, some crutches, and a preliminary diagnosis of possible avulsion fractures and "at least" a grade 2 sprain (partially torn ligaments). I wasn't surprised.

In the six weeks since, there have been visits to the orthopedist, crutches for what seemed like forever, the boot (still), and visits to the physical therapist. In the first days, I had to call my mom to tell her the family trip to Arizona was off. That was no fun because we had all been looking forward to that for a year. We thought about going anyway, but we also knew there would medical bills coming so thought it best to save for that. One silver lining in this is we hadn't yet bought the plane tickets for the trip so I was really only out the entrance fee to the race. Ok, and the plane ticket to get there last year to sign up, but let's think positively, shall we?

One of the suckiest parts was having all of this pent up training and nowhere to release it. When we train for an endurance event, we taper off in the last three weeks to let our bodies recover. Typically, by the time race day comes around, tapered athletes are raring to go with a ton of pent up energy. I was right there going from training at a high level to absolutely no training at all. I was not a happy camper. I finally got into the pool to do some swimming with a pull buoy so I just dragged by legs since I couldn't kick. To my surprise, it didn't help at all. I wanted to run. Just run.

The "then we have to move on" part

So now we've covered the **** happens and it sucks parts, so it's time to move on, right? Well, it's not that simple. We endurance folks are strange birds. We deal with adversity in the form of minor injuries, weather, equipment problems, etc., all the time and keep moving forward. But we don't quite know how to handle it when it's something bad enough that we can't just run through it. As I've told several people, I'm very well aware this is but a temporary small blip in a (hopefully) long life. I didn't suffer some horrible fate like so many other people have to deal with. I get that. But it does't mean I can't be angry and sad about it and that those feelings aren't valid. That's because I know none of us is guaranteed tomorrow and we should do the things we want when we have a chance. That's what I was doing. I was going after it. Since these races are so hard to get into, I also know it will be a long time before I have a shot at another one. I'm also getting older and there's no guarantee I'll ever get back to that same physical condition I was in before that one bad step. I told myself if I was going to move on from this bump in the road, I needed to be real about what I was feeling. What's real is I was truly pissed off and bummed and it got to me. Whether or not that's valid in the eyes of others, I don't now and don't care. It is what it is. 

I'll admit I was down a few times in the last few weeks, but it's been ok most of the time. I haven't really been my normal self, but I haven't been a raging jerk either (I hope). As the Arizona race got closer, though, and I read about people getting excited to get to the race, I got pretty down. It finally hit me last weekend when I realized that during training I had been keeping myself in check mentally to not get overconfident since you never know what could happen on race day. In my gut though, I knew I was in the best shape in years and had a real shot at taking a ton of time off of my PR. I can certainly work to get back there, but I never know if I'll really be able to get back to that point again and it's frustrating as hell. 

With that, I came into today with some trepidation about what I would feel. It actually turned out to be a pretty good day. I was able to track my friends and cheer them on and that helped in some strange way. At least there was a connection to the race. I think it was a problem just having that race still in the future and knowing I couldn't be there. Now that the last finishers crossed the line about an hour ago, I feel like I can turn the page. 

So today, I started down a new path. My bike has been sitting in the garage untouched since the injury because I can't ride it anyway. It still has the sweat stains from my last ride a couple of days prior to the running race. I kept telling myself I should go clean it up and get it ready for when I get cleared to start pedaling on the trainer again, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Today, I went to the bike store to get some needed parts and start getting it ready. I don't know when I'll get cleared to ride, but I want to be ready when it happens. I also look forward to getting some better idea of when I'll be able to run again so I can start planning races. I know it will be a while, but it always helps to have something to train for. It's time to move forward and look ahead. Onward.

The Race to Get Into the Race

The Race to Get Into the Race

Ironman Arizona is a week away (November 16). Yet another pack of endorphin-crazed athletes will be toeing the line for many different reasons, but mostly just to see if they can do it or how fast they can do it. Those of us who do long endurance events frequently hear things like, "You're crazy," or "Haven't you got anything better to do with your time?" Ah, but if only they knew what some of us do just to get into the race in the first place. Behold …

Ironman-branded races (Ironman is actually a brand owned by the World Triathlon Corporation) can be difficult to get into. Most of the races fill up very quickly so you have to commit a year in advance. The current year's participants get first crack at signing up, then volunteers who helped at the race, then general public on-site, then it opens to online registration if there are any spaces remaining. Some races, like Ironman Arizona, are so popular that the online registration literally opens and closes within a few minutes or, as happened the last few years, within seconds. There have been years when some ironman races don't even make it to online registration because enough people sign up on-site. 

I first encountered that phenomenon in 2011 when I tried to sign up for the 2012 Arizona race. The online entry forms for Ironman races are ridiculously long, but I was prepared. I had all of my information ready to copy/paste into the form and was off and running as soon as it opened. It's amazing how stressful it is to fill out a simple (but long) website form when you know the clock is ticking. I think I actually worked up a sweat. On one of the forms, I hit the button at the bottom to continue and it told me I had forgotten to click one of the required boxes at the top. I took a few seconds to find the box, check it and move on. That would come back to bite me. I made my way to the last field on the last page and was entering my credit card expiration date when the keys stopped working. I thought my keyboard had gone dead or my Internet connection had stopped working. I was in a mild panic when I scrolled to the top of the page and found a message saying the race was now full. Seriously? I figure I missed it by about 10 seconds. Let's just say it's a good thing the kids weren't home because some colorful words were spoken.

To say I was frustrated would be an understatement. I had done my first Ironman earlier that year and I was itching to do another one. I didn't have the budget to go anywhere except the west coast so I figured I was out of luck. In the end, it wound up working out well because I was able to get into Ironman St. George. I loved that community and race and then got to have a great adventure with my daughter as we drove back home from southern Utah. We toured several national parks along the way and encountered the world's best tuna sandwiches at Cafe Soleil just outside of Zion National Park. Silver linings indeed.

Last year, however, I wanted to give myself a better chance to get into the 2014 race so I decided to fill a volunteer spot and sign up on-site after the race. It was also a good excuse to go visit my family down in Phoenix since I hadn't yet been there. Well, even that is difficult to get into. By the time I decided to do this a couple of months before the race, the volunteer slots were already filled. I got on the waiting list to see if spots opened up and one eventually did at a running aid station. Sweet! 

My volunteer shift wasn't until the late afternoon, but I went to the race by 7 A.M. so I could be there for the start, follow some friends who were racing, and check out the logistics of the course to prepare for the following year. I had a great day of cheering the racers, sending tons of texts and Facebook posts back and forth with friends around the country who were helping me keep track of where our racers were at so I could be at the right place at the right time to cheer them on. Special shout out to Ginny, who was there trying to qualify for Kona. It was fun yelling out her current age group placing as she zoomed by. This was my first experience on the spectator side of an ironman and it gave me a new appreciation for it. It's exhausting! At one point, I found myself in a Starbucks to recharge my phone (together with several dozen of my new spectator friends) and just to sit down for a while before dashing off to catch the next racer friend coming by.

At the appointed time, I showed up at the aid station location and met with the team captain to get my volunteer shirt. Going into this, I knew I would probably have to get up a little early the day after the race in order to line up with the other volunteers and sign up for next year's race since registration opened at 8 A.M. Imagine my surprise when the team captain said if I wanted to get into next year's race, I would need to get in line sometime between 3 and 5 A.M. Um, what? Yes, he explained to me and another slack-jawed volunteer that more than 3,000 of the 4,000+ volunteers had said they want to sign up for the race. Keep in mind the volunteer sign up is after a large portion of the current year's participants had already signed up for a race that has less than 3,000 spots total. That means I would get back to my mom's house (a 45-minute drive away) late from the race, get a couple of hours of sleep then head back down to the race site to get in line to sign up for the race. Alrighty then, away we go.

The volunteer shift was great fun and I highly recommend it even if you don't like to race these kinds of things. The time flies by and you get to see people out there in all sorts of different mental and physical condition, but always moving forward. My aid station was at an out-and-back portion of the course where I'd see the same runners four times at roughly miles 6, 12, 18, and 24. It's a massive and constant stream of people, but after a while, we could start to pick out people we recognized from a previous pass. Some happier at that point, some not so much, but still moving forward. Many of the volunteers knew people running and phones were ringing with texts as others let us know when our people were getting close. We'd temporarily cover for each other when one of our folks would come by so we could run with them for a few steps to cheer them on. When Ginny came by with two miles to go, I had the great privilege of telling her she was 10 minutes up on the third-place person in her age group and got to watch her raise her arms in joy. She knew that meant she was likely going to Kona, which she did and just completed last month. It was awesome. 

After my volunteer shift, I walked back to the finish line area in the dark. Along the way, I got to briefly meet another friend, Shaker, who was still moving forward and was in good spirits despite having a tough run. It was nice to be able to text his wife to let her know he was ok because we'd lost contact with him on the race tracker. I completely missed Mark, though, who was in the process of finishing his first ironman after struggles in previous ones, but Ginny got to see him so that was good. I hung around at the finish for a while and was eventually able to meet up with Ginny and have a nice long talk. I headed back to the house sometime around 10 pm with my legs aching from standing, walking, running all day. It certainly wasn't to the level of discomfort for those who were racing, but the general feeling was surprisingly similar.

I decided I couldn't handle getting back there at 3 A.M. and I doubted that many people would show up that early anyway. I got up a little before 4 and got back to the race site at about 4:45. Myself and many other volunteers walked towards the race site looking for where the volunteer line was. Some people eventually directed us to the back side of the park near the bike rack area. When I first saw the line, it looked like there were a couple of hundred people in line so I thought, cool, I'll just have to wait here a while, but I'll definitely be able to register. I was soon corrected, however, as somebody else in line pointed out all of the places I couldn't see where the line went. Hmm. This might be closer than I thought. After about an hour, the powers-that-be started to move the front of line from what I found out was a staging area to where the final line would be located. As the line moved, they snaked us through the park and that's when I that's when I got a true appreciation of how long the line was and how many more people had showed up after me.

Once the line finally got to the place where it would be until registration opened in another two hours or so, we settled in and started calculating. Let's see, how many racers do you think already signed up for next year? Maybe 1,000? 1,500? Let's see, if that leaves about 1,500 spots remaining, are we far enough up in line to get in? What about the speed pass people? I had no idea what that was. Apparently, you could sign up for the unpopular volunteer shifts and they would give you a speed pass that worked similar to how it does at Disney. The speed pass folks got to be in a separate line right at the front and would get to register before the rest of of us normal volunteers. Dang, wish I had known about that. 

After a while, you could literally see people standing there and counting. We saw people trading off spots in line so others could go to the front of the line and then walk back, counting along the way. We'd watch people continually showing up to get in line and then perversely enjoy their reaction when they saw how long the line was. It made us feel better that at least we had a better shot than them. Ungenerous, I know, but at that point you're looking for any positive you can get to the stupid thing you are doing by standing in line for hours in order to pay hundreds of dollars for something that is a year away. 

I never did find out exactly where I was in line, but I estimated I was about halfway through it. At times, we could see people walking by with video cameras to capture the whole thing. The video below, by Mike Kichler, gives a great idea of what it was like. This one was shot after registration had opened so the line had already shrunk for a bit as some people were done. I couldn't find myself in this one, but judging by the light at the time and where I remember being, I think I was somewhere between the 1:20 - 1:30 mark of the video.

As the person in the video explained, there were also people who showed up to camp in line overnight. They were turned away, but they gave them special wristbands that allowed them to come back in the morning and get in the front of the line. Dang, I wish I had known about that one too. In addition to the volunteer line, there was yet another line of people from the general public. They would get to sign up after the volunteers, if there were any spots left open.

Despite our angst wondering if there would be enough spots left, in the end, I was able to register as was everybody else in the volunteer line. Even volunteers who didn't show up for the line until 8 were able to get in. Damn, there was a missed sleeping opportunity. To my surprise, everybody in the general public line was also able to register AND it opened up online for a short time. In fact, a friend back home was able to register online from the comfort of his own house. Seriously? 

Ok, while I know it would have been a lot cheaper and much less of an endurance effort just to get into the race, it was a great experience and I'm glad I did it. I got to visit with family, experience a new race from the other side of the barriers, and cheer some people on in person. I found myself excited to be signed up for two ironman races in 2014 and looked forward to going back to Arizona. 

The only problem is, after all that, I won't be there. More on that in the next post, but here's a clue. 

Boston 2014

People had many expectations for the 2014 Boston Marathon. Others didn't know quite what to expect, but they knew it was going to be epic. It turns out it was epic not only for the obvious reasons, but because two Americans put the hammer down. Meb stunned the Africans and took the first win for an American in 31 years. Shalane threw down a "wicked hahd" race record pace for most of the way before getting caught. Her finishing time would have won all but three of the women's races in its history and was still good enough or an American course record. In doing so, both showed the guts and determination that all runners love to see and wish we had ourselves. Much respect.

There was much written and said leading up to the 2014 Boston Marathon. For me, and seemingly for other runners and Boston itself, it was complex on many levels. I can only comment on what I saw and heard from my perspective, but if you want to read a more wide-ranging view, I highly recommend reading many of the excellent stories written by staff of the Boston Globe. In particular:

• Outpouring of resilience fuels Boston Marathon by Mark Arsenault 
• For 26 miles, cheers filled the air by Eric Moskowitz 
• Marathon's ordinary beauty drowns out past horror by Kevin Cullen 
• One step at a time, Boston reclaimed its Marathon by Christopher L. Gasper 

Most impressive, at least to me, was a thread of defiance and empowerment woven throughout the fabric of the race and the events surrounding it. I heard and saw it all along the 26 miles of the course as well as before and after the race. This was a community reclaiming one of it's own and it was truly awesome to behold.

There were poignant remembrances of those lost and injured in 2013, such as the moment of silence in the athlete's village (the staging area for the runners) before we began the walk to the starting line. It's not an easy thing to get 30,000+ nervous, chatty runners to be quiet for anything, but there wasn't a sound during those moments.

There were reminders everywhere that this was a different event than it had been in the past. When I last ran Boston in 2008, it was obviously highly organized since it's such a huge race (literally and figuratively), but there was still a sense of informality to it, similar to most running events. Everybody gather on this day, step up to the line and go. First one there wins. This time, there were police and barricades everywhere. In the walk to the starting corrals, there were literally police from various city departments or the military every 30 feet or so. We were told repeatedly if we left the barricades we would have to be re-screened at one of the limited entry points. There were police on the roofs of surrounding buildings constantly scanning the crowd through binoculars. There were sections along the early miles of the course where members of the State Patrol were sternly facing towards the surrounding woods with their backs to the racers zipping by, vigilantly standing watch.

On one hand, all of the security measures made me a bit sad. While the Boston Marathon is the granddaddy of them all, there was a sense of innocence lost. On the other hand, the race organizers and the police did an amazing job making all of those measures as unobtrusive as they could. While I was aware of them, I never felt oppressed by the police presence and the increased formality of the pre-race procedures. I felt protected. I wasn't worried about another attack at the marathon, but it sure is nice to know the police have got your back.

Overall, those things were just minor points in the day. They easily faded to the background and were vastly outweighed by the overwhelming sense of optimism and looking forward. That "Boston Strong" thing? It's not just a slogan. Those people are tough and resilient, but caring and sincere. They got knocked down and not only did they stand back up, they gave everybody else a hand back up.

The spectators at Boston are always amazing. I distinctly remember the fans from '08 being more involved than typical marathon fans I had seen and suspected this would be the part of the experience this year that would stand out from the rest. They didn't disappoint. They aren't just watching the action, they're part of it. It's more than cheering as runners go by. It's how they look runners right in the eye, call them by name or any identifying information on their shirts and have a supportive conversation with them in those fleeting seconds as they run by.

Lots of marathons around the world have fans like that. It's just that Boston has more of them all along the course and there's an extra ingredient: ownership. In '08 and especially this year, they seemed to take it personally, as if it was their responsibility to ensure each and every runner made it to the finish line. It's clear they're proud of their marathon and they want to see everybody be successful. It pours out of their hearts and lungs and pushes the runners for 26 miles on magical waves of sound.

There were many times in my race when I was lagging or running out of energy and my mind would start to wander. I almost feel guilty saying it, despite sharing hundreds of high fives along the way, there were times when I would get complacent with the cheers and the outstretched hands and lose contact with the crowd that was right next to me. The beauty of Boston is when I would lose that focus, that's when I would see a little kid sticking her hand out. All I had to do was touch it to see her face light up and it put just that extra bit of juice in my legs. Talk about natural energy. It doesn't get any better than that.

Perhaps the most heartfelt moment I had came early in the race, in the first mile or two. I saw a sign over to my right that said, "Thank you, runners, for being here and being strong." What? It threw me for a bit of a loop. These people are thanking the runners for running a marathon? That's when I began to better understand the nature of this symbiotic relationship. They needed and appreciated us just like we needed and appreciated them. I saw variations on that theme on signs and through spoken words throughout the course and was honored to be a part of the community's healing, if only for a day.

I would be remiss if I didn't also attribute all of the spectator qualities mentioned above to the volunteers. What an amazing group of people. Always supportive and encouraging. They never look like they're just killing time until their shift is over. They are clearly invested in making the event the best it can possibly be. Besides the countless shouts of encouragement when I'd grab something from an aid station, I must have been congratulated by dozens of volunteers during the walk from the finish line to the Boston Common. I extend a sincere thank you to you all.

As for my run, well, it was both the toughest and easiest marathon I've done. The toughest because my quads were in open rebellion much earlier than normal. It's not recommended to go run a hilly marathon, especially one that has a net elevation loss, when training consisted of mostly flat roads or treadmills, no hill training, and a long run of only 14 miles. For those who don't know, the first few miles of the Boston course are mostly downhill, especially the first one. Despite my best efforts to control my pace and leg impact on the hills, by the time I got to mile 4, I could already hear my quads starting to squawk at me. Not good. Yup, I was in for a long race. At the same time, it was the easiest, most enjoyable, and thrilling race I've ever run for all of the reasons mentioned above and because the crowd was going to keep giving me whatever energy I needed to reach the finish line.

I mostly ran for the first half of the race and then went to my run/walk plan in the second half. As I went along, the balance of run/walk definitely shifted, especially on the downhills. You never really notice how much downhill there is on a road until it hurts to run it and then it seems like it's absolutely everywhere.

I carried my phone with me so I could take some photos and videos and make it easy for my family (wife, kids, sister, mother) to know where I was on the course. Our plan was they would find a place to watch some of the race around mile 25 and then leave to meet me at Boston Common after the race. At about mile 17, I got a text from my wife saying they had decided to wait for me to come by before proceeding to the finish. I responded by asking if they were sure because my quads were killing me, I was having to walk, and it would be a long time before I got there. Yes, they were sure. The kids were especially excited about it and determined to see me. That was particularly cool because they usually just meet me after the finish at races. I felt a bit guilty about it since I was running more slowly than usual, but it proved to be a great motivator.

There were several times in the next eight miles when I desperately just wanted to stop running and walk or keep walking if I was taking a break at an aid station. Knowing they were waiting for me kept me moving forward. I'd walk and send updates on my progress every now and then and got a chuckle out of a guy in the crowd who said, "Look at you, you're multi-talented. You can run and text at the same time, but enough of that and get moving!" I was actually walking at the time, but point taken so off I went into my trot again. Thanks man.

As I got to the place where I thought they were on the course, I couldn't find them. I slowed (not much) to a walk and moved next to the barricades on the left side because I didn't want to miss them. I must have walked for a several hundred yards and couldn't find them. The whole time the crowd was emploring me to run because I only had a mile left, but I said I had to find my family. It sounded like some wanted to pitch in and help me look. Just as I was considering actually going backwards on the course to see if I had missed them, I caught a glimpse of my daughter's red hair. Yay! There they were! It was such a blast to see them all right in this mix of a fever pitch crowd that was ready to jump the barricades and carry people to the finish if they had to. Awesome. I couldn't stay long because my oldest daughter was telling me to run as soon as I got there. She had made it clear before the race that I was not allowed to walk at the end and I had to finish strong. Aye, aye, Captain, so off I went.

The last mile, especially through the corridor of noise on Hereford and onto the finishing straight on Boylston, was exactly what you might expect. Exciting, thrilling, a little bit sad for just a moment, but mostly, powerful. As I looked to both sides of the street, the visions of the bombs crept into my mind, but they were quickly pushed out by the cheering crowd lining both sides of the street. I waved and shot some video as I did my best to show my appreciation for all they had been through and for their support. It was festive and it was happy. They are amazing people in an amazing city. Boston, I tip my cap to you and thank you for allowing me to be part of your journey. Take care and run on, friends.

Note: I'm still processing photos and video from the trip, but I'll add a new post with some of those as soon as I get a chance.

Because I Can

I am occasionally asked why I run marathons and Ironman races. My short answer is usually, "Because I can." Some people give me a raised eyebrow "Well, that seems arrogant" kind of look. That's not what is intended by my answer. The long form is, "Because I am able to and I enjoy it," but the short version gets more to the point.

I appreciate being able to lace up my shoes, go out the door, and just run. It feels natural and free. It feels like I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. I know that's not for everybody and other people do different activities to reach that state. The next best thing for me is capturing a perfect moment with the lens of a camera, but it's not the same as taking those deep breaths as I glide along the path on the power of my legs. It's primal, it's liberating, and sometimes it's even spiritual on some level. Given my struggles this year with the Achilles injury and now the lead up to the Boston Marathon, I'm more appreciative than I've ever been.

Much has been written and said about Boston this year, most by those who can write about it more eloquently than I, but I'll say this. This one is different. It embodies the very essence of "because I can."

I don't want this to be too heavy because marathons should always be a celebration of life and achievement. They should never be about worrying for personal safety. When I see my wife getting more and more anxious for my safety the closer we get to the race, it makes me sad. She's worried for my safety not because of the inherent risks of athletic activity, but because some person could do something to intentionally harm me. It's just not supposed to be that way. That's why it's so important we run this year and people come out to watch. As much as is possible, we must reclaim this race. We must stand up and keep moving forward, undeterred.

After the bombings last year, I wrote on Facebook what impacted me the most was the people who were targeted were those who support us runners. Those are our friends, our families, and complete strangers cheering for people they've never seen before and will never see again. They do it to support us or because it's fun or because it's what Bostonians do on Patriots Day. For some people last year, that simple act cost them their lives or their limbs or internal wounds we don't see. It's difficult to process. For all of those who will be watching this year's race in person, much of my family included, I admire and respect you for standing tall, literally and figuratively. As I meander through the course, I will gladly slap every hand I can reach that's on an outstretched arm eagerly awaiting that runner interaction.

This year I will not run the Boston Marathon to chase a PR, far from it. I won't run to test what I can do against the world's best in my age group, although I would have dearly loved to be able to do that. This year, I will run the Boston Marathon because there are so many others who wish they could. Some don't have the natural physical ability to qualify. Other's have the ability, but can't get there for any number of reasons, some in their control and others not. Most important, there are many people who would give anything to run or watch or have their loved ones be able to watch and cheer, but they'll never get that chance. This year, I will run because I can. And they can't.

Nice afternoon

Just a very quick update to illustrate something I talked about in my original post. Today was a "brick" workout, which is a ride followed immediately by a run. This was the first real brick I've been able to do since the Achilles injury. It was a gorgeous day and a glorious run. I felt great while getting to run by fields full of 5-year-olds playing soccer. For those who haven't seen that in a while, that's the age when both teams move together as one giant amoeba engulfing the ball while the occasional child is off alone picking dandelions from the field. It's great fun.

Post-brick was filled with the normal routine of stretching, eating, foam rolling, and icing. Today, however, has the added bonus of having streaming live coverage of Ironman Melbourne. One of the kids captured a photo of me in my happy habitat - resting on the floor, ice on the Achilles, laptop tuned into the race. Ahhh, perfect. Oh, that's the foam roller/torture device to the side.

Until next time, take care!

A Bump in the Road

It's been a long time since my first blog post. I had been planning to post about the ramp up to Boston and how well the training was going, blah, blah, blah. Then I hit a little snag that put my plans into question so I avoided posting about it. You know that saying, you don't miss something until it's gone? While I can assure you I don't take the ability to run and ride for granted, boy, do I ever miss it when it's gone. Such has been the case for the past two months. Here's the scoop.

I have a big year on the schedule with he Boston Marathon in April, Ironman Coeur d'Alene in June, and Ironman Arizona in November. To do all of that, I knew I needed to come into the year fit and healthy. I took much better care of myself through the winter this time instead of doing my usual hibernation cycle and packing on a bunch of weight. Well, I still put on weight, but not so much. Hey, it's progress.

By January, it was all paying off because I had built a great endurance base of slow, long miles and I was feeling confident to start ramping up a bit. I was loosely following the marathon training plan that had helped me qualify for Boston and all was well. I say loosely because it was never my intention to fully "race" Boston. My priority is Coeur d'Alene so I just wanted to have a solid training run in Boston, come out of it without an injury, and finish training strong for the ironman.

January 16 is when the reality of being a 47-year-old athlete smacked me right in the face. Oddly enough, it was January 26, 2011 when I blew out my ankle while training for Ironman Coeur d'Alene that year. Hmm, maybe the universe is trying to tell me something about that race. Or maybe I shouldn't run in January? Nah.

Anyway, I digress. The 16th was my first training run scheduled for marathon pace. That's a faster pace than a normal training run, but it's nothing crazy fast. The run went well and I felt great except for a tiny little "niggle" in my right Achilles' tendon. That's not unusual for me as I get little kinks here and there and they work themselves out with some post run stretching and foam rolling. However, by the time I got dressed for work, it was getting sore and tighter by the minute. So much so that I took a runner's trusted friend, a bag of frozen peas, to work so I could ice it during the day. I was confident this was just a little hiccup and it would resolve quickly with some TLC, just like these kind of things always had.

I decided to take a couple of days off then see how it felt. A half-mile into a slow run on the treadmill it started to hurt again so I shut it down. The general rule of thumb is, if something stops you from running, you're not sore, you're injured. Damn. "Injured" is a word no athlete wants to hear. Ok, time to accept I'll need some time before running again. Let's try biking. Nope, not much better. Another couple of days off, another run attempt. It was a bit better and I lasted longer before it hurt so that was encouraging process. Another couple of days, another bike attempt. Slight improvement, but not much so I shut it down.

After about a week, I could go about daily life without any discomfort at all. It didn't even hurt to press on it, massage it, stand on my toes, etc. so I knew I hadn't done any major damage to it. It was just when I would do anything that included repeatedly pushing off the toe. I figured out pretty quickly it was like when I had patellar tendinitis. In that case, I waited way too long to start treating it and it cost me six months of training. I was determined not to let that happen this time so I got very aggressive with treatment. If that didn't help very soon, it would be off to the doctor and physical therapy, but honestly, I wanted to avoid that.

While I had been down the tendinitis road before (at least that was my diagnosis) and knew how to deal with it, this is where discouragement and a bit of desperation also began to take hold. I was getting antsy and I needed to MOVE.

I could swim as long as I didn't push off the wall hard with the right leg so I began spending more time at the pool, but I needed something else. Hey, let's try the elliptical. Bingo! I could work on that baby with no discomfort and no ill effects after the workout. Yes! The elliptical became my best friend, especially the "open stride" one that is closer to a running motion. I never appreciated it before, but I sure do now.

Fast forward about three weeks. The Achilles was feeling better, but each promising test run ended less than a mile into it. I had hit a plateau so I decided to take almost two weeks off without any attempts at running or biking. Towards the end of that time, I also snagged some extra appointments with my wonderful LMP at Human Body Works (Olympia area folks, check them out). I get a massage every two weeks anyway, but now it was time to focus on the lower leg. While she had been working it well, this time she pulled out "the tool." I had heard about this torture device from others, but hadn't had the, uh, pleasure of making its acquaintance. It's a small metal thing with all kinds of different angles for really digging into a troubled area. It lived up to its reputation, although in my case it wasn't as bad as it is for people with other injuries, but it was also like magic.

After a few of those appointments and the time off, there it was, the moment I had been waiting for. You know what I mean - storm clouds parting to reveal bright sunbeams, rainbows, angels singing in the air. It was glorious. It was 20 minutes on the treadmill at a pace I would normally be embarrassed by, but it was pain free and felt like a normal run. I could have kissed the treadmill, but that would be gross and would probably send me to the hospital from all of the germs. Why don't people wipe those down properly after they sweat all over them? At that moment though, I might not have cared. You know how you don't realize how far you've strayed away from your normal state until you suddenly feel good and hopeful again? Yeah, that. Walking on clouds and not a care in the world.

Since that day, I've been able to run every other day with no discomfort and no sensation of anything being wrong. I continue to make steady progress in time and distance with runs and rides. Last Sunday, I ran six miles on the treadmill and just about did a backflip when it was time to get off of it. Ok, I don't know how to do a backflip and would wind up in the ER, so we'll call it a virtual backflip. Then on Wednesday this week was another big milestone. The weather was gorgeous so I headed outside in 63 degree weather and ran for 45 smile-filled minutes. I acknowledge I ran gingerly and was constantly waiting for that twinge or tweak, but it never came. Ahhh ... what a day. The day beckoned and I was finally able to answer.

I continue to be very cautious. Runs are slow, I ice, massage, and monitor everything closely. When this first happened, I still had plenty of time to recover and prepare for the ironman, but my margin for error is gone now. While I've been following my ironman training plan as much as possible, I've had to do only percentages of distance and effort, except for swimming. That's the bright spot in all of this. My swimming has improved a great deal and now I actually look forward to it.

So what's next? Well, this week, so far, I've been able to do the full load of work on the ironman plan, except where I still substitute some elliptical for some running. I can bike as expected now. In fact, today is a four hour ride and I've spent the first two of it writing this post. This is where the versatility of an iPad comes in very handy, but please forgive any nasty spelling or punctuation errors. I'll edit and clean it up later, if necessary.

I still plan to go to Boston and run. Realistically, I probably won't be able to get in more than a 10-12 mile long run before then so my training will be lacking, but I'm ok with walking during the race. Whatever it takes to come out healthy. Since I won't be running for time, I plan to take my phone along and see if I can do a little live tweeting or posting of some kind to share the experience of what promises to be a very special Boston Marathon. That's a finish line I just have to touch.

I tried very hard not to let my injury affect of my life and my family, but try as I might, I know fell short of that and was extra crabby at times. My apologies to them. I tried not to talk about it much except for my venting and progress updates with the great folks in the Spinervals Facebook group. Never have I been part of a more supportive and encouraging training group, online or otherwise. You are all exceptional.

Until next time, take care. Onward!