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!

The Pull

I'm an endurance sport athlete. Some would say addict. Right about now, my wife is reading this, rolling her eyes, and saying, "No kidding." I can't say that's inaccurate. It's just something I have to do. When some people have that near-constant and inescapable desire to do something, they call it their passion. I call it the pull.

Why the pull? Have you ever been indoors on a gorgeous day and wish you could just go outside? When it's almost like the day itself is calling you to come out and soak it up?  It's like that except it's not just the day calling me. There's something else that beckons me to be hammering down the road on my bike, legs burning and sweat dripping off my nose. It wants me to be running through the trees while filling my lungs with fresh air. Run. Ride. Whatever. Just move. It's as as close as I've come to a Siren song. When my attention should be on something else, it calls me. It pulls me toward it. I can't look away.

It's not just running or riding outside on a nice day. It's the pull to be indoors when the weather is bad, racking up base miles on the bike trainer or treadmill. It's doing core work and strength training at the gym or laps in the pool. Sometimes it's the pull of going outside in the pouring rain to do hill repeats just because it feels good to be hard core and thumb my nose at Mother Nature. Other times, I feel the pull when I'm driving in the car and encounter a monster hill and wonder what it would be like to ride or run up that bad mofo. When I travel, I feel it when I look up the terrain and weather at the new location. Once there, I have difficulty focusing until I can go run and explore what's around me and get the added benefit of pushing my body a bit.

The pull is especially strong from races and events. There's a challenge to it, almost like a puzzle. The event calls and says, "Come see if you can figure out how to do this." Sometimes the attraction is the difficulty. Sometimes it's the festive atmosphere. Sometimes it's because the event has a tough qualifying standard. I've been fortunate to complete some of those events, such as the Boston Marathon, but the big one has eluded me and that makes its pull stronger every year. What's the big one? It's Kona, baby. The Ironman World Championship. The pull is so strong for that event, it's practically a black hole for me.

I get pulled towards all aspects of endurance sports. Sometimes that takes the form of reading about what others do and buying more magazines on the subject than I possibly have time to read. It's setting the DVR to record the coverage of any marathon on television. It's tracking friends live online during their events and anxiously awaiting their next split to be posted. It's feeling empty in late July when daily coverage of the Tour de France ends. It's spending all day glued to my computer watching live online coverage of the professionals trying to conquer Kona. A couple of months later, it's getting all teary-eyed watching the network broadcast of the age grouper stories and witnessing the raw emotion as they complete a chapter of an amazing endurance journey. I ache to join them.

I just can't get enough of doing endurance events, training for them, or watching and learning from others so I can join them. Some would say all of this is a push more than a pull, a desire that comes from within, but I feel it comes from the outside. It's almost an invitation with a reminder. It tells me, your body was made to do this. Use it or lose it. There are a lot of people in the world who can't do what you do. Get out here. To paraphrase a famous saying by Steve Prefontaine, don't sacrifice the gift. I feel what comes from the inside is my willingness to accept the invitation.

Now that you understand that about me, you can understand the name of the blog. The following is an excerpt from the NBC broadcast of the 1995 Hawaii Ironman. The words below were spoken by narrator Al Trautwig to describe the images seen beginning at 1:04:50 into the following video,
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=698DB06251c

"It is five minutes after midnight.
The bell has tolled. The deadline past.
Yet the Ironman credo still holds - finish. Just finish.
It lives in 72-year-old Bill Bell, who is cramped and dizzy, yet drawn to it.
Drawn to it.
It pulls each of them to this tiny island year after year.
To witness the Ironman.
To be an Ironman.
To finally … touch the line."