3 miles done

Today I got out running as soon as the dawn lightened enough to see the roadway, in the cool of the early morning before the sun came out and made everything hot again.  After my 90 bicep curls with my l'il ol' dumbbell (3 sets of 15 reps at 25 pounds, each arm before and after each run), my recently added routine of a few push-ups, and stretching, I burned off a neighborhood mile while I considered my two-mile segment because I was undecided about that part.  (Whew, glad that's done.)

 

I had done 4 miles with a long, tough hill two days before and I didn't want to do that hill again because my legs felt used up, but I know hills are good for runners and speed their progression to improved fitness and ability.  I had already chickened out on doing Saturday's tough hill by the route of my neighborhood mile, taking me away from that hill, but it led me towards a half-mile hill in town not far from my house which I had been staying away from after failing to fully surmount it weeks ago when my conditioning was even less than my current pathetic state.  (My weight training station.)

Alright, I thought, let's go.  It was a long slow plod up that hill (longer but not quite so steep as Saturday's hill) but I made it and turned around a mile out and had the benefit of going down the same long hill on my return.  (My push-up platform.)

I was happy to get my exercise for the day done by about 7:15 am, with the whole rest of the day stretching out ahead of me, just like in the old days.  Coming back is a slow process, but it seems to be coming.  (My gym.)

When a moment is longer than a minute

Yesterday morning, Veteran's Day, I was running hills in my home town up around the elementary school which sits atop the second best hill in town and also has several sets of stairs to run up and down on.  I attended school there a long time ago.

As I was cutting across the footpath which goes around behind the school from Oak Street to Highland Avenue, which street is the best hill in town, the PA system blared out quite audibly that we would now have a moment of silence to honor our veterans who have sacrificed so much for our freedoms.  I pulled up, faced the building where I imagined there would be a flag inside somewhere, took off my hat and stood at attention, reflecting upon the veterans I have known, from my brother who served with the Marines in Beirut to a running friend who was lost in Afghanistan to other current vets of the several wars of the past 65 years, and to all the WWII and WWI vets who have passed.

As the seconds passed and I stood in respectful stillness, I got to wondering how long a moment really was.  After a minute passed without further issuance from the playground speaker, I put my hat back on, turned and resumed my run.

As I ran off, I heard the announcer come on the loud public address system to say that that concluded the moment of silence and now the pledge of allegiance would be recited in every classroom.  When I got home and looked up "moment" I discovered that although a moment currently encompasses a brief, non-specific passage of time it actually was a specific measurement of time in the middle ages consisting of 90 seconds, or 40 strokes every hour.

Hill Running Around Town

I love running the hills around my little home town.  Although the 40-mile rail-to-trail bike path gem cuts right through town (across my back-yard line) and there are quiet residential streets to run on, there are plenty of hills too.

I have a 2.5 mile route to a distant schoolyard that takes me up a half-mile hill on its front leg, which means it's downhill coming back as I'm tiring.  I try to do each leg in under ten minutes to keep up a sub-8 pace, or at least I did before I got injured.

But  the best hill in the region is half a mile from my front door, Highland Avenue, a half-mile long steady climb in one direction and a tenth of a mile precipitous climb on its other side.  It has a steep side spur that, coupled with the steep climb on Highland, makes for a quarter mile "track" that enables you to run what I call boomerangs--a heavy unrelenting hill workout that absolutely saps you if you do twenty of them.

Next to Highland is the next-best hill in town, Oak Street, a fabulous incline that leads up into a dead-end where an elementary school is that also offers two sets of stairs to run on, and its end point--the furthest distance out from my front door before you have to turn back, is exactly one mile.  It's also my alma mater, I went there as a kindergartner in the fifties.

Running while Rome burns.

Government shutdown, week two.  I go out for a run every morning, usually running the hills in my town up around the school, stopping at the 7-11 on the way back to buy coffee and a Washington Post.

I did my LSD run with John out in Fairfax on Saturday on a hot, humid summer-like day.  There was a 5K race occurring at the same time along the route we were running so we ran on the sidewalk and watched the race leaders go by.

We diverted from our planned route near the finish line and ran into the shopping mall to mingle with the runners in the finish line area there.  It wasn't really stolen glory, I used to run 50 races a year before my chronic injury and I enjoy chatting up runners.

(I'm on the left, John is on the right.)

After a short while we finished our run, grateful for the brief respite in the stifling heat.  I'm keeping active during my forced inactivity but I can't wait for the politicians to resolve the situation.

Still Running

Last week I started my weekly running off with a solo 5-mile run around my greater neighborhood on a clockwise loop.  That was the first of five runs that week for 23 miles.  It feels good to get my number of running days back to five, no matter how temporarily, and bump the weekly mileage up past my post-injury absolute cutoff of 20 miles.  We'll see if it lasts.

Today I had no one to run with so I set off at 8 a.m. to do the same loop counterclockwise.  Within half a mile I was returning home, my legs felt leaden from the 5.8 miles I did yesterday, and it was raining lightly.

What a wimp!  At 9 a.m. I went back out, intending to do a mile, my absolute minimum for being able to call a run a run.  I was toiling through my neighborhood mile, adding a little extra to make it a 2K run instead of a mere mile, when I found myself by the W&OD Trail.  What the heck, I thought, and I headed out on my loop, counterclockwise.

Forty-eight minutes later I was back after doing 5 1/4 miles in reverse of last week's run.  It felt so great I immediately went shopping after my shower and bought more clearance running toggery at Target (my staple) and a couple of super-fancy winter running jackets (the types that go for $60-$120 in running stores) in great shape and my size at the nearby Unique Thrift Super-store.  Yeah I love running, even if it plays with my head.

Still runnin'

This morning I went on a 5-mile run, a large loop around my greater neighborhood, that was a microcosm of why running is so great.  I have been running socially since I returned to running in 2011 from my 2-year layoff due to my now-chronic ankle injury (tibial tendinitis), which I merely try to manage through reduced mileage, more rest days and a slower pace.  This morning was one of my infrequent solo longer runs.

Doing the loop clockwise, like this morning, puts all the hills into the first two miles, including the half-mile long hill a half-mile from my house.  Going out, I spent the entire first mile fending off frantic messages from my brain to turn at familiar points and make it a mile run instead, or a 2K run, a 3K run, a 2-miler out-and-back or my old standard 2 1/2 mile run to the schoolyard and back.  Fortunately my breathing soon regulated, my legs lost their leaden feeling and acquired a little spring in them and I doggedly stuck to my original plan.

On the long hill I seemed to be pacing the garbage truck collecting trash and the garbage collectors took great pleasure in giving me a friendly ribbing at each curbside canister they emptied, commanding me to "Get up that hill!" and inquiring of my present speed, "Is that all you got?"  I got to the top ahead of their truck and turned to point this out as we gave each other friendly waves.

Past familiar haunts I ran (I used to do this run frequently, and drive the pace on it), past the tiny colonial cemetery, Timberlake Elementary school, the large modern cemetery undergoing expansion, the tiny used car lots on Lee Highway, the miniature golf course and tennis courts up by the Fairfax County 9-hole golf course, around the backside of the large loop running parallel to the infamous Beltway and onward towards Haycock Elementary school.  Large stretches of the run were shaded and there was a breeze so the sweat didn't start dripping off the bill of my running ballcap and splashing across my cheeks until the third mile.  The last mile I fell in with Beth, a hitherto unknown runner but a friendly one, and we discussed our experiences at the Marine Corps Marathon, local hills and our three sons before I turned off near my house with a friendly wave.

I just love this stuff.  Five miles in about fifty minutes.  It's fun while it lasts and it makes you feel so good when it stops.

My First Trail Run

Earlier this spring I ran my first trail run race, a 5-miler in Virginia atop a hill in the woods where an old prison used to be.  I run at work at noon on the Mall with a coworker who was signed up to do the 10-mile version of this race but I could tell she wasn't going to be ready for it and I told her so.

I urged her to drop back to the 5-mile version so she wouldn't have a dreadful experience or worse, injure herself.  I said I'd run the 5-miler with her if she did.  (I told my friend she wasn't ready for 10 miles.)

She agreed.  I signed up.

On race day I swung by her place and discovered that a) her niggling nagging injury was still present so she gave her bib to her husband, not a runner but a fit guy because he plays basketball all the time in leagues and b) a true runner, a friend. was coming with us.  Okay, I'd be running with S, her non-runner husband and the friend would run off and leave us.

It worked out wonderfully.  The friend disappeared at the start and threw down, like, a 34 minute time so he was way out of our league. 

I ran with S, and the race started at the top of the mountain next to the abandoned prison (Lorton) and immediately ran down to the stream below.  That loss of elevation would be made up for later.  (S is on the right.)

S hung with me, and ran right behind me.  The run shortly got into single track running on narrow footpaths up and down the forested or grassy hillsides and once we fell in with a group of runners after the first mile, there wasn't a whole lot of places being changed.  We tried to get over as a courtesy for runners coming through.

Down and up we went.  S was always right behind me, and I started to think I was holding him back.  We passed the halfway mark at about 24:58 at a waterstop and I took a momentary break to drink some gatorade.  I was grateful for the break because did I say, the course was up and down?

S took the lead.  I hung on as best I could, but at the four-mile mark, I waved him on, telling him that "I'm not feelin' it today."

S wasn't having any of that though and he let me get back in front of him.  Although he's a basketball player, he's fit and thirty years younger than me.  He's also a gentleman.

So I was leading a string of runners at about our pace up and down these switchback narrow trails.  At 4 1/2 miles we ran over a stream and I knew that meant a low point with a half-mile climb to the top of the mountain.  I had my sights set on breaking 50 minutes and it was doable.

Up and up we wended.  We debouched onto a grassy field with the prison above and ahead of us and my watch reading in the mid-49 minute range. 

I was even with S, but I wanted to break 50 minutes.  I ramped it up and surged past him.  I felt terrible because, well, I was breaking past him.

It didn't matter.  My time, despite my best effort, was 50:03.  Maybe I took 4 seconds to pass the start at the start but I don't calculate like that.  My time was my time.  I beat S, or should I say his wife, by 2 seconds.  I appreciated running with S.

It was a good race.  I have run with my coworker and S before, during Cherry Blossom time, and S could keep up.  I noticed that. 

Maybe next time I'll break 50 minutes for a 5-mile trail run.  (S and his wife on a cherry blossom run around the Tidal Basin in April.)  

Six Hilly Miles

John texted me early yesterday that he couldn't come on our 6-mile run on the W&OD Trail so I ran the six hilly miles, mostly on the Custis Trail, with a workmate and her cousin, both trying to get ready for long hilly races.  Both were fun to run with, smart and interesting to talk to.  It was a pleasurasble run.

The conversation with my office mate centered on deposition conduct (we're both lawyers) and with her cousin, Obamacare (she's in a thinktank trying to implement it).  I told them that since they both went to University of Chicago I shouldn't even be talking with them they're both so brainy.  But since I can run faster than either of them I was drawing them along on the trail and they both humored my liberal tendencies.

Up and down the long steep rollers on the Custis Trail we went while I talked to one and then the other, depending on how out of breath each one was.  When they were laboring on the uphills, I told them cop stories from my old State Patrol days in Colorado.  The sixty minutes went by easily enough, at least for me.

This is what I love about running, that early in the morning on Saturday you've done a significant workout and enjoyed it, and the full weekend is still stretching out in front of you,  I had a 5K race coming up the next day, my first race since Thanksgiving, and I felt good about its imminence.  After a post-run cup of coffee, which H and A bought for me, we each went off to our appointed weekend rounds.

I hadn't done those rollers in over a year

I ran with John and H today on the hilly Custis Trail.  We were slated for five miles but an injury brought us up short at 4.2 miles.

It was my best run in a while.  There are two ferocious hills on the trail and I steamed up them like old times while John and H doggedly hung onto me.  I hadn't been on those high rollers since late 2011.

I also ran by many acquaintances I knew from my former running club, of which I used to be president and now no longer have anything to do with, Kevin, Mary Anne, Sasha, Roger and the current president, who as usual pretended he didn't see me.  This last mention is a classic case of See ya Wouldn't want to be ya (when someone finally figures out what he's been up to).

A beautiful day in the greater DC area.  I hope North Korea doesn't rain on our parade anytime soon by obliterating these wonderful trails with its threatened nuclear strike on DC.

The Little City, the little creature

My home town is called The Little City, a self-proclaimed title as it asserts its fierce independence within the welter of competing governmental entities within the Beltway.  It all has to do with its superior public school system, which props up property values even in hard times, and skyrockets property taxes even for persons without children like me to feed such extravagance.

It's a nice place to jog though, as the forty mile W&OD Trail, a paved over railroad bed, cuts right through the heart of the city, and its streets for the most part are spacious enough and not crushed with heavy traffic.  It also has a nice set of hills, such as the hill which I ran up this morning that goes up to the elementary school, a school I attended half a century ago.

The jog was unsatisfactory though.  First off I lost the five dollar bill I put in my pocket, a fact I discovered after I'd poured a cup of coffee at the 7-11 near my house to take back to my house at the conclusion of my little two mile outing.  The proprietor kindly let me take the coffee anyway, gratis.

A hundred yards and a few minutes before that I had run by a poor little dead cat lying forlornly in the gutter amidst the dirty damp leaves, run over by a car, fresh blood surrounding its head.  I decided to call Animal Control as soon as I got home to report it so they could come pick it up and perhaps alert the owners.  I thought it would be an unwelcome sight for its family to discover if they were out looking for it.

There was a city police cruiser at the restaurant right next to the 7-11 so I stopped in there first and waited respectfully for the officer inside to finish ordering his breakfast at the counter before I approached him.  I asked if the city had an Animal Control officer and he answered affirmatively. 

I explained the situation to him, gave an exact location (if you're going to report something, try to know exactly where it is, such as, "on the western curb line of West Street 200 feet north of the W&OD Trail").  I left to go get my coffee next door as he called it in.

When I went by again carrying my coffee he came out and asked me to call it in when I got home because the Animal Control officer wasn't on duty currently and dispatch would give me another number to call.  The poor guy had a breakfast waiting for him and I said, "Sure, I'll be home in a few minutes."

Below is as best as I can recreate the conversation I had a few minutes later, after calling the police department's non-emergency number just a few minutes ago.

"City of Falls Church, police department."

"Hi, I'd like to report a dead cat in the city limits that I ran by a few minutes ago when I was out jogging, so your Animal Control officer could go pick it up."

"A dead cat?"

"Yes, it was dead, it had been struck by a car obviously because there was fresh blood around its head, and I thought you could go pick it up and alert the owners.  It had a collar."

"Sir, we don't pick up dead animals.  Only live ones or injured ones so we could care for it."

"Well, I thought the Animal Control officer could go get it before the family found it and saw it lying in the gutter dead, covered in blood."

"Our Animal Warden is only part time."

"Well, Could I have his number?  I'll call it to report the cat's location."

"Sir, she is part time and not on duty at the current time." 

I took this as a No.  I was starting to regret this.  When will I ever learn not to bother with trying to report animal situations within city jurisdictions?

"Well, I'm not sure why the city registers animals then because it looked like it had a tag and you could notify the owners in case they're out looking for it."

(Slight exasperation.)  "Well, I can take down a description in case the owners call in.  What kind of a cat was it?"

"It was a tabby, a household cat." 

"What color was it?"

"Well, aren't all tabbies tan with black stripes?"  (I was wrong about this.)

"Tan with black stripes.  Okay, was it male or female?"

"I couldn't tell if it was male or female even if it was alive."  This was my attempt at humor.

"A neutered cat.  Okay, where was it?"

I gave the precise location, wondering if the dispatcher would even bother to write it down.

Poor little tabby, somebody's family member, lying dead in the gutter of The Little City.

Idaho

The third day of my vacation to the Great Northwest, after seeing a Mariners game on day one and Mt. Rainier on the second day, I drove across Washington to Idaho.  I had never been in Idaho before.

I stopped at a turnout on the border on a little highway from Washington into Idaho and exulted.  As soon as I walked up to the sign saying "Idaho" I had traversed all 48 lower states (excluding Alaska and Hawaii). 

Then I drove a few miles south on the main north/south highway in the Idaho panhandle to Lewiston, where I would pass back into Washington and possibly never return to Idaho, ever.  But I found a funky old historic auto trail windy road off the main highway down the steep bluffs leading to Lewiston, an Idaho "deep water port" (up the Snake River, which feeds into the Columbia River, which is the largest river in North America which flows into the Pacific Ocean).

I drove down it at about 20 mph, winding round and round.  Here's a picture I snapped showing all the switchbacks, with the town nestled in the valley below, along the river.

A revealing early morning run

I woke up at 6:30 this morning and decided to go for a run. It had been awhile since I have run through Falls Church and Arlington early in the morning.

Down the W&OD I ran eastbound, entering Arlington, until I turned left when I came to Lee Highway. Running over the Interstate on the highway bridge, I continued eastbound on the north sidewalk of Lee Highway towards the bank behind which lay the small park I was going to circle around to get headed back to Falls Church via Lincoln Avenue.

Commuter traffic was starting to pick up as it was now about ten minutes past seven, and I started noticing drivers in the morning sunlight, observing their foibles. A convertible pulled out of a no-outlet cul-de-sac just in front of me, driven by a person with a wrinkle-lined face but a big hank of bleached platinum blonde hair which belied her obvious old age.

After I returned to my town, before I went home to shower I ran up the hill past the first school I ever attended, the sole car parked in the school lot attesting to the earliness of the day. Running early in the morning reveals all kinds things if you are observant.

Memories

I did four and a half miles of hills in my home town today, thinking of my friends just ten miles away to the east across the Potomac River running in the National Marathon and Half, a Rock and Roll entity now. Back in the day, the National Marathon gave me my PR in 2007 and the next year I ran my second fastest HM in the National Half, before I got injured and became overweight again during my layoff.

So this morning, fifteen months into my return to some semblance of running after being away for fifteen months, for fifty minutes I lugged around my extra twenty-five pounds and ran by some old spots. I have lived in this town for twenty years, alone for the last ten, and memories sometimes crowd in as I shuffle along.

I pass by a house where a friend of ours died one night unexpectedly. I accepted the story then that the friend just lay down in bed and died, but I wonder now if it was perhaps a suicide.

Here's the empty parking lot of the elementary school I attended over half a century ago, where the mother of my children works as a teacher now. She has steadfastly refused to share any information whatsoever with me for years about our three children, who turned against me as adolescents shortly after she filed divorce papers, and I wonder if this cruel woman would even inform me if something terrific, or terrible, ever befell any of these three young adults.

I approach the half mile long steep hill that is the crown jewel of hill running around here. I remember taking the person who was my best running buddy ever up it once several years back and laughing as she stood at the top bent over with her hands on her knees sucking wind, and I wonder how she is faring on the west coast where she moved to a few years ago.

The bicycle bridge spanning the highway which provides a slight uphill is up ahead and I think of all the running friends I have accompanied across the bridge on its clattering wooden surface and slightly swaying structure. None of them are with me now, and I have run with only one or two of them at all in the last year.

I am approaching my neighborhood mile, a measured distance from my driveway that used to provide me with my version of speed work as I burned off three or four sub-seven-minute miles in a morning, interspersed with household chores. Now I reflect that the best mile since my return was a solitary 8:02 several weeks ago, and I shake my head as I feel the overhang over my waistband.

I was forty-eight when I started running and for years I ran five times a week, raced weekly and was svelte and swift enough not to be embarrassed; now I will be sixty in a few weeks and I run four times a week, don't race anymore and am overweight and slow enough to be embarrassed. Memories are bittersweet at best.

The Hill

Last month for the third straight year I ran in the DeCelle Memorial Lake Tahoe Relay on a team that Bex put together. She throws her home at the lake open to the team each year and we spend the second Saturday in June crawling around the 72-mile lake in a support vehicle while one teammate is out on the front lines. We always finish about eleven and a half hours after we start.

I have previously written about this year's run as a team effort. I wanted to write about my leg this year, because it was the toughest run I ever did.

I did Leg One the first year, but that turned out to be the next-to-easiest leg and everyone got mad at me because I was one of the veteran, experienced runners on the team. So last year I did what I thought was the hardest leg, the sixth leg (of seven) because it finishes up on a monster hill the last mile and a half that rises 525 feet. It was tough alright.

Leg Six is 10.5 miles. Leg Two, the other very tough leg, is "only" 8.2 miles. But the last four miles rise 700 feet on a steady uphill slog up a mountain pass. I can now tell you from exhausting research that Leg Two is the toughest leg.

Besides the final hill, another problem with Leg Two, which I hadn't considered beforehand, is that the "flat" portion of Leg Two is really two hills which rise 200 feet each with a corresponding decline. These "rolling hills" deliver you to the bottom of the ultimate hill climb. (Right: Leg Two. That's a hill.)

When I took the baton, the first mile immediately rose the aforementioned 200 feet. I arrived at the top of that minor protuberance huffing and puffing in the rarefied air of 6350 feet. Eighteen hours earlier I'd been living happily at sea level.

The second "protuberance" wasn't any better. But the scenery was beautiful, even breathtaking. (Left: The scenery off to my left was awesome. The view off to my right wasn't bad either.)

Then I powered down the last decline and hit the final long uphill. Only four miles to go.

There was no seeing the "top." Always above me, on the far hillside, was a series of ever higher roadways with cars traveling on them.

My teammates were very supportive, driving on ahead and then stopping to offer me water as I toiled ever upwards. My pace of course slowed considerably, especially after about two miles of climbing, and the doubt started creeping into my mind. My goal was to complete this leg without walking. There wasn't much passing going, everyone was in their own private sphere on the hill.

I tried to reason with myself not to break into a walk, even for a moment. My legs were getting extremely leaden and there were still about two miles to go, all uphill.

I had nothing to bargain with my mind with, really. I finally settled upon the phrase, For the rest of your life. For the rest of my life, I would never be six miles into a very challenging climb with a mere two miles to go to salvation. What I did in the next twenty minutes, I would carry with me as long as I live. If I could endure twenty minutes of pain, I would get release. If not, if I walked even a tiny bit, in twenty-one minutes I would find release at the finish line as well, but for the rest of my life I would have a mental shrug of feigned indifference whenever I thought of the hill and how impossibly tough it was. This is what I was thinking about.

A snippet of a song by Mick Jagger, Sympathy for the Devil, made its way into my head and swirled around and around. It wouldn't go away. His moment of doubt and pain. I looked up at the far hillside, at the tiny cars up there crawling along way above my head, knowing that there lay my path, too. His moment of doubt and pain. Twenty minutes, now eighteen. His moment of doubt and pain. Now fourteen, now twelve.

In a fog of fatigue, I finally felt the roadway level out at the top of the climb. In the last 200 meters before the exchange point, several younger runners sprinted past me but I didn't care. I hadn't given in. I had run the whole way. I handed off the baton after seventy-eight minutes and one second of extremely difficult running, a 9:31 m/m pace.

I stood around in distress while my teammates crowded around congratulating me. Suddenly I kneeled and wretched loudly, two long dry heaves. That was a first for me. My teammates looked away politely, laughing quietly. I loved them all at that moment. For the rest of my life. (Right: Where was the Porcelain God when I needed it?)

Bwap!

Leg Two at the DeCelle Memorial Lake Tahoe Relay knocked the stuffing out of me. Literally. I ran it two weeks ago and it destroyed my running until today, when I finally ran a decent 9 miles on the Mall in about 1:20. I was exhausted at the end but I made it and I feel good about it.

I have been exhausted ever since the Relay, and mostly not running. On Wednesday, June 17th, I did the monthly noontime Tidal Basin 3K Run I always do, in 14:13 (7:38). The last time I was over 14 minutes for this short, fast and furious race was over three years ago. ‘Nuff said. (After finishing Leg Two at the Relay, I was not feeling well . . .)

On Saturday, June 20th, I ran a club 4-miler race on the flat C&O Canal Towpath, in 33:47 (8:27). My only other two 4-milers were both run in under 30 minutes. This race was mental agony for me as my legs felt like mush the last three miles. (. . . and when I bent over and noisily barfed . . .)

I asked an Ironman I know if he thought eight miles at altitude, with the last four miles being up one big hill, could take so much out of me that I needed a long time to recover, like after a marathon. Oh yeah, he said.

But now, two weeks later, I feel more normal. It took a long time. (. . . my teammates all did their best to politely ignore me. L-r: Ashley who killed Leg Seven, Bex who did a good job on Leg Four, the longest one, and John, an excellent bicyclist who discovered that those skills don't necessarily transfer straight over to running during a rough Leg Five.)

I’ll tell you about my hardest run ever, perhaps in my next post. Consider this image in the meantime, running hard for 38 minutes to a stadium and then immediately running up its stairs for forty more minutes without ever stopping or getting to the top.

In Atlanta

"Sir, that run is for the morning."

"What do you mean, the morning? I'm doing it now."

"But it's 8 p.m. You can't do that run now."

"Why not?"

"Sir, that's a morning run."

"I won't get lost in the dark. There's only one turn."

"Umm. . . . it's not safe."

"Oh."

"It's a morning run."

"Okay."

I had this conversation with the front desk clerk at the Ritz-Carleton Hotel in Atlanta early last week when I arrived on business at 8 p.m. Since I was leaving at 7 o'clock the next morning, I asked the clerk if she could suggest a 3-mile run I might do.

She showed me a route on a downtown map that took me from Peachtree Street, where the Ritz is, over to Centennial Park and back. Basically the directions were to run down the street, make a left, and then come back. Then this very nice clerk in effect forbade me to do it when I said I was going to do the run immediately.

I knew whereof she spoke. I have stayed on Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta before, a few years ago. As in many American cities, the homeless are everywhere.

Homeless people don't bother me. But it is not safe to run in the dark in an unfamiliar area with no good alternative route in mind should problems develop.

So I went at 5:30 in the morning instead.

It was a memorable run. There is no better way to see a new city than to run in its downtown when there is no traffic on the streets to slow you down.

It was dark, and cool. Peachtree Street was well lit, and I ran from the Ritz past the Westin to International Boulevard, where I turned left and ran down a hill. Atlanta is hilly. (Right: Down a hill from Peachtree Street in Atlanta you come across Centennial Park in the bottom of a hollow.)

I passed well-lit hotels and empty parking lots. I ran by a tiny park where stood a bronze statue of a man extending his open arms in greeting, and stopped momentarily to shake his right hand.

Lights blazed all around me as I came into the square occupied by Centennial Olympic Park, commemorating Atlanta's hosting of the 1996 Olympics. It's an odd shaped park, sort of like a big checkmark plunked down upon the downtown streets that border on the Georgia Aquarium, the Coke Pavilion and Georgia State University.

I ran into the park and stood briefly in the middle of it, looking up all around me at the sea of lights I was at the bottom of. Tall buildings past the expanse of the park surrounded me, and on all sides of the park there were tall, lit columns on its borders.

Circling the outside of the park, I ran by a few homeless people on the move in the chill of the early morning air. The sky was starting to brighten with dawn as two runners went by me at a brisk clip. As sometimes happens when serious male runners pass by each other, neither runner acknowledged my presence as they ran right past me.

Having completed my trip around the circumference of the park, I eschewed running up International Boulevard again and struck off into the maze of tiny streets that slants off the park at a diagonal. I figured I'd hit Peachtree Street eventually.

I ran by a small theater on Luckie Street, then a 24-hour diner. Yes! I had brought some money.

Inside was the entire on-duty contingent of the Georgia State Campus Police apparently, taking advantage of the restaurant's warmth on a cold morning, and its ambiance. Dispensing coffee and easy banter was a stunning redhead, who poured me a cup to go.

Slowed by my sloshing, capped container, I loped easily to Woodruff Park on Peachtree Street, near where a Marta stop is. I slowed to a walk and perambulated around that park. Regaining Peachtree Street from Peachtree Center Avenue, which involved climbing another hill, I came back into the Ritz lobby feeling great after a 40-minute jog.

The rest of the day was anticlimactic after this delightful run. At 7 a.m. I drove up to Dawsonville (apparently the birthplace of NASCAR) for a deposition, and then returned to the Atlanta airport for a flight home. Dawsonville is in the mountains of northern Georgia so the car trip was pretty, but the running trip through Centennial Park in the early morning was magical.

I just wish my RBF friend Akshaye in Atlanta could have done the run with me. Next time when I have more time!

Anatomy of a group training run

This morning my Reebok SunTrust National Half-Marathon Training Group met up at Gotta Run as usual and ran the same hilly 7.5 mile route we reconnoitered two weeks earlier. Only this time, to throw in the element of surprise, we ran it backwards.

Because it was the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, we had a low turnout. The Full Marathon training group wasn't meeting at Georgetown Running Company, so we picked up a runner from it plus another runner who had importuned the Program Director to get into the sold-out Program, and been told to come join our group.

Coaches Jeannie and Ellen mounted up four troops and went to the north on a 6.5 mile run past Memorial Bridge and Roosevelt Bridge to Key Bridge before returning. The area up there was secure and they got back intact.

Eleven of us, with Coach Lauren leading the way with the main group, went west on Army-Navy Drive towards the barrier of the elevated highways penning in Pentagon Row and then south up Ridge Road. Coach John, who had been late in saddling up, joined us on this climb up the ridge line. Coach Matt and J, both dressed lightly in shorts and technical shirts on this chilly morn, the better to move fast, split off on a secondary route on the ridge line and vanished.

The main group pushed on, huffing and puffing from the exertion of running up a tall ridge so early in the run. We were moving swiftly at the onset, to preserve the element of speed and surprise.

Atop the crest, the air was still and afforded a clear view deep into the city of Washington. No unusual activity was noted there on this holiday weekend early morning.

Pressing on, we attained the high point where, two weeks earlier, we had continued straight and came down off ridge to the creek far below it. This time we took a sharp left turn and ran down Restaurant Row, which we had previously come back up on upon the return two weeks ago. This foray into a populated commercial center was uneventful as the businesses were shuttered due to the early hour and nobody was about.

I took advantage of the quiet to find out about the two new members of the squad. The marathon trainee was an experienced runner and was loping along easily. She had glowing things to say about how the Full Marathon program was being run. They had been on several successful runs in the Georgetown area with no mishaps.

I asked her about Coach Katie, whom I had sent over there when the Director had asked me to send some experienced reinforcements over to that location. They loved her over there! The one good thing about losing such a valuable veteran was that I now occasionally pick up some valuable intel from her about how things are going across the river. You learn to pick up information however you can get it.

The other newbie was a raw rookie, new to running and brimming with hope. He was running well but I worried about how he would hold up when we encountered the ridge for a second time after being out for an hour.

Joi, a reliable member of the squad, was listening to headphones, as were several other members. I had run with Joi in other Programs. I sidled up to her and asked her if she was being antisocial today.

"I can hear fine," she said. "I have the volume turned down low."

I whispered, "How was your Thanksgiving?"

She ignored me. I whispered it again, a little louder.

"It's Beyonce, and I don't know the name of the song."

The squad burst out laughing. It's good to keep things loose on a difficult run.

We ducked through the pedestrian tunnel off Crystal Drive and ran over to the underpass under the GW Parkway. The trail looped around a hillock and up to the Mount Vernon Trail but I ran straight up the hillside so I could see how the runners were progressing. The roar of jets waiting for takeoff at nearby National Airport was deafening.

Matt and J were gone, off far ahead scouting somewhere. Matt is my most experienced coach and he had specially picked J to run with him. I was sure they were alright. Lauren was leading the main group, switching the point person at regular intervals, which is good form. The back pack was starting to straggle, however. John was with the far-back runner, subtly exhorting her on to a faster pace. The rookie was between the packs, slowing down a bit. In the secondary pack were three runners, one of whom was starting to struggle.

I dropped back with her and John and his charge swept on by. S was experienced, but she was developing blisters. She had new orthotics and they weren't right. I gently suggested to her that she turn back before her condition became disabling. She knew the terrain we were in, having been with us there several times before. She was a veteran. The route from here would only take her further from our base before we finally turned for home. I was afraid she might become a liability to the run.

She asked for the most direct route back. I outlined it for her, and she understood. The tricky part was going through the pedestrian tunnel, a little-known contrivance, but we had just passed through it. Salvation for her, at Gotta Run, lay a mere three-quarters of a mile away by the most direct route back. "I'll come find you if you're not back by the time we return," I told her. "Walk if you need to."

She turned back. Her being experienced, I trusted her to get back okay.

I caught up with the rest and ran on to the front group, informing the other two coaches of S's departure. Then I fell in with the secondary pack and we settled in for the long haul. Although they were getting ahead of us now, we could still easily see Lauren's group.

Turning inland away from the Potomac, we ran up the trail along Four Mile Run. We ran by the sewage plant, an olefactory landmark that everyone recognizes. Soon we came to the bottom of Ridge Road again, at the base of its steep, long side. Two weeks ago we ran down this part. Now, after six miles, we were running up it.

Everyone did well. I shuttled between the main group and the secondary group, which was starting to really spread out. I was gratified to see that the rookie had started pushing the pace again, and determined that he could join the squad at this late date since he obviously had conditioning and motivation. At the top I doubled back and ran downhill past half the secondary group, who were running well enough up the hill. This was good training, I told them, since our target half marathon in March has its big hill at the seventh mile, although they didn't seem gratified at the moment for this good news. But John and the marathon trainee were AWOL on the big hill.

I found them down around a further corner, toiling slowly upwards. The marathon trainee was injured. She was wearing short shoetop socks and had somehow banged the unprotected inner knobby bones of her ankles together. They were bleeding slightly.

The three of us made it to the top and took a breather. She seemed okay so we proceeded back at a trot to Gotta Run by the most direct route, saving a half-mile by cutting off a serpentine series of cutbacks coming down off Ridge Road. Recovered, the marathon trainee engaged John and I in a footrace down the hill during the last quarter mile. Hmm, she won. We arrived back ahead of everyone else except for Matt and J, who had already returned, and S, who was inside the store getting fitted by Andre for new shoes.

Moments later, Lauren's group returned, wondering how we got past them. The secondary group also arrived back, and then shortly afterwards, Jeannie's group came back from their foray up north past the bridges.

A successful sixty-eight minute outing for the Program.

The SunTrust National Marathon Newsletter

I received the SunTrust National Marathon Newsletter in my email box yesterday. Intending to delete it, I opened it and glanced at it.

It headlined 2008 as a record breaking year for the three-year old race, and posted a picture of local legend Michael Wardian threepeating in a course record time of 2:24:57. It listed both half-marathon winners as setting course records, Ezkyas Sisay in 1:06:17 and Virginian Samia Akbar in 1:16:31. It pointed out that DC Mayor Adrian Fenty PR’d in 3:40:05, and it touted essay winner Steven Babylon, who wrote about his adopted daughter who loved playing with his marathon medals, so he had to get more for her. Lastly, it listed the Featured Runner with this accompanying picture.

What a surprise. (Look, I'm wearing my Reebok shorts!)

The newsletter said that I started running in 2000 and have become a coach and running advocate as well as a runner. When I am "not wearing the tread off [my] running shoes, [I] maintain a blog about life and running in the DC area." All of that is true. Then it provided the link to my blog.

Since they didn't interview me, I can't claim I was misquoted. Which otherwise, I aways do. Keep your options open, I always say.

I sure enjoyed running the SunTrust National Half Marathon, yet I never really posted a full report about it. I already told you it was my second best time for a half marathon (my PR is 1:44:18 at the Inaugural Disneyland Half). I’m not going to bore you with a full report now, but my splits are informative, so I’ll list them. Numbers don’t lie.

The course definitely has hills in its middle part. Between the fourth and seventh miles it rises 200 feet, with the steepest climb being right at the 10K mark. Starting at the eight and a quarter mile mark, the course runs downhill to the finish, except for one more climb of about 65 feet in the twelfth mile.

I believe that to run a fast race, you have to get going right from the start--fast. My first two miles were fast, 7:41 and 7:33 (down Capitol Hill).

Then I didn't see any more mile markers til the sixth one, at 47:30 (7:55). This time included a porta-potty stop of perhaps 45 seconds in the third mile. In the sixth mile, we were into the uphill section of the course, at the steepest part. I ran over a timing mat at the 10K point in 49:22 (7:57).

The rest of the way went like this. Seventh mile 8:31 (steepest hill); eighth mile 8:05; ninth mile 8:05 (going downhill); tenth mile 7:56 (10 Miles, 1:20:10 (8:01)).

The last three miles were 8:18; 8:37 (an uphill plus I was drifting); and 8:00 (Sasha passed me by and I pepped up, thinking I might light out after her). 0:48 for the last tenth. Final Time: 1:45:35 (8:04).

It was 17 seconds faster than flat Disney World in 2006, when I was running well. It was 81 seconds slower than Disneyland in 2006, when I was at my peak. In both those races I had some gas in the tank at the end. Here, my tank was empty and I finished on fumes.

My last 5K at the Disneyland Half Marathon was 23:10 (7:27); here, it was 25:25 (8:11). That's a big difference.

Numbers don't lie. But I was thinking 1:53, so I'll gladly take 1:45.

Hill Workout

It's been a busy week. Sunday I held a hill workout for the two Programs I coach. Only two runners showed up and they didn't run many repeats before they left to go on a long flat run.

(Left: One half of a boomerang.) Running up the steep part of Highland Avenue and then down short, steep Mt. Daniel (pictured) is 0.3 mile. Each really steep part is about 500 feet long. Because the hill repeat involves a right turn (left turn coming back), I call that way of running the hill a boomerang. The other way to run the hill is to just continue straight on Highland, down a gentler slope 0.4 mile to the bottom. Those repeats up and over Highland are half a mile long, with a short steep climb or descent on one side and a long gradual climb or decline on the other.

My six miles of hills in one hour left me sore for days. Because of the extreme slope, I was almost as slow going down each steep part (sixty seconds) as running up it (70 seconds). I need to do hills because Bex has assigned me leg six at the Lake Tahoe relay in June. It's five and a half miles of flat running followed by a five miles of hills. The last mile is a run up a mountain pass while gaining 500 feet in elevation. Leg two has a 700 climb, but that elevation gain is spread out over 3.5 miles. Hmm, I wonder what leg Bex has me penciled in for next year? (Right: My former running buddy Bex.)

Doing my first track workout in several weeks on Wednesday (8X400 at 1:45, 7:02 pace) didn't help my aches and pains. I worked out some soreness yesterday by going back to Yoga after a two-month layoff. This class is held at the community center, a mile from my house. I jogged there in 7:54 and then when I was all loose and relaxed from yoga, I ran the mile back home in 6:56. It was my first sub-7 mile in awhile.

Yes Virginia, there is a New Mexico

After arriving in Santa Fe last Monday, I relaxed on my sister's back porch until she got home from work.

She took me out to dinner where I saw her son and grandaughter for the first time in several years.

After dinner, I went out with her husband to run around on the hillside she lives on in the dark. He does this all the time apparently. We're both wearing headlamps. His is bigger than mine. Believe me, I can assure you that size does matter.

This is the hillside we scrambled around for an hour Monday night. I stepped out my sister's back door and shot this the next morning.

Then I went downtown to the Plaza. Santa Fe was a colonial capital before any settlers arrived at Jamestown. The Native Americans have been selling their wares here for hundreds of years.

Oh, yes, it started snowing. I was driving back to Denver the next day.