Chip timing has made race management a much easier task. And, in races with heavy participation, everyone appreciates their finishing time reflecting actual running time without the added minutes spent waiting to cross the starting line. But those chips didn’t just replace the old scoring tear-offs on the bottom of race number bibs. For the non-seeded runner, gone too is the truly competitive sprint to the finish line. You see, in the old days when you were neck and neck with someone as the two of you approached the finish line, it really was a race. First one to the line was truly beating the other and the proof would show up in the final results. Today, depending on the length of the race, there could be 10 to 15 minutes difference between two runners finishing side-by-side. Sure, you’ll still see people race each other to the line, but – whether they know it or not – it’s almost never for place. Of course, we always have been (and always will be) racing the clock. I just miss the days when we raced the stranger beside us, too.
Counting all 5,280
A couple of years ago, Joan Benoit Samuelson helped pace Lance Armstrong as he ran his first marathon. She commented afterward that Lance was (paraphrasing) “obsessed with the mile markers.” Well, at least I have something in common with Lance. But Joan further explained she wanted Lance to focus more on rhythm and pace and let the miles take care of themselves. Much easier said than done. The very races we run are measured in miles or kilometers. So naturally we want to track ourselves against those increments. But we’ve also all had the experience of forgetting our mile marker fixation –– and the happy surprise when it appears seemingly out of nowhere. I should probably try to take Joanie’s advice. Because the watched mile marker never arrives. But, to be honest, I just glanced down for about the 40th time while writing this to check my word count. So I don’t have high hopes.
Again with the knee thing.
Non-runners love to look at runners and claim they’re ruining their knees. And, granted, any high impact activity like running does put enormous stress on your joints. But while I’m certainly not a doctor, I do know this: My knees feel a lot better when I’m running than they do in the times I’ve lapsed into inactivity. My very unprofessional opinion is the sedentary life forces bone and tendons to do the work meant for strong, healthy muscles. My knees aren’t perfect. And they may get worse over time. But I’ll take the running life. Any day.
Ennui of the hamstring variety
It happens. No matter what your goal, at some time your training schedule will be far more ambitious than, well, your ambition. Maybe your race is a long way off, maybe you’re in a treadmill rut in the dead of winter, or maybe you’re just flat out bored. No shame in that. But no sense in letting it control you, either. So shake things up. Cross train. Hit the running section at the bookstore. Or watch an inspirational movie. Some swear by Rudy or Chariots of Fire. I prefer Alien. Because, come on, if you’d been on that spaceship you’d have set some sort of PR, no matter how short the distance.
Run. Away.
In the HBO miniseries “Band of Brothers”, there is a scene where the company of American soldiers is fighting in an urban setting when a mortar shell hits. Then another. One of the commanding officers, realizing the enemy has dialed them in, immediately orders a retreat. And, without hesitation, with no concern about bravery or honor, they turn and run. As fast as they can. Now, granted, our type of running is not warfare. But most of us enter each run with a plan of attack. It’s important to remember, though, that mortars will come. So if you were planning on going long, but fatigue or a sore hamstring has you dialed in, there’s no shame in calling retreat. Fall back. Finish up. Forget about it. It’s just one run. There will be others.
A wreck, ramblin’.
Late in some NASCAR races, it’s not uncommon to see a car – long assumed out of the event – roll out of the garage area and onto the track. Except it doesn’t really look like a car. Minus a fender or two, bumper gone, paint scraped, it will limp around the track for a few more laps (and points and dollars). As runners, haven’t we all been there? We roar off the starting line shiny and full of fuel. But somewhere out there, we begin trading paint with reality. Anti-freeze starts to leak. That faulty gas gauge lies to us. And by the time we reach the final miles, we’re barely recognizable as the speed machines of just a few hours ago. It may be small comfort, but some world class runners have looked like that. For the entire race. Joan Benoit Samuelson, ever graceful in life, has always been a bit of a plodder on the road, her form belying the numbers on the stopwatch. Alberto Salazar, pigeon-toed and pitched forward, could be painful to watch even as he obliterated his competition in the early 80s. So the next time the wheels come off late in your race, take heart. Somewhere along the way is a spectator with a love for running and a photographic memory. And when he spies you huffing along, overheating and spraying oil, he’ll pause for a second, overwhelmed with a sense of deja vu. “Man,” he’ll think to himself, “that guy must be really good.”
Chin up. Time down.
We’ve all experienced things we know to be true without really understanding why. Running has one of those truths: Keep your head up and you’ll run faster. This is easy early, whether it’s training or a race. Rested, hydrated and stretched, it’s almost impossible to keep your head down. But fatigue doesn’t just make cowards of us all. It also makes us fascinated with our feet. And so our head drops, our stride shortens, and we slow down. Of course, fatigue will slow you even if you unscrew your head and hold it aloft as you run. But if you can keep your head up, you’ll be just a little faster. No matter how large the refrigerator on your back.
American idle
All they want to do each Saturday morning is go where they planned. Fully caffeinated, booster seats filled, coupons clipped, they pile into the Family Truckster and hurtle headlong into the weekend. Or so they thought. And then they discover their path intersects with the local road race. So as they sit there, waiting for the passing of the VO2 Express, what do they think, those poor victims of our you-can’t-drive-by? With some, it’s not hard to figure, as we see their eyes and silently wonder whether we should have gotten our race number on a Kevlar bib. But perhaps, three cars back, there’s a mom who’s feeling a little heavy. Or a high school linebacker gone 40 years soft. And each might hear that still, small voicing saying, “Y’know, maybe it’s time.” So no matter how bad you feel as you cross that intersection, buck up. Paste on a smile and lift those knees. They’ll come to love the pain. Embrace it, even. No need to let them see it right now.
‘49er
We have all had them. You go out for a maintenance run, be back in about an hour. But you feel strong and decide to keep going. And going. And going. Before long, you know how a prospector felt when a light flashed from out of the silt. But I’ve found age, unfortunately, brings you late to the gold rush. With every year, the unexpected long runs are fewer and farther between. So you try to be rational. No need to act surprised. These mined-out days, of course, were not wholly unexpected. But, nevertheless, on creaky knees we still kneel, ever hopeful. And fill the pan.
The socks of Ponce de Leon
Running can keep you young. Unfortunately, it can give you the feet of a 90 year old. As a result, any promise of relief from or prevention of this misery always makes us prick up our metatarsals in expectation. Which is how I recently found myself plunking down $14 for a pair of socks. Not just any socks. Anatomically designed, left/right specific, moisture-wicking, light-but-cushioning socks. Finally, this was the answer. This would mean more miles, better times, cheating the aging process with a magic odometer that somehow puts tread back on the tires. So when I go out for a run these days, what are my default socks? The three-pairs-for-$5 specials I got at Target. Now, don’t get me wrong, they weren’t bad socks. I still use them. But if anyone should realize there’s no magic bullet, it’s a runner. Training teaches us there are no easy answers. Put in the work and you’ll succeed. Slackers will pay. And the runner who denies this simple truth? He’ll pay, too. Exorbitantly. For socks.
The Dean
I suspect a number of students at Rhodes College in Memphis are daily visitors to YouTube. But a lot of them don’t know a simple search of the last name of their dean of admissions would expose them to one of the greatest races in Olympic history. You see, there are closing kicks. And then there’s what Dave Wottle did in the 800 meter final at Munich in 1972. Even today, knowing the outcome, it’s difficult to fathom what Wottle accomplished. His style was always to lay back and it certainly worked at the national level, but it’s a tactic to send you home medal-less in the Olympics. So when Wottle throttled up at 500 meters, he appeared to have little chance. And even with 10 meters to go, having passed all but two challengers, he seemed destined only for bronze. Wottle always wore a golf hat when he ran, an eccentricity that drew attention away from his world class talent. Today, it’s the title “Dean of Admissions” that masks the truth. But it doesn’t have to. Go to YouTube. Search “Wottle.” And enjoy.
We are all liars
I joined the community of heart rate monitor owners about three years ago. And immediately hated it. I’d never run so slowly in my life. Plodding along between and 70 and 80 percent of my maximum heart rate, it felt like I could’ve improved my time by simply walking. I suspect I’m not the only one with this experience. Because runners love to listen to their head. And our head always says go faster. As a result, we run too fast, we run too often, and wonder why we’re constantly fatigued or injured or both. So because it made me slow down, I didn’t immediately love my heart monitor. But in running – unlike love – your heart doesn’t lie. In fact, it’s a four-chambered polygraph that will most likely accuse you of overtraining. Guilty, I geared down. And ran less. And slowly, I got faster. So learn your MHR, adjust the chest strap, discreetly moisten your contacts, and learn to embrace your heart monitor. Just accept that the journey to speed starts with a single step. A single, very, very slow step.
How I kept Bob Kennedy out of the Olympics
It was 2004 and all I wanted to do was make a cool television commercial for a local hospital. And since Bob Kennedy was already affiliated with them, I wrote a spot starring America’s premier distance runner of the last decade. So late one night I found myself and about 30 other members of the film crew watching Bob run around a deserted high school track. I remember thinking, take after take, that I hoped he didn’t get hurt. Hoped he hadn’t trained today. Hoped he’d warmed up enough. Because, you see, this was 2004 and all Bob Kennedy wanted to do was make his last Olympic team. Flash forward to the next day as I’m running by a track at a local university. And there, training, is Bob Kennedy. I give him a look that says, “Hey, it’s my old friend Bob!” He gives me a look that says, “Hey, why are you stalking me?” And off I waddled at a pace he hadn’t run since he was four years old. Flash forward again to a late night broadcast of the 10,000 meters at the 2004 Olympic Trials. Bob’s hanging around, just waiting to make his move, and then suddenly steps off the track. Just steps off. The next day I read he tweaked an Achilles in training. But that’s not all. It gave the date he injured it. And my heart sank. I went through my work calendar and, true enough, he hurt it the day after I kept him up running late into the cool night. Hurt it during the very workout I witnessed. Hurt it, I hope, due to circumstances beyond his – and my – control. The spot? It turned out fantastic, really beautiful. And ran nightly during the broadcast of the 2004 Olympics to the enjoyment of a million local viewers. Minus two.
Running is a spectator sport
Sometimes, so immersed in our own participation, we forget how much fun running is to watch. I remember over 30 years ago seeing Rudy Chapa (who later ran at Oregon with Alberto Salazar) run in the Indiana state finals track meet. It was no contest from the beginning, yet still wholly entertaining to see such a rare talent in top form. The crowd was in full roar for the last two laps as, to my memory, he obliterated his own state record. Around that same time, I attended a local high school meet. A friend of my brother’s came over to us at the fence and, realizing he was outclassed in this field, stated his simple desire to not finish last. And so, as he came off the final turn with the leaders already pulling on their sweats, we were still riveted as he closed a 15-yard gap and nipped another runner at the line. State champions and back markers. Equal only in their potential to get you, cheering, up and out of your seat.
Forcing the pace
I’m dancing with my daughter. Delicately. I’d love if she took an interest in running. So I’m desperately trying to hide that I’d love if she took an interest in running. She certainly knows Daddy runs. Always remembers the key question (“Are you sweaty?”) before giving me a post-run hug. And she’s looking forward to her third annual one-mile kid’s fun run in a park near our home. But I’ve made mistakes. Encouraged her to try a 5K with me, but that didn’t go well. She’s fit enough, but adults always seem to underestimate the boredom factor for kids. So we walked much of the way. Now as I attempt to slow down and let her interest catch up, I try to remember that for adults running is play. But kids want to run and play. And they’re completely unconfused about the difference.
Chaos theory and the aging runner
For older runners, every morning is an adventure. What hurts today? While post-workout soreness affects everyone, at least in our youth it respected a schedule. Tight the day after, a little less the next, third day gone. Now, the lunatics run the day planner. An easy run? You’re suddenly booked for screaming calves the next two days. A rest day? You evidently rested a little too long on that shoulder last night, didn’t you? The only sure thing is there’s no sure thing. So enjoy (or remember fondly) the running days of your youth. Because time doesn’t march on. It limps.
Slowing the hourglass.
Once a year, I vacation in Southern California. And promptly break all my rules for proper rest between runs. The beach will do that to you. The combination of scenery, sea breeze, and easy-on-the-legs running surface frequently lead to those out-of-body runs where you have to force yourself to turn around. So I seem to shake the sand out of the trainers and head out nearly every day. I’m always careful enough to check the tides. Just can’t seem to check myself.
Passing game.
Every time I train on a track, I’m reminded we are competitive animals, all of us. It seems without fail whenever I start to overtake anyone as I run those endless loops, they speed up. Sometimes it’s almost imperceptible. In other instances, it’s obvious. Recently, I even had a young lady look back at me and edge into my lane as I started to go around her. And (a much more frequent occurrence) when people pass me ? Yes, I’m guilty. It’s just that, sadly, I don’t think they even notice.
Striding out.
Finger poised over Return button, I stopped. Do I really want to do this? It wasn’t the money. Not the entry fee, the hotel reservations, or any other expenses. I’m not worried about the training, not concerned about my age, don’t think I’ll hurt myself. None of that. It’s the embarrassment. Straight up fear of failure. Don’t want to quit and don’t want to hobble the last four miles and let ‘em put a medal around my neck. And so I paused. Do I want this? Am I ready to lay it all out there? Do I really want to run my first marathon? Yes. Tap. Yes I do.
