Ils ne passeront pas!

Capitol Hill Classic 10K: Last year the hill ate me up. I was having a pretty good 10K til I hit the race's namesake hill in the sixth mile and it chewed me up and spit me out. My early sub-eight miles zoomed to a post-nine final mile. I felt lucky to finish in 48:44 (7:51) last year. (Left: The hill wasn't kind to me last year.)

This year I ran up the hill after every Mall run. I worked it. It's .35 mile and it's steep. It's three minutes of hard work.

Today was a perfect day to run, cool and overcast with a very slight breeze. As soon as I lined up at the start, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was H. Oh, hi.

H was a 10K student of mine two years ago. She has never beaten me. I used to think I could jump in on her races, pace her a bit and help her out. Then she got a personal trainer and started training relentlessly. I ran the last six miles of the MCM with her in October, her first marathon. She did a 4:07. My first marathon was a 5:05.

I was extremely happy with my 1:45 at the National Half-Marathon in March. Then H went down to hilly Nashville last month and threw down a 1:47 at the Half Mary there. Yikes.

I ran with H yesterday for the first time since December, four easy miles on the W&OD. She told me she was running today, so I went after a little intel. I asked her what her goal was on the morrow. Break 48, she said. Yikes. Not PR, or break 50 for the first time, no, break 48. Personally, I just was hoping I could break fifty.

When the gun sounded, I went out fast to put as much distance on H as I could in the hope that she wouldn't overhaul me later. Running eastbound on E. Capitol Street, I turned the first mile at 7:00. Running around RFK, I clocked the second mile at 7:25. Westbound on E. Capitol Street I passed by the third marker at 7:40. I was definitely slowing down. I kept mentally checking my stored minutes in the bank, knowing that the looming signature hill would slow me up.

Milepost Four was way off. I passed it going down Capitol Hill on Independence Avenue at 9:32. I was momentarily fearful that I had just run a 9:30 flat mile in a non-marathon race but then I knew that there was no way I had slowed down that much. Still, I was too tired to make full use of "letting it flow" as I ran downhill.

On the bottomland below the hill, I got mesmerized by how long an out-and-back it was on Independence Avenue before we rounded a cone and came back for the fearsome climb up Capitol Hill. Suddenly in my reverie I saw H off to the side thirty yards ahead. Oh, had she been quiet going by me.

Decision time. Do I let her go, or do I HTFU? I found a reserve and powered up beside her. I looked at her and she looked at me. I can tell the look from a woman that says, Not now! I passed by her without a word.

But when you're ahead, you can't keep track of where anyone is who is behind you. Although I was worried about what finishing strategy H might have, all I could do was keep moving. I hit the hill.

Unlike last year, I handled it. I powered up half of it before it wore me out and the rest of the climb turned into a slog. But even during the late going I wasn't tottering along in a faltering shuffle like last year.

Hill surmounted, I tried to push the last mile in. Finally I saw Milepost Six. I got spooked that I would get caught in that last quarter mile and I passed the last .2 mile in 1:28 (7:20 pace). A friend watching the race from the finish line later said I was really flying at the end. She had no idea of what was driving me.

I finished in 47:41 (7:40) by my watch, over a full minute faster than last year. H broke 48 minutes, just as she had set out to do. She did a great job. But her beating my a**, probably badly, will have to wait til next time.

As I trudged off to the start line of the accompanying 3K race, I was really happy with my time and effort in the 10K.

He ain't heavy...

I didn’t know him but I feel close to him.

Zach Templeton was 27 when he died in October on a divided highway outside of Denver. He was in the grassy median where he had stopped to help a motorist wrestle a 22,000 gallon plastic water tank back onto the trailer from whence it had fallen. Scott Hinshaw, 38, was also there helping.

Traffic was crawling past the men. When I was a State Patrolman, we called these drivers who slowed down to gawk at roadside spectacles lookie-loos. They are a menace.

Seventeen year old Cody Loos was driving down the road searching the floorboard of his pickup truck for some sunflower seeds to chew on. Such is the price of a man’s life, some sunflower seeds. Loos glanced up to see that traffic was almost stopped immediately in front of him and he jammed on his brakes. His pickup skidded, slid into the median and slammed into Templeton and Hinshaw. Templeton was killed and both of Hinshaw’s legs were badly broken.

No drugs or alcohol were involved. Only sunflower seeds.

The two men lay like crumpled dolls on the ground under Loos’ truck. Moments before, both had looked powerful and resplendent in their Colorado State Patrol uniforms. The blinking emergency lights on their now-empty units added a terrible stridency to the suddenly-chaotic scene.

This is National Police Week in DC. Hundreds of police officers from all over the world are in town to honor the thousands of fallen American peace officers whose names are inscribed on the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial. On Saturday there was a 5K race run in commemoration of the event. Last night there was a service for fallen officers at the Memorial.

I attended and perused the personal tributes laid upon the wall in memoriam. I was a Colorado State Patrolman for seven years and I know the names of several of my then-brethren, and others, who are there.

Some are legendary in Colorado State Patrol lore, like Trooper Tom Carpenter, who was abducted and forced to drive around in his patrol car by his assailant, who held his own service weapon to his head. Before he was brutally killed, Carpenter desperately engaged in outlandish radio traffic as a signal of trouble but no one caught on, and radio protocol was changed after his tragic murder.

As I walked the wall of heroes, I saw a CSP shoulder patch laid by a picture of a virile young man familiarly dressed in sky blue epaulet shirt and french blue slacks with a charcoal gray stripe. One of my own, a Colorado State Trooper taken in October. I reflected upon the photograph showing a strong man of youth and promise, noted the name and went home to research Zachariah Templeton.

So senseless was the devastating accident that claimed the trooper's life that Colorado State Patrol Chief Colonel Mark Trostel, in assuagement, could only conclude that God must have called away Templeton for duty, because never again would Templeton’s three-year old daughter feel his strong hands holding her, nor would his family and friends ever again be cheered by his infectious smile. Hinshaw is still working determinedly to recover from his traumatic leg injuries.

Loos, now 18, expressed remorse at a hearing in March while pleading guilty to careless driving resulting in death, a misdemeanor. Perhaps worse than the sentence he received, two years probation and 300 hours of community service, was having to face several of the victims of his act and listen to their outpouring of understandable rage, bitterness and grief.

Five months afterwards, Trooper Hinshaw would need a wheelchair to attend the sentencing hearing. He felt a guilt that was "absolutely unbearable" that he had survived while Templeton hadn’t. He wished he could have changed places with Templeton. Hinshaw addressed Loos, and spoke of forgiveness.

"I am willing to stand with you and do this community service with you and help you honor this man right here. You messed up, Cody, and that one decision cost a life. [However] I refuse and do not want you to let this ruin your life. ... Be better than you can ever be, always strive to be better, always be unhappy with where you are in life. Carry on, brother, we’ll get better."

The Colorado State Patrol released a statement afterwards that said in part: After the tragic loss of Trooper Templeton and the devastating injuries to Trooper Hinshaw, "our focus has been on assisting the Templeton and Hinshaw families through these trying times." Hopefully the conclusion of the criminal case will allow the Templeton and Hinshaw families "to seek closure and turn a new chapter in the healing process. ... It is also our hope that the healing process may begin for the Loos family as well."

Amen.



In Memoriam to 24 Colorado State Patrol Officers.

Ten on the Tenth

Non-Runner Nancy is at it again, getting us couch potatoes out from in front of the TV and into the great outdoors. She fired the starter's gun for the third virtual race she has set up, Ten K on the Tenth.

Because the race has a caveman theme, I ran the 10K with my club yesterday, that is, with the 10K Group (TKG) Training Program my club puts on. It was the twelfth and last session before the target race, the Capitol Hill Classic 10K next Sunday. A group of 31 well intentioned souls had winnowed down to about eight runners who were apportioned out among up to five coaches each week. Since it was raining yesterday, the coach/runner ratio was an exceptionally high 1/1. Not even the promotion of handing out program t-shirts could induce a greater turnout in the drizzle (much less my promised Pre-Race Strategy lecture, which in the wet circumstances consisted of the exhortation to stay hydrated, remember your chip and be on time). (Left: I tested out the Program shirt last week at the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati. It worked fine, and even drew comments from three passing runners over the saying on the back, Get Used to the View.)

We ran the race 10K course, having met in Stanton Park in the District, its starting and ending point. The course is basically a rectangle, 3 miles long and a quarter mile wide. Its purpose is to tire you out for five miles and then run you up the third of a mile long Capitol Hill in the sixth mile as your rite of racing passage.

I ran the race last year and although I knew the hill was coming and I had run it often in training, I floundered on it and felt like I was swimming uphill for three minutes. It was awful. (Right: The 10K course.)

I set out yesterday with MA and we ran east past Lincoln Park to RFK. We eschewed running around the back side of RFK like the race does because there are no sidewalks or shoulders back there but we made up the distance later. Heading west, we returned to Lincoln Park on East Capitol Street and then ran south to Pennsylvania to run by Eastern Market. Running north to regain E. Capitol Street (where, despite 18 years spent in DC, I got lost momentarily and we ran astray for a few blocks), we turned west again and ran behind the Capitol. After a short jog over to Independence, we ran down the race's signature hill. Running a few extra blocks at this point to make up the distance we skipped at RFK, we then ran in front of the Capitol and hit the final mile at the base of the hill. We went up it smoothly but I still arrived at the top gasping, totally out of breath.

In my fog of fatigue, I got to thinking about the pint of blood I donated the prior Monday at the airport in Cincinnati. I have a theory that blood donations knock the stuffings out of your endurance capabilities for a couple of weeks and I had purposefully waited til after my marathon last Sunday to donate. Here was another brick in the wall of my theory, however.

Top of the hill attained, we ran it in the last half mile to the park for a 55:04 10K training run. A nice tune-up for the actual race. I think MA is going to be my star pupil.

When Pigs Fly.

I went to Cincinnati last weekend as my club's representative at the RRCA's 50th Anniversity Convention which was held there. I voted our club line, enrolled in a couple of very interesting classes on Lactate Tolerance and Sports Psychology, and attended lectures on Club Training Programs and Trail Running. (What I took away from the trail running lecture is to say no thanks. They were talking about how to get down a very steep loose scree slope that is very slippery (like ball bearings), apparently by jumping, land and turn as you slide, jump, land and turn as you slide, etc.)

This gave me a chance to run the Flying Pig Marathon. This is a very well put on marathon. The experience was a blast. The course, however, is, uh, challenging.

Before I went, I looked at its topographical map. It looks like a giant anaconda which has just swallowed a bus. Steady as she goes til MP 6, then a hellacious climb to MP 8, then down the other side and out. Sort of like National, with its climb and descent in the early mid-part of the marathon, before fatigue turns inclines into hills and hills become mountains. Very doable, on paper.

Still, one of Cincinnati's several nicknames is The City of Seven Hills. I no longer wonder why.

My training was abbreviated because I didn't know I was running this May marathon until sometime in April, when I was offered the opportunity to go to Cincinnati. I went out and was able to finish a 20-miler so I figured I could do the Pig. The next week I ran a 15-miler, the week after that a 16-miler and the week before the marathon I did a 10-miler. Then I lined up at 6:30 am on Sunday with the 3:40 pace group, "ready" to go. I had ankle and hamstring issues, but they wouldn't delay the start til I got 100%. Go figure.

They did delay the start, however, for a fire on the course. This caused a course alteration which lengthened the course. But unlike at Army in 2005, this did NOT turn the marathon into a Cincinnati Fun Run. They adjusted appropriately on the fly. (Are you listening, Chicago?)

By the time the starting cannon was fired, however, I was really ready to go, if you know what I mean. A quarter mile down the course I was relieved to find a handy bush along the Ohio. I never saw the 3:40 group again. Left to my own resources, I soon settled into a steady pace.

A jog by the Great American Ballpark (Reds) took us onto the Taylor Bridge into Kentucky. Two miles later we were back in Ohio running through downtown Cincinnati. We ran by the sports bar where I ate dinner and hydrated the two prior nights. Tragically, this was where I watched live on TV while Kentucky Derby runnerup Eight Belles was put to death the night before. Horse racing has a real problem.

Soon we surmounted what I thought was the climb of the race. It wasn't too bad and now I was literally at the top of the world. Up there I could see the Ohio far below, glinting in the morning sun. Downtown Cincinnati and its bridges were visible behind me, and stretching out in front was the great bend of the river.

But soon I discovered that the hills were far from done. Still ahead were lots more rolling hills, inclines, and, worst of all, short, sharp hills. Little ten and twenty-yard rollers that lifted up and down like a crazy roller coaster track. Major combat wasn't over. Well, bring 'em on.

The halfway mark came and went. We toured the Cincinnati suburbs to the NE. Suburbs are suburbs but the crowd support was great. We ran down some bike paths, which I always find interesting in marathons (where does this one go? Does it go all the way to downtown?).

We were actually detouring around the early-morning conflagration and the course was being stretched out thereby but hey, we all ran the same distance. Nobody made it "unofficial" thereby. (Cincinnati did a great job. This is a great marathon.)

We ran over a controlled-access four-lane divided highway where we got the shoulder and one lane, while the cars got the other lane. A line of orange plastic cones protected us dead-tired runners from them. Do you think the cars slowed down? (This is the midwest. Actually, many did.)

And then we were on the home stretch! A large sign announced the last mile. I tried to pick it up but the last mile was long, I tell ya. I finished in under four hours on all registers, the gun time, the chip time and the adjusted time due to the course lengthening. I loved this marathon. What more can I say?

Marathons

I ran a marathon on Sunday.

Marathons are like, I imagine, combat. Intense experiences that you need time to decompress from. The closest I have ever come to a combat experience was the nine years of police work I did. Most nights I was out on my own on patrol, focused, active, confronting situations fraught with peril, occasionally experiencing fear (or once or twice, terror). It was intense and, at times, dangerous work. Twenty years after I left it, I'm still decompressing from it. Marathons are a lot like that.

You never really get over any of them. I can vividly remember each one I have run. For the several hours that you are engaged in them you are thrust deeply into their immediacy. All actions are aimed towards the solitary completion of a difficult task. Hours of drudgery and acute discomfort are coupled with an occasional uplifting moment such as when you view a magnificent vista or come upon a rehabilitating wounded veteran struggling along doggedly on injured or missing limbs.

You are limited by the possible. Do you need a 5:40 in the last mile to PR? It ain't gonna happen so enjoy the finish. Do you need a 7:40 instead? Then it's time to get a move on and hope for the best.

Like a soldier placed into the field, the whole community supports you. The supply train is loaded and people hand you drinks, food or comfort in the form of aspirin, cooling sprays or encouragement. If you falter, they will immediately succor you. But you have to go it alone. No one can cover any part of the 26 miles for you. On the race course, there is no place to hide from the elephant.

Also, you can't escape from your own effort. Were you a coward, did you do your duty, or did you perform extraordinarily? Deep down, you know the answer. It's your own secret, but the knowledge is there within you.

A few years back, a friend, perhaps feeling the tug of mortality after passing the half-century mark, asked me if I had done even one thing in years that had left me feeling truly exhilarated. The way the question was asked implied that after long reflection the answer would invariably be no, sort of like when W was asked if he could think of any mistake he had made following 9/11.

The answer instantly sprang into my head. Sure, I replied, I feel that way after every marathon.

That's how I felt about it then, and that's how I feel about it now.

Heroes at the Flying Pig Marathon

The following account is taken almost entirely from information contained in an excellent front-page article in today's Cincinnati Enquirer about yesterday's Flying Pig Marathon, written by Dustin Dow (ddow@enquirer.com).

Bobby Edwards was a streaker. This is what they call marathoners in Cincinnati who have run all of the prior Flying Pig Marathons in that city. On Sunday morning, as he was approaching the tenth mile in this tenth running of the Flying Pig Marathon, Edwards was feeling good. Suddenly, without warning, the 55 year-old sub-5 hour marathoner collapsed. He lay lifeless in the road while bystanders desperately called for help. A minute ticked by.

Patrick Conrey, an EMT from Clearwater, Florida, must have been getting hot in his fireman's gear as he approached milepost 10. Cincinnati fireman Oscar Armstrong III had perished in a fire on March 21, 2003. Two Cincinnati-area firefighters, Captain Robin Broxterman and Brian Schira of Colerain Township, had similarly fallen while fighting a fire on April 4th. Conrey was running the Flying Pig Marathon in full fireman regalia in tribute to them and to raise money for charity. (Conrey was running for others at the Flying Pig Marathon.)

Some paramedics from local fire departments were running with Conrey in support of his effort. This group came across Edwards lying motionless in the roadway a minute after he went down, at about the moment that a paramedic team standing by elsewhere on the course was being dispatched to the scene. With one precious minute gone by, every second counted for the inert Edwards.

Surveying the scene as the group ran up on the prostrate Edwards, Conrey said to his comrades, "It's time to go to work, boys." The unnamed local firemen switched from runners to rescuers instantly and sprang to Edwards' aid.

CPR was started upon the unconscious Edwards. The standby paramedic unit arrived. For twenty minutes paramedics worked upon the prone runner in the roadway while marathoners streamed by.

Chest compressions were done. A tube was inserted in his mouth. He was shocked by a defibrillator three times.

Edwards was resuscitated and transported to University Hospital. He was speaking by the time he arrived. On Sunday night he was listed in stable condition.

Conrey modestly said, "I don't want to take too much credit. I was just there handing them drugs. Those paramedics running with me, they saved his life."

Edwards' daughter Stephanie Rabius said, "I could be planning a funeral right now. He had a heart attack. If they hadn't been there, my father would be dead."

Edwards asked his daughter at the hospital, "So, was I dead?"

She told him, "Yeah. You were."

Race medical director Dr. Jon Devine said the hospital cardiologist described the recovery Edwards made from his heart attack as "one of the greatest saves he's ever seen."

Conrey, a 3:22 marathoner who went on to finish the marathon in a time of 5:26:42 while carrying about 40 pounds of equipment, stated how he felt about having an unanticipated delay during his race. "You almost feel like that was the reason we were running the marathon today. It was twenty minutes well spent on the course."

There were some heroes afoot in Cincinnati this past weekend.

The 2008 ACLI Capital Challenge

The Mission assigned to me by the Chairman's representative in 2006: Assemble a team of five for the ACLI Capital Challenge 3-Mile Race, in which teams from the Senate, Congress, Executive Branch, Judiciary and the Media race each other. Each team in our Executive Division had to be captained by a Commissioner, be comprised of agency staffers and contain a female. There were similar team requirements for all the Branches.

The Challenge: Find a Captain. The oldest Commissioner stepped forward. He trained hard and won third in his category of Captains over 59. I already knew a fast woman runner in my agency, A, and our rock star, G, agreed to run.

In 2006, we finished 7/28 in the Executive Division, 15/113 overall. Our individual finishes in the field of 642 were 43, 122, 162, 165 and 424. Our times were G 19:14 (6:25), M 21:22 (7:07), A 22:04 (7:21), me 22:09 (7:23), Commissioner 26:59 (9:00). (Right: The Commissioner accepts his age group medal in 2006.)

We were ebullient over our good showing. For me it was a PR by six seconds of 22:09 (7:23) at the 3-mile distance. But my PR in the longer 5K distance, 21:58 (7:05) set in 2001, was still lower and I really wanted to break 22 minutes in a 3-Miler race, which are few and far between.

In the 2007 race, I had to replace M and his 21:22. The Commissioner was injured but gamely ran anyway because no other Commissioner could or would run (no Captain, no team, no race).

G improved by a full minute in the first slot, and A stepped up into the number two slot and more than replaced M's time. We lost time in the three through five slots, however. I wilted in the heat and felt like I let the team down when I ran 21 seconds slower than the prior year, losing almost half a minute in the third spot. Newcomer C did an excellent job, running sub-8 minute miles, although we lost over a minute in the fourth slot. The Commissioner couldn't overcome his injury, which prevented him from training, and we lost a few minutes in the fifth slot. (Left: The 2007 team, A, G, the Commissioner, me and C.)

In 2007, we finished 14/33 in the Executive Division, 36/124 overall. Our individual finishes in the field of 670 were 29, 145, 217, 280 and 615. Our times were G 18:14 (6:05), A 21:09 (7:03), me 22:30 (7:30), C 23:34 (7:51), Commissioner 32:35 (10:52).

The team slipped by 6:14 last year. C'est la guerre.

In this year's race, I had to find a woman to replace A and her 21:09. The Commissioner was still injured but gamely ran anyway when another Commissioner who stepped forward to run became injured (no Captain, no team, no race).

G improved by seven seconds in the first slot, M came back in the number two slot and we improved there by over a minute and a half, while I took over a minute off the third slot's time. We lost time in the four and five slots, however. Newcomer K did an excellent job, running sub-9 minute miles, although we lost over two minutes in the fourth slot. The Commissioner couldn't overcome his injury, which prevented him from training, and we lost a few seconds in the fifth slot.

In 2008, we finished 12/29 in the Executive Division, 35/108 overall. Our individual finishes in the field of 606 were 21, 58, 145, 354 and 557. Our times were G 18:07 (6:02), M 19:25 (6:28), me 21:25 (7:08), K 25:40 (8:33), Commissioner 32:40 (10:53).

The team improved by 45 seconds this year. We all felt triumphant. Team races, where everyone pulls hard for everyone else, are a blast. This race in Anacostia Park, SE, is a scenic, flat out-and-back along the Anacostia River. It runs under three bridges.

Personally, my splits for the 3 miles were 6:49, 7:19 and 7:15, for a PR by 44 seconds of 21:25 (7:08). I went out fast and held on, even finding a tiny bit of reserve at the end. I nailed the distance. It was just one of those races.