Two Days Off

It's baaack. Due to the pain returning in my injured foot after I did an intermediate run, a track workout and a recovery run (running home from the track) in one day, I took the next two days, Thursday and Friday, off. But on Saturday I had to lead the intermediate group in the TMG program I direct because both intermediate coaches were away. That band of runners was scheduled to do 9 miles.

Because of my sore foot, I was tempted to wave the group on down the trail and wait for them to come back in an hour and a half. I'm glad I didn't because the route I chose for them to run was on the Custis Trail, a hilly and not particularly well-marked trail. It's within a few miles of my house so I have run it dozens of times but most of the eleven athletes in my group didn't know the trail. The three runners in the lead managed to go to the turnaround point and return without incident (thus earning them an A+ in sign reading) but I took the rest of the group on a wrong turn and we got into city streets and went a mile before I sheepishly admitted we were lost.

Lost? Not me. Not lost really, because I knew exactly where we were by then since I live around there, but we were no longer anywhere near the trail. Like a guy finally having to ask for directions, I collected the eight runners following me, 'fessed up and had them backtrack to the trail. We got our nine miles done by turning around early to compensate for the distance we ran while lost.

That's what makes running exciting, seeing new places as you run along trying to figure out where the hell you are. I joked with my group that our adventure demonstrated why runners should always carry a fare card, so they can jump aboard a Metro to get back when they're miles off course.

I wore an ace bandage on my injured foot and it felt okay. After the workout, I went with Not Born To Run to wish Bex goodbye. (Left. The group Jeanne runs with at the TMG actually stretches before their runs. Jeanne is the flexible one in the visor.)

You're leaving? Bex was leaving town that very day for good. We went to lunch with her and E after they finished packing their car like a suitcase with the rest of their possessions left over after the movers left. It was packed, too. To squeeze that last box of Kleenex into the car, Bex had to pull the tissues out and throw the box away.

Jeanne was kind enough to treat us all to lunch as a goodbye to Bex after years of working with her and a thanks to me for hauling E's loveseat over to her house when Bex gave it away. Thanks Jeanne!

At the restaurant Jeanne and I and Bex were talking about marathons and times and saying off the top of our heads how you needed a 9:09 pace to break four hours, how a 3:50 was about an 8:48, and how you needed to run at about an 8:33 pace if you're going for a 3:45. It all was very stimulating for the three of us. (Right. Bex at rest during her seventh leg at Lake Tahoe.)

What are you talking about? I looked at E, the non-runner in the group. He's a terrific tennis player instead. He was politely smiling and looking like he was listening. I asked him what he was really doing while we were talking thus. He said, "Balancing my checkbook in my head."

I persisted, "What do you hear when we talk running like this?"

"I imagine it's like what our dog Nelson hears when humans talk," he explained. "It goes like this. Blah blah blah blah Nelson blah blah blah bad dog blah blah blah blah blah come blah blah blah no blah blah...."

E is a riot.

After lunch Bex and E left for the great state of Californi-yay. Permanently. Sigh.

You did what? A called from the new town she just moved to and said she had just completed her first 20-miler as she gets ready for Chicago. I was instantly insanely jealous. All I had done so far to get ready for Chicago was an ugly sixteen. (Left. A during her moving sale on Capitol Hill. She's the one on the stairs.)

But the very next morning, Sunday, I had my own 20-miler scheduled.

A Full Day

Yesterday was a full day at the track and on the trails. I ran the bridges with M during the noon hour, 7.7 miles, in about 68 minutes. Ha, I had M, eleven years younger and faster than me to boot, begging for mercy after five miles. He tried to wave me on to continue without him when we got back into the District via the 14th Street Bridge near the Jefferson Memorial after our foray into Virginia utilizing the Memorial Bride by the Lincoln Memorial. But running buddies don't do that so I slowed down til he recovered. I capped my run off with a run up Capitol Hill (M works in a different building than me).

At 6:30 pm I took Metro to the Washington & Lee High School in Arlington for my club's Wednesday evening track workout. We ran for 20 minutes at ten-mile race pace, which I figure is 7:37s these days, so I shot for 1:48 laps. It was harder than I thought. Here were my splits: 1:48, 1:46, 1:47, 1:48, (then like a dying Energizer Bunny) 1:49, 1:50, 1:51, 1:55, 1:59, (last lap) 1:48, (cool down lap) 1:47. We capped it off with 2X400 at 5K race pace, which I figured should be 1:44s, 1:44, 1:39. That last lap I was chasing a 65 Y.O. friend of mine who was burning 1:37s. He's faster than me, sometimes, especially whenever he does track work. Then he leaves me with my tongue hanging out.

We finished the workout in the gathering gloom of the evening. I hopped onto the Custis Trail which feeds into the W&OD Trail which takes me directly to my back yard line, 4.7 miles away. I was a little tired and it got dark so I couldn't see my footfalls clearly so I went slow. What do you think about when you're running down a darkened but familiar trail? I was thinking that I hoped I didn't step on a snake on the trail even though I have never seen a snake on the trail. Our worst fears, you know? Give me a mugger to steal my two quarters for a pay phone call any day.

I got home in about 45 minutes, very tired and very glad to have this full day of running behind me. In chopped up segments, I did 16.1 miles including warmup and recovery laps.

I woke up this morning and my injured foot was throbbing. I overdid it, obviously. I'll keep you all posted.

My antics yesterday put me over 40 miles for the week for the second straight week and over 137 miles for August as I get ready for Chicago on October 7th. I still haven't done a twenty yet.

Karma

I was running my second 10-miler in two days this morning, thinking how I was finally back to training for Chicago again after injuring my left foot a month ago by stepping in a hole. My mind was going over all the mind-numbing details I could supply you with: Thursday's 2.2 mile run over my hill at a 10:11 pace; Friday's eclectic 10K run starting with a two-mile run to the West Falls Church Metro Station at a 7:50 pace, followed by a run over my hill at an 8:55 pace, finished off by blah blah blah...

Someone running on the W&OD Trail went by me who looked familiar in the early morning light. It was a beautiful woman pushing a child in a running stroller. Two dozen ringlets of golden hair swayed about her entrancing face, perfectly setting off her ebony skin.

I backtracked and caught up with her. She looked at me guardedly. I asked her if she ran this trail often. Her answer, spoken in the lilting accent of the Islands, was noncommittal.

"Do you remember about a month ago," I asked, "running by me when I was walking on the trail with an injured foot? And you stopped to ask if I was all right?" Her face lit up. "Yes!" she said. "And you are all right?" She remembered.

This was the one person who passed me on the trail that day as I was limping home after hurting myself who stopped to ask if I needed help. Everyone else on the trail gave a wide berth to the wild man hobbling along muttering bitter imprecations about his cursed luck.

Her sweet actions then made me feel so much better.

God was she pretty. The youngster in the stroller, an Asian-American child, looked at us curiously.

"I'm fine now, and back to running," I told her. She seemed delighted. I thanked her for expressing her concern then. I really meant it.

I was so grateful that I was able to express my feelings of appreciation to her. I felt like the circle had completely closed on my time away from training due to the injury.

Her smile was utterly radiant. I smiled in return and turned to continue my run. I was seven miles in and still had three miles of hills to go. My step was lively as I ran away and I felt absolutely great.

Mendacity

I had some interesting responses to the question posed in my last post, What you would do if you saw some bills lying on the floor in a crowded room? Here’s the set-up.

I was standing by the door on a jam-packed subway train after last week’s historic soccer game at RFK. (Don’t you remember? I told you that Jaime Moreno rolled a penalty shot in to break the all time MLS scoring record. You forgot already?)

One more person wedged on board before the doors closed. Looking for open space, he noticed two clumps of crumpled dollar bills on the floor right by my feet. He pointed down and said to the man on the other side of the bills, "Is that yours?"

The man immediately looked down and, without missing a beat, said, "Yes." He bent down, scooped up the two wads of bills and shoved them into his pocket without looking at them further or saying a further word (like, "Oh thanks!")

Trouble was, the money was mine. I know it was. Since the helpful guy's comment wasn't directed at me, I looked down too late. Should I have arrested the thief's wrist as it came back up with my two clumps of money? There on the crowded train full of liquored-up fans coming back from the game? Should I have instantly gotten close and personal?

The money was gone in a flash. The swindler turned and faced away from me and his benefactor.

Money is fungible, right? How could I prove it was mine? My pocket was full of wadded up bills. I had just pulled my employment id out of that pocket without looking to make sure I still had it. Some clumps of bills had obviously tumbled out.

My change from lunch was gone, a five and a some ones. My change from a snack purchase at the stadium was gone, some singles.

I said to the good samaritan, "You know, that money was mine." He said, "I’m sorry, I didn’t know." I assured him, "You did the right thing."

Pointing directly at the smooth operator I said, "He, on the other hand, did the wrong thing." The man looked back at me impassively, then moved over by the door.

Room opened up in the car. I considered going over and accosting him for my money. Or maybe bargaining with him for half of it back. What better way to create a volatile situation in a crowded subway car than to start an argument over the theft of money, which charge you couldn’t prove? Would the other riders enjoy that male alpha show?

I sat down and, staring at him, slowly pulled every wadded up bill out of my pocket and carefully smoothed them all out. The mendacious one glanced over, saw what I was doing and turned to stonily face the closed door. He got off a couple of stops later. This thief and liar evidently lives in Clarendon, which is in Arlington.

I used to believe in karma (and fairness) til I got introduced, in Arlington, to American family law (divorce law). Now I believe in the jungle.

That guy knew it was my money. But what are you gonna do in those circumstances? What should I have done? It still pisses me off. But I marvel at the guy who gave away my money. What a guy! (I'm serious. He tried!)

More soccer

Yesterday I ran a seven-miler during the noon hour at an 8:24 pace, the best run I've had in weeks. I ran across an office mate running on the Mall and I signaled for him to join me on a "Bridge Run" over to Virginia on the Memorial Bridge and back to DC on the 14th Street Bridge. He was game and we pushed each other. He's going to his H.S. reunion in Germany in a matter of weeks and wants to look good for it so he's working hard in the interim (he's faster than me). He said they won't be doing any running but they're going to drink a lot of beer. German beer out of steins.

My kind of reunion. My last H.S. reunion only confronted me with the fact that both of my high school roommates have passed on. Sigh.

Yesterday evening I went with someone from work to see a MLS game at RFK, the second professional soccer game I've seen in two weeks. It's a long story. (Whatever happened to the NASL?)

Anyway, the seats were highest up in the extreme corner of the lower deck. I could look down and see the top of the head of anyone taking a corner kick from that side. There was a foul pole in the way of my seeing some of the goalie box. (RFK is a baseball stadium.)

Good thing we arrived on time. DC United scored in the sixth and eighth minutes, both goals occurring right in front of us. It was pretty exciting. That was pretty much it. The other 82 minutes, the two sides swapped penalty kicks. DC beat the New York Red Bulls 3-1.

There were lots of balls the attacking team sent from inside their opponent's goalie box back to midfield, then back to their end of the field, then back to their goalie. This apparently is how you set up the attack in soccer, by slowly sending the ball backwards 80 yards.

The GK would hold the ball for forty seconds while everyone on offense and defense settled into their places on the long field nicely and then he'd loft a 50-50 ball back to midfield. This is as exciting as watching Mark Brunnell take snaps to throw passes.

But the DC United penalty kick was historic. You see, there's a guy on the United named Jaime Moreno. He's 33. In his eleven years in the MLS he had scored 108 goals.

He had scored three times this season, all on penalty kicks. His last goal was three months ago.

United Striker Luciano Emilio, this season's leading MLS scorer, was taken down in the box as he got free with the ball. Ignoring both the fullback's and Emilio's obligatory hands beseeching the heavens from their knees, the ref set the ball up on the 12 yard line and signaled for a PK. PK is referee shorthand for, I'm awarding this team an automatic point and probably the game.

Unlike the NBA where the fouled player takes the shot, anyone can shoot the PK. Moreno stepped up to the plate. (Sorry.) At the end of the season, if Emilio misses the scoring crown by one goal, do you think he'll remember this moment in a different light?

The dumb thing about PKs is that the GK can't move until the ball is struck. Motionless one moment, he's diving by guess and by golly the next. Yawn.

So Moreno took this PK and rolled his 109th lifetime goal inside the side of net two feet past one upright bar while the GK dove towards the other upright bar. Egg on your face! I swear the announcer bellowed "goal" as one word for ninety seconds. (Who is #19?)

You see, Moreno broke the record for the most lifetime goals ever in the MLS. Once the announcer had completely run down his copious breath pronouncing the one word "goal" for a minute and a half, he next announced that we could purchase "109, I was there" t-shirts in the concourse. How long were those suckers on ice waiting to be sold?

Here's the problem that soccer has in America as a major professional sport. Have you heard that Hank Aaron's lifetime homerun record was broken earlier this month? Did you hear that Jason Kreis's (who?) lifetime goal record was broken last night? See what I mean?

Next post: If there was $8 in cash lying on the floor in a crowded room that wasn't yours, would you claim it? Come on now! What if it was yours and somebody swifter than you claimed it and stuck it away in their pocket. What would you do? Come on now! It's a jungle out there!

A Bloody Business

Donating Blood. Just 1 2 Finish posted something interesting. He's a regular blood donor apparently.

He went out for a five-mile run and crashed. He wondered if something was wrong. He had a marathon he was gettin' ready for!

Then he remembered. He had given blood the day before. He had a paucity of red blood cells and his body rebelled at the exertion. It demanded some respect (in the form of time). It's a situation many runners encounter, I suspect, because I'll bet lots of runners donate blood regularly.

How Often? If I'm around, I donate blood whenever the Red Cross mobile donation center comes to my agency, which is four times a year. I have good blood, O+, which can be used for any person with RH positive blood. The Red Cross is after me all the time for it.

What About Later? The instructions afterwards are to drink plenty of fluids and not to do anything physically demanding like lifting weights for the rest of the day. If you ask them about the next day, it gets a little more uncertain and vague. But here's my experience.

It's Effect, a personal guide. Fast Runs. Hours after a blood donation, I have run in a very competitive 3K race. It seemed to have no effect.

The day after a blood donation, I have run a 5K race. It seemed to have no effect.

Slow Runs. The day after a blood donation I have run an 8 mile LSD. It seemed to have no effect.

Two days after a blood donation, I have run a sixteen mile LSD. After seven miles, I slowed down. After 12 miles I really slowed down. Miles fifteen and sixteen were a stumble-bum affair where I was panting and exhausted.

Two days after a blood donation, I have run a twenty-three mile LSD, with a 90 minute rest at the midway point. I was literally shuffling along the last four or five miles, dead tired, counting the miles off as I fantasized about the blessed moment when I'd arrive back at my house at the end.

Marathons. Last year, the Red Cross unit came to my workplace on the Wednesday before the Sunday when I was going to run the New York City Marathon. I decided that donating blood four days before a marathon race was too risky, so on the Friday prior to the Red Cross showing up at work, I went to the hospital to make a blood donation.

Nine days later, my marathon was going fine. I felt great. I was sailing along, with a 3:45 definitely within reach. I even had an escort the last ten miles, pacing me.

At MP 21 I suddenly just broke into a walk. Just like that. I didn't even call out to my escort that I was slowing down. She went on down Fifth Avenue clearing space for me and I wasn't even there anymore (NYCM is crowded). After a short while she had to double back and find me. This happened more than once. (That's me at the 2006 NYCM, # 16976. I was doing just fine on the Queensboro Bridge around MP 17.)

I walked five or six more times going to Central Park. Run a little, walk a little. I'd just...walk. I finished in 3:52:34 only because my running buddy spurred me on to greater effort the last mile. While I ran to the finish line in the roadway at the end, she ran behind the spectator barricades, loudly exhorting me on. She was tremendous.

(By MP 24, I was no longer doing just fine. I was merely seeking the end.) I have thought about my sudden and casual surrender to fatigue those last five miles at NYC and come to the conclusion that my blood donation nine days earlier very possibly cost me my BQ. But if my blood donation really helped somebody, then it was worth it, because if running is life, then life is life too. However, I'm not donating blood again until after Chicago.

An Ugly Sixteen

LSD. I finally got my 16-miler in today as I prepare for Chicago seven weeks from now. You'll remember I had a little trouble with the heat last month when I attempted a sixteen miler and my running buddy A shut down our run, correctly, after 14 miles. Then I hurt my foot. My injury put me down for a full week and set me back three weeks.

But last week I did a more robust 28 miles for the week, including a track workout, a race and yesterday's eight-miler, when I had energy left over at the end of the run. Today I wanted to do 14 or 16, but I hung around the house putting it off all morning. Finally at 11 am I headed out. Fortunately it was overcast and still relatively cool.

The W&OD, a forty-mile long running trail, cuts right across my back yard line at MP 7. Pretty handy. Mile markers every half mile.

I ran seven miles down to Shirlington and seven back. That took 2:13 (9:30). Going down to the zero mile marker I was running nice 8:45s or 8:50s. But then I got tired. Coming back it was more like 9:20s to 9:50s, and well over 10:00s for the last couple of miles.

I moseyed along a little on the way back. I stopped at the comfort station at the Ranger Shelter. I went by a couple about my age, walking along wearing tie-dye t-shirts. I stopped to chat.

"Tie dye is back in?" I asked.

"Oh, you bet." (Why am I always the last one to find out?)

"I've got to get home and find all those t-shirts I still have from the seventies," I said as I hurried off.

I contemplated extending my run to a 22-miler. But I was getting really tired and I was really slowing down. I made it to my driveway, the fourteenth mile, where I'd laid out food and Gatorade in my car. I was panting and feeling a little woozy. The sun was coming out and it was getting humid.

As I sucked down Gatorade, I considered the fact I'd given blood two days earlier and attributed my weariness to that. Plus I was convalescing my foot. My grand notion of doing 22 miles shrank to 17. I'd do a single repetition of my hill workout, which is a two-mile out and back from my house, and follow it up with my neighborhood mile. How hard could it be?

Very hard indeed. On my hill, I walked twice taking deep draughts of water from the fresh bottle I was carrying. Those miles were on the order of 13-minutes each. Going down the steep part of my hill was painfully slow. My motion was akin to stumble-bum.

I abandoned my new plan to finish up with my neighborhood mile. I gratefully shuffled into my driveway after sixteen and a quarter miles at 2:40:35 (9:53) and pulled the plug. The second half of the run was ugly and getting uglier. Boy, long runs can go down the tubes in a hurry.

But my sixteen is done. My foot feels fine right now, although tomorrow will tell. Now I just gotta do a twenty-miler as I get ready for Chicago, maybe in a couple of weeks.

Odds & Sods: I have a friend at work who is scheduled to take a long-planned vacation to Cancun, Mexico, with long-purchased airline tickets on a flight on Wednesday. All of the tickets are non-refundable. Cancun would be the place where Hurricane Dean, projected to be a Category Five hurricane packing 160 MPH winds, is due to make landfall on Tuesday. For my co-worker, it must be like watching a slow-motion train wreck as the storm moves across the Caribbean.

Thanks! I want to thank my brother for his generous support of my intention to run Chicago as a fund-raiser for a charity, A Running Start Foundation. My brother is a sometimes-runner and a Yankee fan like me.