When my alarm sounded Saturday morning at 5:30, the first thing I did was curse Caitlin and Aaron.  I had somehow succumbed to their peer pressure (although it might be a little inaccurate of me to call two low-2:40′s marathoners ‘peers’) at last week’s Charlotte Running Club social when I let them talk me into signing up for the inaugural Charlotte Running Club Winter Classic 8K.  It sounded like a good idea at the time, but now, being ripped from the warm embrace of a pleasant dream to go run in the cold, I was rethinking things.

I groggily fumbled about, looking for all the items that I’d need for a race on a chilly morning – gloves, sweats, hat, jacket, etc.  2 cups of coffee weren’t enough to bring me to an alert state, and I was frustrated to find my cupboards basically devoid of any food-like items.  I was forced to settle for a couple of slices of toast with strawberry jam.  I eventually pulled myself together enough to head out.

I love running races but they tend to wreak havoc on a marathon training plan.  I always have to do some creative juggling to try and work in a race without doing significant damage to my ultimate goal.  I failed miserably at this leading up to the Savannah marathon when I basically raced until my Achilles were turned into a couple of useless tendons.  I ended up bailing on Savannah altogether.  I cannot afford to let this happen again leading up to Boston.

So I came up with a simple plan for the Winter Classic.  As I was scheduled to run a 10-mile progression run on Friday, I would just postpone it a day and work the 8K into a progression.  Here’s what I decided to do: Run 5 miles of progression just before the race so that by post time I’d be starting at about 7:30 pace and each mile would get subsequently faster, culminating with a last mile that was under 7 minutes.  That was the plan.

But my simple-enough plan had all but disintegrated  by the time I left my condo.  I was running late so that there wouldn’t be enough time to run 5 miles before the race began.  Oh well, best laid plans.  It looked like I’d be tacking on some mileage afterward – always a tough thing for me to do.

Luckily, the drive down to McAlpine went smoothly.  The parking lot was nearly full when I arrived at 7:20.  I hoofed it down to the stage to get my bib and chip.  On the way down, I realized very quickly that the odds of an age-group or masters award, slim before, were basically non-existent now.  I spotted several of my faster masters compadres, including Clayton Venhuizen, Gordon Bynum, and Chris Page,  jogging around.

At the stage, where the registration tent stood, various board members and volunteers kept the mood jovial and light, something I greatly appreciate as it helps ease pre-race jitters.  Aaron greeted me jovially and Ben Hovis was kind enough to take a break from his duties to explain the course to me.  Mike “That’s Not” Beigay called out, “If your name starts with A through L, pick up your packet here.  M through Z, to your left.  If your name is Strickland, go over there” where he pointed off into the wilderness.

2 friends, Kathy Seavers and Thomas Eggar, quite a visual juxtaposition, handed me my bib and chip, respectively.  These things in hand, I raced back to the parking lot, attached my bib to my shoe so I wouldn’t forget the one vital component, and then threw everything else into my car and took off to warm up.  During the warm-up, I discovered that nearly all the local big guns were present – Compton, Mainwaring, Lamperski, Shue, etc. etc.  If I finished in the top 100 today, I’d be happy.

I followed the 5K course and near the 1-mile mark, I crossed paths with Megan Hovis, fresh off the Olympic Trials, with an entourage which included Jason Blackwood.  We all waved and then I carried on, making my first of what would eventually be 3 trips up the lone, but tough, hill on the course.  I cruised down and took note of the lovely surreal view of the backside of the lake – the cooling water put off steam, providing a hazy, surreal view of a cross amidst the dead trees that dotted the lake.  I wanted to direct someone with a camera over there to snap a pic, but I had other business to attend to.  I ran around the lake, found out where we’d make our turn away from the standard 5K course in the first loop, and then headed back towards the parking lot.  I was confident that I now knew the course so no anxiety over potential directional mishaps.

I knew I had to be getting short on time, but I didn’t know how short as my stupid Garmin malfunctioned again – no display whatsoever (I’m starting to think it has to do with temperature – the colder it is, the more it seems to have issues).  Back in the parking lot, I shed my warm layers, pulled on some sleeves, and pinned my bib to my singlet.  I encountered Ben Meredith, a guy I first met and last spoke to at the Angels of ’97 5K in Huntersville.  “How much time do we have?  About 10 minutes?”, he asked.  “Yeah, that sounds about right”, I said, forced to guess thanks to my worthless watch.

I was all ready to head to the start when Mother Nature had other plans for me.  I felt a rumbling down below and so detoured to the McAlpine restrooms before making my way to the starting line.

Having finished my necessary business, I trotted back in the direction of the start.  Still in the parking lot, I could hear the undeniable hoots and hollers from one Aaron Linz.  Insert curse words here – I knew the race had started without me.  So I broke into a sprint – looked like I’d be racing an extra 1K or so.

I flew across the bridge leading back into the park.  As soon as I hit the gravel trail, I heard it from the peanut gallery.  “Strickland!  What are you doing?!” yelled Hovis (Ben, not Megan, lest there be any confusion) through his bullhorn.  Aaron and a host of others chimed in.  I just waved and smiled, content in the knowledge that this was not meant to be a PR race for me.  But I rushed to catch the racing crowd.

Andrew Swistak, complete with baby stroller and child, ran up beside me and said, “You’re about a minute and 40 seconds behind.”  Thanks, Stak!  We chatted for a sec and I was impressed that he had so effortlessly caught up – I had to be running about 6:30 pace (of course I couldn’t be sure because, did I mention, my stupid Garmin showed no display – 2 races in a row!)

I caught up to the back of the pack pretty quickly and began weaving and dodging my way through.  A lot of people drifted, or worse, weaved, from one side to the other.  I wanted to yell, “Do you realize you could probably shave a minute off your time if you would just run in a straight line?!”  But there was no time for that.

Nearly a mile in, I came upon Tom (Patania) and Laura (Sudduth).  I slapped Tom on the back (hope I didn’t scare you, Tom), and cried out, “I missed the start!” as I passed.  Tom and Laura just laughed, both familiar with my silly antics.

As I worked my way up, I passed a group and heard someone behind me call out to question, “Running your progression?”  I didn’t see who it was and I was struggling to catch my breath so I just shot the thumbs up sign and carried on.  But yeah, truth be told, I already had a pretty good idea that I was probably going out too fast – the progression plan was in dire jeopardy at this point.  I didn’t have the air or the time to try and explain this though, so I just went on my merry way.

I made my way past the pull-up bars (another lifetime ago, I used to cross-train here by stopping and doing chin-ups) where Emily B. and gang (I was already too race-loopy to recognize the others) were hanging out as course monitors.  They offered up cheers of encouragement and support and I waved even as things were starting to get quite painful.

This grin and wave belie the pain that I am already experiencing.

I continued my foray through the crowds and thought, “Damn!  How many people are in this thing?!”  I hit the hill where Aaron cheered me on again.  I got my first big clue that I was going significantly too fast at the bottom of the hill when I took a big gasp for air and instead tasted bile and strawberry.  Uh-oh.

But when I hit the lake section, crowds of friends were there.  Ben sounded through the bullhorn, “And Strickland works his way through the field!”  I made the turn off the lake, backtracking onto the 5K course.  Man, pain had seriously set in by the 2-mile mark.  My progression plan was clearly dead, complete with a “do not resuscitate”  order.  My pace slowed.

The crowd was finally beginning to thin.  I saw Jamaar ahead, off in the distance, and he yelled and waved to me.  I waved back but I didn’t have enough air in my old-man-asthma-ravaged lungs to respond with any sound.  I spotted a woman up ahead that had good form and looked to be moving along well so I made a conscious effort to reel her in.

When I finally caught up to the woman, I realized it was my pal Eimear.  I waved and she tried to say something that came out like “grunt…good…grunt”.  She was doing better than me – I couldn’t say a word.  I  made my third trip of the day up the hill, fighting back vomit again on the way down.  I was finally up in my normal neck of the woods, running with those in my wheelhouse.  I tried to gather myself enough to pick it up to hit the lake where everyone would see me again.

Back on the lake to more cheers interspersed with wise-cracks about my late start.  I struggled to make my way around.  I didn’t need a watch to tell me that my pace had slowed considerably.  Billy lapped me and I tried to lock on and match his stride.  He finished as I rounded the curve.

As I neared the turnoff from the lake into the woods, Mike Kahn came bounding up and yelled, “Strickland, don’t get lapped!”  to which I responded, “I won’t and even if I did, it wouldn’t count – I spotted you 2 minutes!”  Then, just as I started to make the right turn, Kahn screamed, “Go left!  Turn left!”

I’ve run the McAlpine 5K Cross Country course a million times.  Okay, maybe not a million times, but I’m willing to wager that I ran cross country meets at McAlpine before many of you reading this were born.  I know the course.  After speaking with one Mr. Hovis earlier, and after warming up on the course, I knew that after the first 3K, you just ran the 5K route the rest of the way in.  The 5K course would have me turning right here – I knew this.  But when you’re as directionally challenged as I am and someone yells a direction at you, you pause, which is what I did.  If I was turning right into my own driveway and someone in the car said, “No, wrong way!”, I would question myself.

During my split second of indecision, I heard Kahn laugh and the guy monitoring the course yell to me, “No, stay right!”  I was mad at myself for even entertaining Kahn for a second as I made the right turn.  But such is the plight of the directionally challenged – I’m used to it and got over it quickly in the woods.

I tried to pick it up as the end drew near, but I was squarely seated on the pain train – the conductor had punched my ticket a few miles back.  My goals were now, basically, in this order: Don’t die.  Don’t puke or crap yourself (thanks for that piece of advice, Caleb).   Don’t get passed by the elderly, the very young, the obese, or the infirmed.  Finish.   None of these were a given.

I made it through the loop without incident and hit the lake again.  Tom and Laura were approaching and Tom yelled some words of encouragement.  I was frustrated that a little girl was in front of me so I made a concerted effort to pass her.  Stak snapped some photographic evidence of this moment:

Battling it out with a little girl. Don't laugh too hard my young and fast friends - this may very well be a glimpse into your own future. I can only hope this girl is the next Alana Hadley.

I gradually picked up the pace around the lake and the little girl picked it up with me.  Insert more curse words here.  If starting late wasn’t embarrassing enough, now I had to try and shake an 8-year-old girl in front of everybody (the results show that she was 12, as if that’s better)?

When we hit the final straightaway, she started to pass me.  What’s worse than battling it out with a 12-year-old girl in front of everyone?  Yep, you guessed it, losing to a 12-year-old girl in front of everyone.  I picked it up some more – so did she.  #$%! ?!  Alright Little Miss Sunshine, let’s dance.  Are you willing to have a heart attack and drop dead at the line?  Because I am.  I’m willing to go as fast as it takes, Boston be damned.  (And yes, I’m well aware how crazy and stupid this sounds, but I’d be dishonest if I wrote anything else.  These were the kind of thoughts actually running through my head.  I can’t help it if I’m crazy and stupid.)  This other weird dynamic was playing out – I wanted to beat her but do it in a way that looked like I wasn’t struggling to beat her, you know?  And of course I totally defeat the purpose of this by writing about it in my blog.  Oh well, I’m sure that one day I’ll share this blog entry with a therapist.

Mr. Bill Shires captured this video of our epic battle to the finish line (the video is on Facebook, so I’m not sure if non-Facebookers, or maybe even those who aren’t friends of Bill’s, can view it).

Anyway, I held her off.  That’s something to be proud of, he said with much sarcasm.  Here’s proof:

Take that, little girl! I wonder who's more embarrassed - me for battling it out with a little girl, or the little girl for losing to an old man?

Past the finish chute, I stopped, doubled over hands on knees, held back the puke, and caught my breath.  I chatted with Stan and a few others for a second or two, grabbed a water, and headed back out to get the rest of my miles in.  The progression run died a hard death, but at least I could run the workout’s prescribed total number of miles.

Back on the trail, on the way to the Old Bell entrance, I  encountered Jason coming towards me.  I joined him – this last bit would go much easier if I had someone to run with.  And it did.  We had a pleasant little chat and I finally finished my day’s running.

I filled my water bottle with Nuun and went back to the parking lot where I put on some warm, dry sweats, then I headed back to the park for the awards ceremony.

During the awards ceremony, I hung out with my Hood to Coast teammate, Hammer, aka Mark Carbone, and Eimear (who won her age group, by the way).  This little Charlotte Running Club race was truly an international affair with Daniel Matena, who hails from Australia, coming in third overall, while Paul, a Brit, finished second.  When John Compton accepted the award for overall winner, I chanted “USA!  USA!” to a few snickers.

After the awards, I ran back to my car (I must have gotten 2 extra miles in from running back and forth to the parking lot) to get Bill Shires‘ age group award from Salem Lake.  I’d been holding on to it since October, continually forgetting to bring it to events where Bill would be present.  I finally remembered.

I stopped to chat to Kahn on my final way out, as he helped break down the set-up.  As he unhooked a bungee cord that held up a race banner, it whipped back and struck him in the temple (don’t fret, he’s fine) – another inch or two over and he might have lost an eye.  That, my friends, is what we in the business call ‘karma’.

And on that note, I will bid you all adieu.  Only 12 more weeks until Boston!

This past week’s training felt a little sub-par.  On nearly every run, virtually every step, I felt like I was struggling.  Every run felt like my first.  Remember those days when you were just starting out and every step was labored, every breath a huge, gasping for air, sucking in of oxygen?  Yeah, I felt like that.  The good news is that the Achilles and stomach deal were mostly non-factors, at least during the actual running (the Achilles, both of them now, hurt a little every morning when I first get up).

I continue to follow the Brad Hudson plan and my mileage remains pretty low.  I’m upwards of 35 miles the past 2 weeks.  Yeah, I’m not planning on PR’ing, but hopefully I’ll be able to finish.  Here’s a snapshot of the plan:

A snapshot of my Coach Brad Hudson training plan. Allen's Color Code: Green means I fully met the requirements of the workout, Yellow means I came up short, either in distance or pace goals, but performed 'the spirit' of the workout, Blue means I still ran but did something entirely different from the workout, and Red means I didn't run at all.

All I can do is keep slogging away and hope that the fitness miraculously comes together by April.

Here are some random, hopefully interesting, tidbits from my last week.

Monday

My off day – I didn’t run, but I dreamt about running, sort of.  Here’s the dream: I’m playing golf with David Nemoto, a friend, Hood to Coast teammate, and a sub-3:00 marathoner, who’s clad in running garb.  We’re on the green and I reach for the ball in the hole when I notice this black, moving mass in there.  So instead of putting my hand in the hole, I use my putter.  When I pull it out, it’s covered, teeming with this softball-sized mass of black widows.

I scream and start beating the putter against the ground.  “Careful!”, yells David, just as one of the black widows bounces onto his chest.  He screams and brushes it off and yells, “See!  I told you!  Watch out!”

That’s the entire dream, as I remember it.  Have at the dream interpretations.  One of my good friends gave me his own interpretation of it, a very plausible one, in my opinion.  Contact me if you’d like to hear it – I will spare the general population (and as it’s pretty personal, it might not make a lot of sense unless you know me, and my history, pretty well).

Tuesday

Todd joined me for an easy 3+ mile run around CIC (the Customer Information Center, where I work).  For those of you thinking, “Oh my god, that must be tedious, lap after lap around a parking lot”, please note that our complex is HUGE, complete with crushed gravel trails in the woods around the building.  We warmed up on the trail, then did 5 Hudson hill sprints on this perfect short-but-steep hill that we discovered by the parking deck.  This is the perfect course for my little Tuesday recovery runs.  Nothing eventful of note.

That night, I had another running dream.  I was in Myrtle Beach for the US Track and Field Olympic trials.  Here’s how you know it’s a dream – I was there because I had qualified for the 800 meters.  Throughout the dream, I kept trying to remember the race where I had qualified, but I couldn’t.  This really should have tipped me off to the fact that I was dreaming, but, for whatever reason, it didn’t.

I spent the majority of the dream trying to buy spikes in Myrtle Beach.  I actually kept trying on shoes but was having great difficulty finding a pair that fit properly.  What a waste of perfectly good dream time – trying on shoes!  Finally I found an outrageously expensive pair of spikes that fit well.  I was a little upset about spending so much money, but I told myself, “What the hell?  It’s the Olympic trials for chrissakes!”

I found some rain-soaked track, and did strides in my new shoes.  Then my coach, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, showed up with a shoe box which he handed me.  Inside was a pair of Nike track spikes, the exact model I’d worn in college (I can’t remember the actual model name, but we called them “The Flames” back then – see the picture below).  “Wow, where’d you find these?”  I asked Coach Hoffman.  “Don’t you worry about it”, he responded.  I don’t think there’s much symbolism in this dream.  I watched the Olympic Trials marathon Sunday and the Ides of March Tuesday night, so there ya go.  But if you’re seeing something I’m missing, please enlighten me.

Coach Hoffman

Not the exact shoes I wore in college and received in the dream, but very close and the closest I could find with a quick Google search of "old school Nike spikes"

Wednesday

The original CIC 3 Amigos, Dean, Todd, and I, headed out after work for an easy 6-mile run on the University trails.  We’d most likely be on the trail when the sun set, so I looked, in vain, for my head lamp.  Instead, I grabbed a safety blinking light, but when I got outside, I couldn’t get the light to function.  Things were lining up nicely for me to get creamed by a car on this run.

It was still light out when we crossed Harris Blvd. to get to Technology Drive and ultimately the trailhead.  We seemed to be cruising, a pretty quick pace for an ‘easy’ run, and I felt labored trying to keep up with Dean.  When we hit the trail, it was muddy, yet probably not as muddy as expected given all the rain we’d had of late.

We hit the 3-mile turnaround point on the trail and made our U-turn, Dean pulling Todd and I along.  It was dark enough by this point that I started worrying about footing.  Todd, a step or 2 behind me, flipped on his headlight, but it didn’t help me much.  I just followed tightly behind Dean in hopes that he’d avoid any significant obstacles, namely the huge mud puddles that turned the dark trail into an H2O mine field.

We made it back to the relatively well lit Technology Drive without any falls or mishaps, a few slippery close calls notwithstanding.  I cruised up Mt. Michelin ahead of the guys, but tucked back between them after we crested the apex.  After all, it was pretty dark between there and CIC and they both had on reflective vests and neon yellow shirts.  I was practically invisible.  But we safely cruised back to the work parking lot and another run was in the books.

Thursday

Death slog on the treadmill at the University Y.  I was supposed to run 6 but only had time for 5 if I was to make it to the Garmin clinic at Fleet Feet Huntersville.  I wanted to ask the Garmin rep if he knew why my 310 XT kept getting a garbled display.  Maybe it was a pretty common problem that he’d know how to resolve.  It wasn’t – he didn’t.  He’d never seen it before.  He used his phone to snap a picture of it.

But he did explain why the 405 incessantly malfunctions when you sweat a lot, like I do.  Apparently, although unable to be seen with the naked eye, when you  perspire onto your 405, salt deposits form that cause the watch to flip out.  This is easily resolved by thoroughly washing the bezel with soap and water.  Great, I can just use my old 405 instead of the 310, now that I know how to resolve my biggest problem with the watch.  Oh wait, no I can’t, because I sold it the day before the clinic.  Sigh.

Locals, including yours truly, listen to the Garmin guy at the Huntersville Fleet Feet Garmin clinic.

Friday

More death-slogging on the dreadmill (this time at the Lake Norman Y).  Goal was to do 8-mile progression.  Actual was 5.5 mile slog, 2+ of which were walking.  On the plus side, the Y did some remodeling so that the treadmills face the lake.  I always thought the Y had been designed backwards – the main weight/exercise room overlooked the parking lot when the other side of the building is waterfront and has a beautiful view of the lake,  heretofore only seen from a stairway.  Well somebody wisely figured this out and redid the layout.  The down side – the new treadmills have TV’s attached to them, but they only get like 6 channels and ESPN is not 1 of them.  I like to mindlessly follow ESPN from the treadmill.

Instead, this guy at work gave me an awesome set of bluetooth headphones so I used them to intently listen to a, as usual, brilliant podcast of the NPR show “This American Life”.  There was much irony in that the show was about the terrible working conditions that people faced in China while putting together smartphones, one of which I was using to listen to the show.  It was surreal.  But man, those poor people, many of which are children as young as 11-years-old, work in these gargantuan factories – the 1 in the story employed some 400,000+ workers.  That’s not a typo – over four hundred thousand!  And the factory had recently installed netting around the building as workers kept committing suicide by jumping off the building.  It made me want to give up on gadgets, says the man typing a blog on his laptop.  But where would I stop in this boycott?  Virtually everything we own in America is put together by overworked, underpaid foreign labor.  All I can do is bitch about it on my blog and hope somebody out there with more clout than me will be inspired to take meaningful action.

Let me get back on track here before my running blog becomes political/social diatribe.  Oops, too late.

Saturday

The best run of the week.  I checked the weather on my phone which said the temperature outside was 50.  So I put on shorts and a singlet and headed outside despite the rain (I’d had my fill of the treadmill for the week).  But when I stepped outside, the rain and wind made 50 feel more like 30.  I turned right back around and traded the shorts and singlet for tights and a long-sleeved tech tee.

The stupid 310 wouldn’t start (I found out later this was operator error – apparently I’d left it powered on since my trip to Fleet Feet and it had simply run out of battery life) so I ran watchless.  I felt naked at first, but it became sort of liberating, an old-school jaunt with no concern for time.

I passed very few people in the rain, but there were a couple.  I saw a red-tailed hawk, menacingly eyeballing me as I ran mere feet beneath his tree limb perch.  I saw an earthworm the size of a garter snake – he would have made excellent fishing bait.  These are the random thoughts that popped up in my head during this run.  While I didn’t exactly feel good on this run, I felt less bad than on every other run of the week.  I’ll take it.

Saturday night, I hit the Tyler Creek Pub for the Charlotte Running Club social, where I caught up with many running pals I haven’t seen in a while.  Good times, although I still think it’s BS that the 1 non-runner present, Garrett, won the running trivia contest.  Whoever fed him the answers, next time please at least have the decency to feed the answers to a runner. 

Which brings us to today.  You’re all caught up on my road to Boston.  I have a tough long run ahead of me today – apparently Coach Hudson is not a fan of easy long runs.  This one is like 3 workouts in one – fartlek, tempo, and long run.  Wish me luck – I’m going to need it.

Everyone in this picture, except me, is in Houston today for the trials. From left to right: Jordan Kinley (in Houston as Meagan's coach), Meagan Nedlo (Olympic Trials qualifier), Mark Hadley (coach), yours truly (Olympic Trials blogger), Caitlin Chrisman(Olympic Trials qualifier).

I don't have a picture of all of us together so Megan gets her own shot. I snapped this after the Myrtle Beach half when a bunch of us went to play mini-golf.

1996 

The last time one of my friends ran in the US Olympic Trials marathon, was in 1996.  I’m not sure how I found out – I hadn’t talked to him in years – but somehow I learned that one of my former UNC teammates, Chuck Lotz, had qualified for the trials in the marathon, which was being run in Charlotte.

At the time, I lived on McAlway Road, just off Randolph which covered some of the last, hilly, miles of the course.  If my memory serves me correctly, the race was televised live in those days (today the race is tape delayed).  I watched the race on TV until the runners neared Randolph, then I ran down McAlway to where it intersected with Randolph and waited.

Back then, having never run a marathon, I knew very little about the race.  All I knew was that Chuck must have run a pretty fast time to have qualified (I’ve since found out it was 2:19 – not too shabby).  I was a little self-conscious as the only person cheering along this stretch of road – I felt like the runners probably thought I was some kind of Olympian stalker.  Runner after runner came by and I halfheartedly cheered for each and every one of them until I finally spotted Chuck.  Then I screamed loudly for him by name and he looked over, apparently curious about the only cheering guy on Randolph Road.  Again, I felt self-conscious and thought Chuck must be thinking, “Who is that freak?”

But knowing what I know today, with 7 marathons under my belt, I’m pretty sure Chuck was grateful for that lone cheering section past mile 20 on the course.  I, and most marathoners I know, welcome any support during the latter stages of the race.

After Chuck passed, I raced (as much as I could for an out-of-shape guy who hadn’t run in years) back to my place and watched the finish of the race.  It was one of the most inspirational races I’ve ever seen.  Bob Kempainen ran arguably the gutsiest marathon of all time, pun-intended, as he threw up multiple times over the last few miles, and still held on for the victory (see video of him at about the 1-minute mark of this Nike ad).  I love this quote from Keith Brantley, who finished third, ”This guy is the toughest human being on the face of the earth.  I would have started crying and stopped.”

Chuck finished in 55th place.  But I was so stoked from seeing him and the other Olympic hopefuls, and especially from Kempainen’s amazing race (read about it here) that I started a little running comeback.  I remember running a few 5k’s, even picking up an age group award or two.  I often wonder if any of my current running friends ran any of those races.  I’ll have to go dig up the scrap book and see if I kept any newspaper clippings and/or some photo proofs – the internet hadn’t taken off yet so race results were only found in the newspaper and race photographers actually sent you physical 1-inch proofs that, if you liked, you could use to order the full-sized photos.

To this day, sometimes when I’m struggling through a marathon, when I just want to quit, I’ll reach deep down into the memory banks and picture Bob actually speeding up while vomiting, after mile 24.  If that’s not motivation, I don’t know what is.

2012

Fast forward to today.  Caitlin, Meagan, and Megan are running through the streets of Houston.  The odds of any of them making the Olympic team are pretty slim – they’re ranked 72nd, 152nd, and 183rd respectively – as only the top 3 head to the Olympics.  But they have a shot – they’re in the race and you never know when somebody might have the race of her life.  It’s worth noting that Megan finished 12th in the 2008 trials, so it’s not that much of a stretch to imagine her finishing 9 slots higher.

Regardless, I’m proud of each of them and I am excited to watch them on national television in a few hours!

Back to Allen’s Road to Boston

Okay, back to your regularly scheduled programming.  T-minus 14 weeks to go until Boston.  I’m using a Coach Brad Hudson plan, which is heavy on progression and fartlek runs, and incorporates a lot of hill sprints.  I’m still battling through the Achilles and stomach issues, but I’m back up to 30+ miles a week.

Boston is my Olympic Trials.  I may not PR, but I’m finally starting to feel optimistic that I’ll at least be fit enough to complete the Boston Marathon 14 weeks from now.  Man, it’s getting close!    I’m very curious to see what happens between now and then – I hope it includes some miraculous healing and some huge gains in fitness!  Stay tuned as we travel this road together!

Recently, 3 members of the Davidson Area Running Team – Todd Hartung, Chad Randolph, and Dave Munger – founded a timing company.  They decided to have a little test run, figuratively and literally, by setting up a timed run/race on New Year’s Day.  They dubbed it the Tightwad 5K and offered free spots in the race to the first 40 people to sign up.  I liked the entry fee and also felt that a race on New Year’s Day would help keep me in line on New Year’s Eve.  I was hoping to start 2012 without a hangover so I signed up.

As  anticipated, I had a subdued New Year’s Eve, watching the ball drop on TV and then hitting the sack by 12:30.  When the alarm went off at 7:00 on the first day of 2012, I fought the urge to shut it off and go back to sleep.  Eventually, I dragged myself up, grabbed some coffee, and started 2012 sober in running attire, much better than starting it off hung over in orange prison jumpers.

By 8:15, Nancy (along for moral support, sitting this one out) and I parked near the Davidson Green.  I made my way to the little registration table manned by Dave who handed me my bib, number 34.  I thought of George Lynch who donned this number and led Carolina, my alma mater,  to the 1993 national championship, as opposed to J.R. Reid who also wore 34 and led us to, well, nothing.

Compete like this guy, a National Champion...

...not like this guy, a champion of nothing, except maybe high-top fades.

I pinned my bib to my shorts and began jogging around to get warm on this chilly, temps in the mid 30′s, morning.  I hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile when I ran into Chad Randolph.  I briefly asked him about the course and then headed off to check it out.

Running down South Street towards the greenway, I spotted the little white directional signs that Chad and company had posted.  The course looked to be very well marked so that even directionally challenged knuckleheads like myself should have no problem finding their way.

Content that I wouldn’t get lost on this day, I headed back to the green.  I did a few little dynamic stretches to kill the last minutes before the race began.  Then it was time so Nancy and I made our way to the start.

Since this wasn’t an official race, traffic was not stopped, but this was not to be an issue on a lazy New Year’s Day morning on back streets of a tiny town.  We lined up at the start.  I looked around to surmise the competition.  Ubiquitous racer Bobby Aswell was there so I figured a win was not in the cards for me – maybe on my best day if Bobby had a bad day, but I was nowhere near my best.  A young guy next to me introduced himself as Chaz (Chas?  He’s Charles on Facebook) and pointed out that he and I were virtual twins, wearing the same DART singlet and green Brooks Pureflows (I had bought mine from Emily Hansen on Friday, utilizing some Omega cash cards that would have expired on 12/31).  I ran in these for the first time 2 days earlier and loved them and thought I’d give them a race day christening.  I spotted another young, fit guy, wearing a Reckless Running singlet, so I made a mental note to keep an eye on him too.

Lining up at the start of the inaugural DART Tightwad 5K. That's me in the white singlet and black compression socks.

Chad and Todd (who gave me much grief for not mentioning in my last blog post how he destroyed me in that race so I’m giving him the props here) gave us a few last minute instructions, including “this is a run, not a race” which Chad’s kid, a boy of 7 or 8, reiterated to the crowd.  Sorry kid, if there’s a bib and a timing chip, it’s a race.  Todd counted down and then gave the signal and we jetted out.

For the second race in a row, someone wearing a Reckless Running singlet shot to the front.  I briefly, very briefly, entertained the thought of going with him, but quickly thought better of it.  Chaz had mentioned that he’d be happy going under 20 minutes so I just tucked in behind him.  We cruised comfortably as the first mile is straight down hill.  I glanced at my Garmin 310XT and it was a garbled mess.  Uh-oh.  I was running on feel which is bad because my feel always seems to lie to me.

When we made the left turn onto the greenway, I was in 4th place, behind Reckless Running, Bobby, who had passed me about a quarter mile in, and Chaz.  At the 1 mile mark, my piece of crap 310 beeped, and I glanced at it.  Still scrambled hieroglyphics, but I was able to make out that the split ended in a warped “09″.  I knew we were going much faster than 7:09 and much slower than 5:09, so my Sherlock-Holmes-like powers of reasoning led me to deduce that I had just run a 6:09 first mile.  Oops, too fast.  As I like to say, “My eyes were faster than my legs”  but this time, I’m going to heap at least some of the blame on the failing Garmin.

I was a little miffed for going out too fast, yet again.  Reckless and Bobby were dueling for the lead and Chaz was in the process of dropping me.  I was content to settle into fourth when a youngish girl, guessing in her twenties, passed me on the greenway.  As usual of late, my fitness level and bum Achilles were already beginning to betray me.  I began slowing down and started worrying about holding people off behind me instead of trying to catch people in front of me.

When we reached the first incline of any note, the girl ahead put her hands on her hips.  The drill sergeant in my head screamed at me, “What is your major malfunction Strickland?!?  Really, you can’t catch a girl who’s struggling up hills so much that she has to put her hands on her hips?!  Quit pussyfooting around and catch her!!”   The logical professor in my head, at least given birth partially by my smarter running buddies, people like Nathan Stanford and Meagan Nedlo, said, “Don’t listen to him.  Calm down.  Treat this like a tempo and don’t worry about place.  Just put forth a solid effort without killing yourself.  The fitness will come later as you train for Boston.  Relax.”  Let the inner struggle ensue.

Nearing the turnaround. With my right hand, I'm either waving at the photographer or doing a Triumph the Insult Comic Dog impression.

I would gain a little ground on the girl on the uphills, but she’d wipe out my gains on the downs.  I could  hear footsteps behind me just past the turnaround, but when I could no longer hear them, I eased up a bit.  Again, my second and third mile splits were so slow that I’m too embarrassed to reveal them here.  You can do the math if you really want to know.  Let’s just say that they were significantly slower than my half marathon pace from last February.  Pretty sad, but hey, again, I’m just thankful to be out there at all.  For now.

The last mile and a half were pretty rolling, not easy, terrain, excellent for training.  I did my best to gut it out and for the third 5K in a row, I finished right around 21:00, a 21:07 to be exact.  Nancy snapped this photo.  I like it since it almost makes me look like a runner.

I look almost like a real runner here, you know if you ignore the fact that Bobby, in the background, has been done for 2 minutes.

A cool picture of Bobby getting the win. I later found out that Reckless Running guy was Jeremy Alsop.

Bobby squeaked out the win over Reckless Running, who I found out later was Jeremy Alsop, a guy I snuck past in the China Grove 5K, which seems like another lifetime ago.  The girl who finished fourth and won the women’s race was Julie Alsop, I assume Jeremy’s wife.  They came tantalizingly close to getting the couple’s New Year’s Day sweep, ala Ben and Megan Hovis in the Rural Hill 8K.

I’m still beating myself up and licking my wounds and thinking things like “I should of been in the mix”.  But hey, what can you expect on 25 miles a week?  All I can do is keep working, up the mileage gradually, and always remember to keep my eye on the big prize, Boston. On the plus side, I can honestly say that I’ve finished in the top 5 of every race I’ve run in 2012.  I’ll take it.  Results are posted here.

I need you, my friends out there, to remind me not to overdo it.  The plan is to use these races as tempo runs as I try to rebuild my fitness in time for the race.  Thanks, and I’ll see you on the roads and trails!

Throughout my history of running, I’ve always gotten into shape, or gotten back into shape as the case might be, by racing.  And I hope I still can.  So with Christmas rapidly approaching, I began searching the Internets (Dub spelling) to find a little race.  I discovered the Mount Mourne Christmas Elf 5K was scheduled for Christmas Eve.  In nearby Mooresville, flat, fast, and fun, this race was perfect, precisely what I was looking for.

I talked Nancy into running it with me and on the drive over, I started convincing myself that a Christmas miracle was not impossible – I had an outside shot of winning this thing.  Granted, I would have to run significantly faster than I did at the West Virginia race a week earlier, and I’d need some help from some of my fast friends – namely, they’d need to stay home, but both of these things were possible.  At Runners’ Lunch the day before, not a soul mentioned this race.  So I was pretty sure that super-fast John Compton wouldn’t be there.  Neither would Kevin “The Gypsy Kid” Ballantine.  No Théoden either, who had run this race with me 2 years ago.  So you’re telling me there’s a chance.

We arrived a little after 8:00 for a race that was set to start at 9:00, I parked, and we made our way into the fire department to register and stay warm on this chilly morning.  5 seconds after entering the building, I spotted this guy, and any dream of winning instantly crashed and burned:

Fam, the guy in the USA singlet, was in Mooresville to run the Mt. Mourne Christmas Elf 5K.

In case you're not following me yet, here's another pic from the 2008 Olympics where Fam is leading, you heard me, LEADING, the Steeplechase Final.

That’s right, Fam, Anthony Famiglietti, came to Mooresville,  NC to run the Mt. Mourne 5K.  And yes, these pictures are from the 2008 Olympic games.  This is the equivalent of showing up to play a little basketball tournament with your okay local rec league team only to find out that Kobe Bryant is playing for the other team. Unless some Kenyans showed up, this race would be for second place.  Seriously, if Galen Rupp showed up looking for an easy win, he might see Anthony and think, “Sh*t, what’s Fam doing here?”

I looked around some  more and spotted Bobby Aswell.  Okay, so maybe I could get 3rd.  Then I saw Brian McMahon.  Alright, I’m okay with 4th.  Then Jim McKeon.  Fifth?  Then Stan.  I quit counting.  Let’s just put in a decent effort, shall we?

Nancy and I ran a little warm-up and then it was go time.  We all lined up in front of the fire department, between fire trucks, as the race director gave us a few last minute instructions.  I couldn’t hear him.  I heard Fam ask a few guys about the course and I heard Jim Crotts tell him that the course had changed.  Then I heard “Go!” and we were off.

After the race, BMac told Stan and I, “I thought I’d try to go out with him [Fam] for a bit, like maybe 100 meters or so.  I couldn’t keep up with him for 2 steps.  He was gone.”

I felt fine initially so I ran exactly like I did back when I was in shape.  I tucked in behind Stan for a little bit until I reminded myself that I was not fit and I had better back off.  We passed the road where 2 years ago we had turned left.  “Ah, so this is where the course has changed”, I thought to myself, following the crowd.  My Garmin beeped at 1 mile, “6:13″.  Uh-oh, a bit fast, but I resisted the urge to panic.

Seconds later, Fam was coming back toward me with an already insurmountable lead.  The rest of us were headed up a hill where a firetruck waited at the apex.  Something seemed amiss and while the crowd of runners turned around in front of the firetruck, Jim McKeon went straight past the truck.  What the?  I thought maybe he knew something the rest of us didn’t and that perhaps I should follow him, but we were getting too far out,  much farther and we’d be running more than a 5K.  I decided to make like a lemming and go with the masses.

Shortly thereafter, we turned right.  I started feeling a little iffy, sucking wind a tad too hard.  Second split, 6:35.  Hang on, Allen, hang on!

Then it hit me.  Hard.  Like so many times in the past, I had overestimated my abilities, the running equivalent of Icarus – I flew too close to the sun and my wax wings started melting.  The guys I used to beat regularly started blowing by me, one by one, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.  Jim Crotts, Richard Hefner, Chad Randolph.  Richard attempted to encourage me when he called out, “Come on Allen, let’s go!”  But I didn’t have enough energy to even respond.  I tried to acknowledge him with a wave.

Chad came by and asked, “How’s the leg?” and I managed to answer, “The leg’s fine, but I’ve got nothing aerobically.  I’m done.”  I tried to just finish with a decent effort.  I think every DART runner had passed me by this point.  I’m pretty sure every Charlotte Running Club runner had too.

When my watch beeped at me to signal the third mile split, I looked at it with disgust – it was so slow that I’m too embarrassed to post it here.  Let’s just say that I ran a 2 mile tempo and started my cool-down early.  Then I noticed that we had significantly more than .11 of a mile left.  There had been a mistake somewhere.

I slogged it in, allowing one last effort to maintain some tiny shred of pride when the women’s leader passed me with about 100 meters to go.  Insert curse words here.  I picked it up enough to pass her back at the line.  Sad, I know.

I nearly pooped a brick when I looked up at the clock and saw 22:58.  I knew things were bad, but 23-minutes bad?!?  It actually turns out that we had run an additional 3-tenths of a mile or so – we all should have made that left but the cop car in front had led Fam, and subsequently the rest of us, off course.  I came through the 5K in a time nearly identical to that of my West Virginia race.  Slow, but not 22:58 slow.  My friend Mark Ulrich, in my 5k wheelhouse, shows up to a small-town 5K and wins and sets the course record.  I show up to a small-town 5K and Olympians are there and I finish 27th.

Later that day someone posted this pic on the Davidson Area Running Team page on Facebook and I made the comment that becomes the caption here:

My final Jeopardy answer is "Who are 5 guys that beat me today?"

Afterward, I ran a pleasant little cool-down with BMac and Stan.  Stan is the only person I know who has experienced this same abdominal injury that I’m currently working through.  When he explained his symptoms, they sounded identical to mine.  He told me that his just mysteriously went away after about 3 months so I’m holding out hope that mine will too.  In the meantime, I’ll do some planks and maybe crunches to see if I can’t speed things along.

I was a little down on myself after the race.  But then a random guy stopped me and said, “Hey, are you Allen?”  When I responded affirmatively, he asked, “Allen’s road to Boston?”  After I answered yes again, he proceeded to tell his buddy how great/funny my blog is and then he recited a few of the humorous bits from the last post.  That was kinda cool and helped lift my spirits a little.  I didn’t think anyone other than friends and family read this thing.

I needed to get out of there in order to make it to the Panthers game on time.  I had gotten tickets (thanks to pal Scott Helms!) and was taking my dad as an early Christmas/birthday present (he was born the day after Christmas), but a quick perusal of the results showed that Nancy was due an age-group award (me, not so much), in her first ever 5K no less.

I have slipped quite a few rungs down the fitness ladder – it’s going to take me some time to climb back up.  But hey, at least I’m able to run at all, something that was not guaranteed a couple of months ago.  And there was a great post-race spread, complete with banana bread, Biscuitville biscuits (one of which I tried to down post-race, before my stomach was ready – bad idea), Chex party mix, and candy bars.  This race reminds me of China Grove – a small, fast race, with a great post-race lay out.  The crowds will only get bigger.  Maybe someday someone will finish within 3 minutes of Fam.  Nancy got her trophy and we hightailed it out of there.  I rushed home, showered, shot over and picked up my dad, my brother-in-law, and 3 of my nephews, and we made it to the stadium just in time to watch the Panthers roll the Bucs in convincing fashion, 48-16.  The day finished well.

2011 Review

2011 was a microcosm of my running life, with me facing some low lows but also relishing in some high highs.

The lows – I struggled with injuries through the last quarter of the year.  But let’s forget about the lows.

The highs – the highlight, of course, was registering for, and getting accepted into, the 2012 Boston Marathon.  Other highlights include a 10K PR of 39:54 at Cooper River and a half marathon PR of 1:29:08 at Myrtle Beach.  I ran a master’s PR in the 5K when I ran an 18:58 at the Bunny Run 5K back in April.  I added 4 more states to my quest to run a road race in every state in America – Georgia, New Mexico, West Virginia, and Oregon.  I competed in 3 huge American spectacle races – Cooper River, Peachtree, and Hood to Coast.  I got back on the track by racing in a few of the open meets at Myers Park High School – that was a ton of fun.

I had a great 2011 and I’m looking forward to an even greater 2012 with plans to run in the Boston and New York marathons.  See you next year!

West Virginia

This one came about unexpectedly, at an odd time.  Back in October, Nancy, she-of-the-lead-foot, received a speeding ticket while driving through West Virginia.  In order to avoid points against her license and higher insurance rates, she signed up to take a safe driving class.  This required her to return to West Virginia.  She didn’t want to go alone so invited me along for the ride.  I seized upon the opportunity to knock out another state in my ongoing side quest to run a road race in every state.

I did some research and this was the only road race nearby.  The Winter Series 5K it was.

Friday

Friday afternoon, we loaded up the car and hit I-77N, which some have rudely dubbed “The Hillbilly Highway” for its direct route to West Virginia, nicknamed The Mountain State, a rather ominous name for a place where you’re about to run a road race.

In a few hours, we arrived in Charleston shortly after sunset.  The road we came in on was lined with refineries, creating a surreal, apocalyptic vision as fire and steam shot out of huge towers.  It was pretty ominous – I felt more like I was entering Mordor than a city in the U.S.

This is what the industrial section of Charleston, WV looks like.

But moments later we pulled into the parking lot of the Wingate.  Nancy had gotten a pretty sweet deal on Priceline at this decent hotel within walking distance of the courthouse where she’d take her class and only a few miles from the start of my race.

We checked in and then set out in search of food.  I quickly downloaded the Urban Spoon app on my phone – this app alone has single handedly improved the quality of my life.  Back in the pre-smartphone days, I would either eat at a spot within walking distance of my hotel, or I would ask a hotel worker for recommendations then spend hours getting lost as I drove around in search of their recommended restaurant.  Now I can just pull up Urban Spoon and check out nearby restaurants.  And that’s what I did.

Nancy and I decided to try a nearby Korean restaurant.  But when we neared it, a guy wearing tattered clothes and a do-rag and carrying a 12-pack, stumbled by.  I took this as a bad omen and decided to try elsewhere.  We finally settled on a nearby Mexican restaurant where the waiter, with a heavy accent, asked me if I wanted a “tall” beer and gestured the size by holding his hands vertically apart from each other, by about a foot and a half.  I answered, “No, small.  Short.”  with a gesture of my own, signing a small mug of about 5 inches high.  The waiter returned with a gargantuan Dos Equis, seriously, about the size of a pitcher, at least 3 beers big.  But yeah, I didn’t correct him.

Saturday

The next morning, Nancy headed out for her scheduled 2+ hour class while I hit the free breakfast buffet in the lobby.  I was excited about having down time with just me, my Kindle, and some freshly-made waffles.  I was stoked when I discovered I was the only person in the lobby.  Right up until the moment when an obese family of 4 showed up.  Things were still good when they parked their over-a-ton-of-cellulite-butts at the table on the other side of the lobby from me.  But then the youngest member, a rollie-pollie kid of 4 or so, screamed, “No!  I don’t wanna sit here!  I wanna sit there!” and pointed to the table directly adjacent to me.  Fork me.  And because modern American families cannot say no to their kids for some reason, the entire family relocated to mere feet away from me, and hijinks ensued.

The family got their food and plopped down and I could forget about any peaceful reading as the kids were as loud as they were ravenous.  The youngest made return trip after return trip to the buffet, making sure to finger each and every item on the buffet.  After one such trip, he returned with an English muffin, took a bite, and started wailing.  “Something’s wrong with my doughnut!” he screamed between tears.  His father, outraged, like the kid was biting into poison, yelled, “Throw that thing away and go get a doughnut!”  He then forced the boy’s older brother to accompany him back to the buffet where he could find a proper doughnut.  I am not making this up.

While my breakfast time was being ruined, Nancy was taking her driving safety course.  Apparently, West Virgina’s driver safety course consists entirely of watching this video.  She was back at the hotel before I finished breakfast.

Now we had time to kill until that night’s UFC that we were both looking forward to watching.  We stopped by the front desk and asked about local attractions.  The girl at the desk gave us a little notebook with local attractions so we perused the list before finally settling on the West Virginia State Museum.

A few minutes later, we were walking through the history of West Virginia.  Nancy snapped this photo of me out front:

I attempted to imitate the miner's pose, but instead wound up looking like I was doing Aaron Rodger's touchdown dance, or as Mary and Sarah know it, "The Discount Doublecheck".

The museum was laid  out as a timeline of West Virginia history.  I found it fascinating that apparently nothing occurred in the state between 1960 and 1977.  (I later found that the timeline sort of detoured off for those years.  It almost seemed like the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam war, and the like, were dirty little secrets to be hidden off the main museum timeline.)

After the state museum, it was time to eat.  I broke out Urban Spoon again and found the Bluegrass Kitchen within walking distance.  The name scared me a little – maybe it conjured up one image too many of the Grand Ol’ Opry.  I imagined a floor covered with straw and a Minnie Pearl look-alike waitress welcoming us with a “Howdy y’all!”  But the menu looked good and it was nearby so we gave it a shot and I was glad we did.  It was actually a hipster joint and our waiter was about as different from Minnie Pearl as a human being could possibly get – he was a thin, 6′ 5″ black dude, tattoo-laden, with a giant bushy fro.  I had “The Perfect Chicken” sandwich and it very nearly lived up to its name.

All that was left on our Saturday agenda was UFC.  Again, the smartphone improved my life by letting me know that there was a Buffalo Wild Wings nearby showing the fight.  I panicked a little when we first entered and 99% of the TV’s had the West Virginia/Miami basketball game on (only 2 geographic locations in the world cared about this game and we were in one of them), while the prelim fights were only being shown on 1 little TV off to the side of the bar.  But as soon as the game ended, the staff put the fights on all the main televisions.  This UFC event proved to be one of the best ever as *SPOILER ALERT* Frank Mir broke Big Nog’s arm and Bone Jones helped Machida take a little nap.  I minimized my beer consumption since I would be “racing” the next day.

Sunday

The race wasn’t until 2:00 that afternoon so we leisurely killed time at the hotel breakfast buffet, luckily sans the anti-English-muffin family.  Around noon or so, we headed towards the site of the race start, the CAMC (Charleston Area Medical Center).

On the drive over, Nancy asked the question I should have thought of the day before, “Where at the hospital is the start?  Hospitals can be big places.”  I didn’t know the answer but thought that it would be obvious once we arrived.  I was wrong.

I pulled into the hospital and could see no signs of a road race.  We drove into the visitors parking deck where I asked the lady lot attendant something like , “Hey, do you know where this road race starts?”  She had no idea and had heard nothing about any road race.  But she kindly let me park in a reserved section.

We had plenty of time before the race started so I wasn’t panicking.  Yet.  We walked into the hospital and looked around.  Nothing about a road race anywhere.  I picked up a phone labelled “Information” and asked the  lady on the other end.  She knew nothing either.  By now, it was nearing 1:00 and a tiny feeling of panic began to creep into my psyche.  I was so close – I didn’t want to miss out now.  It would make for a long drive home if I had gone all the way to West Virginia to run a race and then didn’t because I couldn’t find the start.

We walked back outside where I spotted a couple of girls in running attire.  “Hey, are you here to run the 5K?”  They were, but they weren’t sure where it started either.  But one of the girls said, “I read something about the start being at the WVU building” and she knew where the WVU building was, so I just followed  her.

Sure enough, volunteers were set up in the WVU building.  Whew, finally, I could relax.  I walked up to the desk and registered and paid the lady and she said, “Okay, you’re all set.” “Um, do we get a packet?  Do we get a bib or a chip or anything?” I asked.  “Nope”, she replied.  “When you cross the line, they’ll hand you a popsicle stick with your finishing position written on it.”  “Ah, we’re going old school!” I said, although I can never remember running in a race where you didn’t at least get a bib, dating as far back as 1982.  No t-shirt, no timing chip, no bib, nothing.  I did eventually get a blinkie light, which is something at least.  It’ll come in handy on some night run somewhere.

I went for a little warm-up and scoped out the course – flat, fast, out and back.  I regretted not being in shape because this was a PR course on a PR day with the temperature in the low 40′s without a hint of wind.  The Achilles seemed to be holding up okay but I was surprised at how nervous I felt for a silly little race.  I had no expectations and intended only to put forth a tempo-like effort.  I thought I’d try to maintain 7:00 pace.  I felt like a sub-22:00 would be acceptable but I really had no idea how fast I could go as I’d done no speed work whatsoever in months.

Finally, race time was upon us.  Nancy snapped this photo of me at the starting line:

Toeing the line in WV. That's me in the beanie, sunglasses, and arm sleeves. Check out the girl in front - the stripe on her sleeve runs exactly parallel to the stripes on my singlet - weird.

After a few opening remarks from the race director, he then counted down to the start and we were off.  I made the usual concerted effort to throttle back,  more important today than ever as I was in no kind of shape to maintain a fast pace.  I tried to just relax and settle in at a sub-7 pace.  As usual, I was substantially faster at first.  I glanced at my watch and noticed I was cranking out sub-6 pace so I forced myself to back off.

I settled in and got as comfortable as possible.  I think I did better than usual at ignoring folks that passed me – I had to.  Going the least bit too fast could mean a ridiculous crash and burn.

I didn’t feel the Achilles at all for the first mile which my Garmin told me I ran in 6:31, a little faster than I expected, but then again, when have I ever run the first mile in a 5K slower than I expected?  I slowed down.

Nearing the turnaround, I got a good look at the leader.  He was cruising, looked legit, and had a very commanding lead.  Second place looked to be struggling.

I was surprised at how comfortable I felt, even passing a few folks.  But by mile 2, I was in no man’s land.  Barring a super human burst of speed or a complete implosion, I was finishing in this spot.  I ran mile 2 in 6:53, a little disappointing after the fast first mile.  I concentrated on speeding up a little for the last mile, but not so much that self-destruction was imminent.

As I neared the finish line, I saw the clock approaching 21:00.  I knew I could break 21:00 with a little burst of speed, but I didn’t want to sprint and hurt something.  I picked it up just enough to finish in 20:56.  Nancy snapped this photo as I was finishing:

On the verge of adding West Virginia to the list of states where I've run a road race.

20:56 was my slowest 5K of the year, and my first one over 20.  And yet I was pleased.  It proved to me that I can run some tempos as part of my training for Boston.  I’ve been running right at 16 miles a week for the past few weeks.  I plan to get over 20 this week, hopefully around 30 next week, and then start “normal” marathon training the week after that.  I will have to continue to work through these injuries (I have some weird ab issue that hurts worse than the Achilles at the moment), but at least this race proves that I can start incorporating a little speed work into my training.  Optimism.

Allen’s road back ran through West Virginia.   My journey continues.  Make sure to say “Hello” when you see me out there on the road to Boston.

3 of my 4 nephews. From left to right: Ike, Eli (who scored 4 touchdowns the Saturday before Thanksgiving - 4!!), and Abe. Seth, the youngest, is not pictured here. Don't know who the photo-bombing kid in the background is.

Wednesday morning, Thanksgiving Eve, I awoke with the all-too-familiar tickle in the throat and the accompanying, dreaded cough.  Man, what happened to my immune system which by now has become virtually non-existent?   I had not joined my friend Ed the day before as he received his free flu shot at work.  Had I, I would have most likely joined the many conspiracy theory believers who claim the flu shot actually makes you ill.  Regardless, I had a long day ahead of me with 6 or 7 hours of work to do, followed by a 6+ hour drive to my sister’s family’s home in Alabama.  I broke up my usual morning routine by downing a couple of ibuprofen with my coffee.

At work, far from being the touchy-feely type, my boss’ boss attempted to avoid being labelled Ebenezer by calling me and telling me to leave work early.  “Thanks for the call, but I’m way ahead of you”, I thought to myself.  I rushed through the tasks I needed to accomplish, making them my primary action items, coughing and hacking all the way.  With each tick of the clock, I felt a little worse and my temperature edged upward.  By 1:00, I had completed all the tasks I had set out to do so, with a forehead hot enough to fry eggs on, and with a $9 pecan pie in hand, I jumped in my car, hit I-85, and headed south.

The next 6.5 hour trip was more fever-dream than drive.  I neared Atlanta at rush hour on the busiest travel day of the year, but fortunately the I-285 expressway around the city was running relatively smoothly.  NPR kept me company.  With about an hour left to drive before I reached my destination, as I scanned through radio stations, I stumbled upon an episode of This American Life about the Penn State scandal.  Within 5 minutes, of course, the story turned to static, just as I was becoming deeply engrossed.  Desperate to hear the entire story, I frantically tried to download the This American Life app to my phone, with no success.  For future reference, don’t try to download phone apps when you have a fever and you’re driving 80 miles an hour down a busy interstate – not a particularly good idea.  I think I’d have been better off doing tequila shots – maybe they would have killed this bug that my immune system was doing such a poor job of battling.

I didn’t hear much of the Penn State story, but I somehow managed to survive long enough to arrive at my sister Sherry’s house in Ashland, Alabama.  I survived yet another potentially fatal event when the family dog, Socks, a huge boxer with zero body fat, initially mistook me for an intruder, ferociously barked and growled , and then menacingly sprinted towards me.  But when he noticed that no one else seemed the least bit concerned about my entrance, he paused for a moment, looking back at his family as if  to say, “Oh, my bad.  Is this guy cool?”  Then, joyfully wagging his tail, he nearly fractured my ribs when he pounced on me, his mortal-enemy-instantly-turned-new-best-friend.

For the next few hours, I fought an overwhelming urge to sleep and instead stayed up, watching basketball with my brother-in-law and dad.  Eventually I lost the battle with fatigue and politely excused myself, retiring for the evening to one of my four nephews’ bedrooms, now converted to a guest room for me.  I passed out hard for about an hour before waking up in a pool of perspiration.  I spent the next 6 or 7 hours alternating between chills and sweaty bouts with overheating.

Thursday, Thanksgiving, or as it’s better known in Alabama, “2 days before the Iron Bowl”, I transferred from the bed to the couch and basically reclined there all day.  I had registered for a little Turkey Trot 10K in nearby Anniston, but I knew some 14-16 hours earlier that I wasn’t going to be there.  Just like Savannah, while I thought it would be the Achilles that derailed me, it was instead some insidious little virus.  Another race not meant to be.  So my $13 entry fee became a $13 donation to the Anniston Runners Club.  I’m going to email the race director later and see if thirteen bucks buy me an honorary membership.

But luckily, throughout the ordeal, I never lost my appetite, and that, of course, is the one thing that you really don’t want to lose on Thanksgiving.  I was able to acquire a Z-pac and only a few hours after taking the first dose, I started feeling better.  I, along with everybody else (after 4-year-old Seth’s “God is good.  God is, um, AMEN!” blessing), chowed down on typical Thanksgiving fare – turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, broccoli casserole, etc.  I had a couple of pieces of pie afterward, and I spent the rest of the day in post-feast, semi-comatose, slightly-feverish, football-watching bliss.

Friday, I woke up and, while not quite 100 per cent, I felt so much better than I had the last couple of days.  The family decided to head out to a nearby metropolis (Lineville?  Anniston?) to do some Black Friday shopping.  I wanted no part of that.  Instead, I lounged around, dividing my day between watching a  I Shouldn’t Be Alive marathon (where I spent a lot of time yelling “How could you be so stupid?!” at the various survivors who invariably put themselves in life-threatening situations by making some spectacularly bone-headed decisions) and reading my latest book club assignment, Cutting For Stone.  When the gang got back, there was more lounging and sports-watching.

Saturday, I thought about hanging around long enough to watch the Iron Bowl, the grand battle between the state’s 2 football powerhouses, Alabama and Auburn.  But I was also anxious to be on the road while the rest of the world wasn’t, so I decided to head back early.  That morning, I was able to successfully install the This American Life app on my phone.  I shared my thanks and good-byes with the family, and I loaded up and headed towards home.

During the ride back, I listened to the This American Life Penn State story, and several others for that matter.  That app is the greatest thing ever for making a long drive go by quickly.  The drive home was a flash compared to the ride down.

Back home, I get to reflect upon the things that I am thankful for, and there are many.  This week’s big winners are family, football, food,  antibiotics, and This American Life.  As soon as I get healthy, I’ll once again be thankful for good health and the ability to run – I hope I can be thankful for these 2 things very soon!

In case you were wondering, I’m still not running regularly.  I’m trying to remain optimistic though.  This past week I was struck by how much my social life revolves around running even while I’m not running.  Here’s how the week went.

You may recall that I ran last Saturday and Sunday.  As has been typical, the Achilles (both of them) were not pleased with this – I woke up limping on Monday.  Running was simply not going to happen on Monday, so I hit the by now all too familiar stationary bike at the Y.  Ditto on Tuesday.  Wednesday, I tried to jog on the treadmill but the pain was significant enough that I decided against it – I cranked up the incline and walked briskly instead.  Thursday, more stationary bike.

Friday, I dilly-dallied around the condo until time to meet the Runners’ Lunch crew at Fuel Pizza uptown.  We had quite a crowd since many of the gang took this opportunity to spend time with running friends before shooting over to the Thunder Road expo, directly across the street at the Convention Center.  I was pretty quiet as I stuffed my face with pizza while Kevin recounted the story of his New York marathon.  I listened intently, partly because I was very interested in hearing what happened during Kevin’s race, and partly because I plan to run it next year.  Kevin and Scott (Helms) both ran it this year, but Scott’s finish stole the show – see it here (on the right of the screen, click on the thumbnail entitled “finish center right”.  Watch for Scott in the red Charlotte Running Club singlet and the dark visor).

After Runners’ Lunch, much of the gang and I hit the expo.  The plan was to help out at the Charlotte Running Club booth and occasionally sneak away to check out all the cool stuff the expo had to offer, stuff like Todd Mayes’ booth introducing his new line of Alot Sports clothing.  I grabbed a free 5-hour Energy shot, chugged it, and was wired for hours.  Who needs sleep anyway?

I got to chat with quite a few of my friends and Charlotte-area runners including, but not limited to, Michael Kahn, Caitlin Chrisman, Aaron Linz, Steve Spada, Emily Barrett, Larry Seavers, Matt Rich, Scott Helms, etc.  Kahn snapped this photo of me with my friend, co-worker, and Kahn protegé, PJ Smith who was all set to run his first half marathon at Thunder Road:

PJ finally escaped the pager long enough to go to the expo.

Kahn was running around shooting this video, which captured quite a few of the cooler expo moments, including an impromptu autograph session with Charlotte’s own, now apparently famous, Billy Shue.  Look for my cameos throughout the video – I’m wearing the red short-sleeved Charlotte Running Club t-shirt.

But the highlight of my week, without a doubt, was meeting Dick Beardsley.  Kahn has known him for a while so he introduced us.  Dick’s an affable guy and quite a talker – I listened intently and was mesmerized by his many stories of elite running in the 80′s.  Dick took the immortal Alberto Salazar to the wire in the 1982 Boston Marathon which, to this day, is the greatest marathon finish I’ve ever seen.  If you haven’t read the book Duel in the Sun, you really must – it’s a phenomenal read, especially if you’ve ever run a marathon.  I wish I had a “real” copy of the book – I couldn’t very well have Dick sign my Kindle.  But I grabbed a Charlotte Running Club card and had Dick sign that.  Here’s photographic evidence:

I meant to have Dick sign my Boston Confirmation of Acceptance card, but I left it in my car. This Charlotte Running Club card worked in a pinch..

Later that night, at the pasta dinner where Dick was the featured speaker, I got choked up watching a 9-minute video of the ’82 Boston finish, spectacularly dramatic even 29 years later when I knew the outcome.  I was fighting off tears and readying myself with excuses like “I got something in my eye” lest any of the present jokers, Scott, Kahn, Stan, or Caleb caught me getting emotional.  I managed to hide all evidence of tears by the time the lights were brought back up.

After the video, Dick gave a very inspirational speech.  And even though I paid $40 while everyone else got in for free (the Charlotte Running Club was offered 40 free last-minute spots to the dinner), I didn’t regret paying at all – the speech was well worth every cent.  I’d pay another $40 to hear him give the exact same speech tonight.

And while Dick’s speech left me fired up and anxious to run again, I’m still proceeding cautiously with my 2 or 3 runs a week.  I bought some recovery compression socks at the new Lake Norman Charlotte Running Company and I’ve been wearing them a  lot in hopes of speeding up the healing process.  The left Achilles is still “iffy” and the right one hurts as well, but I remain optimistic that this down-time will end soon.  I think I’ll  jump in this little race in Alabama on Thanksgiving to keep my streak of running a race on Thanksgiving alive (number 4 and counting), but don’t look for me to win, or even PR.  I’ll just stroll along and burn a few calories so I can stave off weight gain during the feast later in the day.

So while I’m barely running at all, I keep hanging out with my running pals and surrounding myself with running inspiration.  Hopefully, this will help keep me motivated and working through this highly annoying Achilles issue.  If anybody is going to be in Anniston, Alabama on Thanksgiving day, let me know and maybe we can jog the Plucked Turkey 10K together.

Dedicating this post to Jerry. Thanks for all you did for runners, Jerry. We'll miss you, buddy.

While many of my running pals near the Verrazano bridge, I’m sitting here with a bunch of aches and pains, coughs and wheezes.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was 85, not 45.

Back in February, I was all set to run New York today with my pals.  Caitlin paced me to a 1:29 half marathon at Myrtle Beach, fast enough to qualify for the New York marathon.  But I wouldn’t be running  in New York just yet – fate had other plans for me.  I discovered later that you had to run your qualifying time before January 31 in order to run this year’s race.  D’oh!  So I registered for the Savannah Rock and Roll marathon instead.

I ran through the spring with no formal, specific training plan and things were going well.  I ran my master’s PR in the 5k, an 18:58.  Then I broke 40:00 in the 10K for the first time.  Depending on what race time you entered, the McMillan Running Calculator predicted a marathon time for me of somewhere between 3:04 and 3:10.  Nathan wrote a training plan for me and I was excited about heading to Savannah and shooting for a huge PR.

But somewhere between the spring and summer, things began to go awry.  My left Achilles started bothering me.  Some lower abdominal pain crept up (psoas? It’s excruciating when I cough or sneeze.)  My race times started slipping downwards.  By late summer, the pain continued to worsen.  Then I ran a series of long, grueling races – Hood to Coast, Blue Ridge, and Salem Lake.  By the end of Salem Lake, I was hobbled.  A week later, I limped through the LungStrong 15K just to keep the streak of consecutive years alive (4, at this point).

After Salem Lake, it became apparent that I wouldn’t be running a marathon in 2011.  I’m down to one or two runs of 3-5 miles a week with stationary bike rides the rest of the week.  I’ve been reduced to vicariously enjoying the marathons of my friends.  I got text updates from the St. Louis marathon as I followed Dean (who missed qualifying for Boston by the narrowest of margins, 1 minute!)  I planned on heading down to Savannah to cheer everyone on but an unexpected cold (what is wrong with my immune system?!) halted those plans so that I could only follow everyone from afar.  And today, I’ll be watching New York results from my condo in Cornelius (with a taped delay viewing on NBC later in the afternoon).  Sigh.

Moral of the story – never take running, or life for that matter,  for granted.  In the past, I’ve spent so much time being frustrated when the rival du jour beat me by a few seconds instead of just enjoying the fact that I could race at all.  I vow to never take running for granted again – I plan to enjoy every step.  I want to follow the wisdom I once heard, I think from Benny Hill, yes British comedian Benny Hill: “Live every day as if it were your last because one day you’ll be right”.  On Wednesday, running friend Jerry Friesen passed away suddenly during a little run in his  neighborhood.  You never know which run will be your last, so enjoy them all.

The Achilles still hurts (now the right one has flared up too – what the?!)  The abdomen (psoas?) still hurts.  But I can run – these pains are manageable.  I ran a little 5-mile training run yesterday and the pain was minimal.  I need to start upping the mileage again soon if I have any hopes of running Boston in 5 months or so.  And if I’m ambulatory at all, I will finish Boston, even if I have to crawl ala Sian Welch and Wendy Ingraham in the 1997 Ironman.  I plan to enjoy each and every step along my road to Boston.  See you there in April.

Achilles tendon illustration from achillestendon.com

I haven’t run a step since last Sunday when I jogged a gimpy 3.5 miles.  Wait, I take that back – I ran a quarter of a mile yesterday before the throbbing pain in the left Achilles told me that running was a bad idea.

I started a little hobbling jog around the Davidson football practice field, the well-manicured grass offering a nice, spongy-yet-flat, forgiving surface.  But 1 lap around, pain ensued, and I knew it wasn’t happening.

Now is not the time to press the issue.  I’ve already conceded the Savannah Marathon.  My singular focus is now on Boston 2012.  I cannot risk jeopardizing the Boston Marathon – I’ve worked too hard for too long to blow it now.

Instead of running, I’ve been riding the stationary bike, more to burn calories and prevent weight gain than anything else.  I tried the elliptical machine for a while, but that seems to exacerbate the achilles pain nearly as much as running does.  Maybe the stationary bike will help me maintain some modicum of fitness until I can start running again.  At our weekly runners’ lunch on Friday, Kevin showed what an understanding, supportive friend he is when he called out to me, “Hey!  This is runner’s lunch, not stationary bikers’ lunch!”

For now, I’ll stick to the stationary bike and follow this advice from Nathan:

“I’d recommend stretching to the first point of pain, but definitely not beyond. Do some eccentric calf raises, and do some heel and toe walking (toes forward, then in, then out for 1 set of each). Try to foam roll the calves and rolling the arch of your foot with a lacrosse ball if/when you can, and then end with some contrast therapy – alternating ice and heat a few times, ending with ice. For me Achilles pain is always related to tight calf and/or plantar muscles.”

I bought 3 lacrosse balls that I use to practice juggling when I’m not using them to massage the plantar.  Maybe I’ll switch from running to joggling.  (I think I can take these guys if I can just learn to juggle 5 balls.  I’m strictly a 3-baller.  No comments from the peanut gallery, thank you very much.)

And though I’m not running at the moment, I’m reading about running and letting the Boston dream continue to grow.  I’m currently reading Duel in the Sun, the novel about the phenomenal battle between Alberto Salazar and Dick Beardsley in the 1982 Boston marathon.  I’m enthralled and cannot wait to follow in the footsteps of these 2, and so many other, legendary runners!