Hocking a Tshaynik about Hocking Hills

The good: I didn't lose any toenails....yet.

The bad: I wasn't in the amazing shape my last long run had me believing.

The ugly: We've already covered the foot thing.

So, we (10 strong from Columbus Running Club) took a little roadtrip to Hocking Hills.














The day started very early, as all good trail runs should. Twisting, turning, an hour of driving, and some car-sickness later, we pulled into the parking lot and prepared to run.

The trail starts off following the road, mostly through the park and the outlying areas. Then it starts will the hills, always with the hills this one. Oy. I couldn't handle the pace on the steepest of the downhills, what you want that I should fall? So, I gently eased down the hill with reckless abandon and quad-busting speed. How bad could these hills be?

I soon found out as we turned back onto trails and immediately went straight up. And up. And up, and after my sherpa quit, I was just about half way there. Suddenly, I felt that all of the kvetching about the hill was justified. It was a certified killer. I'm glad I wasn't racing it, or going to have to run another, oh 10 miles.

The trail alternated for the next several miles between rolling, gently rolling, moderately rolling, rocking and rolling, and the seldom seen: rolling on the river. The scenery was nice, at least as far as I could tell while shvitzing profusely, panting desperately, and trying to remain vertical.

We took a few breaks to "regroup." Eventually, we came to the lake. (Pictures coming, oh when I finish the roll of film in about 3 years, you should be so lucky.) At that point, we began to separate. By the time we emerged from the woods by the campgrounds, our band of 10 was down to 5. Oh well, at least one of our group had driven, right?

On we went. Over rocks, streams, poison ivy. At long last we made it back to the road, only a bunch more to go! Up and up we went, ever slower as the road wound on. With my spirits fading and my energy nearly gone, I saw the cars and stumbled to the end.

Of course, nobody was there. Even the people I finished with were nowhere to be seen. This is not good. Fortunately, it was only a matter of time before even the last of the band made it in and we shared our triumphs and successes. Of the klutzes among us, only one fall (Greg, as promised) nobody was permanently lost (the buddy system, works every time!)

A few wise souls washed off the schmutz before we loaded up the cars again and returned to Columbus, weary but well earned.

Big Sur-prize

I decided to stay on Columbus time. It seemed to me that if I did, I would be able to go to bed early and then waking up for a 3:45 bus wouldn’t be so bad. So, at the late hour of 8:00 PM, I bedded down for the night. 1:53: I wake up. My heart starts racing. Uh-oh.

A few attempts to distract myself later, I gave up. One more half hour of sleep isn’t going to make much of a difference. I split my time between getting ready and watching an interesting documentary on Italian Americans in film. Anyway, it’s time to go.

Valerie is waiting in the car and we drive to the bus stop. A handful of bleary-eyed runners are already waiting. Eventually, the buses pull up and we snag some prime seats on the right side. (I’m told that’s the better side because you can see the ocean and everything as you drive down). The bus winds interminably down the road. It’s still dark, so sitting on this side has no benefits. Actually, I can just make out the edge of the mountains in the moonlight. It’s enough to scare the living heck out of me, but still dark enough that I can’t appreciate the beauty.

Fortunately, the bus turns around and heads back slightly. Now I can discount the whole ride and don’t have to think about how long it took us to get down there. The bus lets us off at the start and we descend into the starting area.

The announcements are less frequent and far less annoying than in NY. Jeff Galloway, who will be running the race, chimes in with some advice. I’m kind of peeved. You want my advice? Don’t alter your race strategy on the morning of the race, especially at 5 AM. His advice isn’t that bad, he suggest going out a bit easy, because of hills and heat, then have something left for the second half. Sure, it’s just that easy. He suggests banking energy. It doesn’t work. If you go out too easy, you can’t pick it up enough in the second half to make it. At best, you run your target second half pace and get a lousy time because you slacked off the first 13 miles.

Soon they are calling us to the start and I find some people who look like they’re about my speed. They deny it. Some birds are circling overhead. The announcer claims they’re hawks. Hawks don’t travel in packs. I suggest they are buzzards. They’ll duke it out with the doves they release just before the start. Runners are not good eating there buddies.

We’re off!

The first mile starts on a downhill, so my time, despite walking most of the mile, is dead on. Okay. I’m actually a little fast, so I ease up slightly and when I hit the second mile mark, I’m slow. Oh well, long way to go. The course is taking us through the park. Beautiful trees line either side. There is a sign for the Big Sur River, I can just see it to my left, nobody else seems interested. The hills keep rolling, so I do my 3^rd mile in 7:30. I ask if the course seems short and someone reminds me I just ran downhill the whole mile. Thanks for insulting my ability to run an even pace.

There are some small businesses and a few spectators who turn out to cheer us on, but mostly it’s us and nature.

About 5 miles in, we start climbing up and out of the woods. To the left, we see grasslands and to the right, the hills towering over us. There’s a sign for the official Race Cow, Tchaikowsky. I don’t see him. Nobody around me does either. At least I’m not imagining things yet. I do learn 2 things: there are going to be lots of puns and the race organizers/sign makers are filthy liars.

6 miles, the wind picks up, but the sun is starting to beat down, so I like it. That gets old real fast. I can see something in the distance, a large rock with something clearly atop. Once I get closer, it is the historic Point Sur Lighthouse. (I read about it in the inflight magazine on my way to Monterey) Finally, we swing around the bend and it reveals the ocean. There are beautiful wildflowers and large rocks at the bottom of the slope. It is already the most scenic marathon I have ever run and the best is yet to come. I’m feeling great, almost not running hard enough. We start going downward on a long hill, nice. Some race officials in cars pass by and offer some encouragement. They tell us to enjoy the hill as we prepare for the climb to Hurricane Point.

It looks like I’m on pace for a 3:30-3:45 marathon, not too bad. We start getting views of the whole coast and it is incredible. I can see waves breaking on the rocks and steep cliffs. Looking up the road there are green mountains and blue skies. There is no doubt we are on the edge of the world. If you look left, there’s nothing but the sea and ahead, the road shrinks to nothing as the coastline snakes around and out of view. I know the hill starts at about 10 and I’ve passed 9 with no trouble, except for the blister that is forming on my arch.

I can see the hill now, but not where it starts. The road winds around so far, that I can’t see the runners turning around. We keep descending and turn almost all the way back before reaching the bottom of the hill. As I get closer, I can hear the Taiko drummers, pounding out a rhythm as we begin out march up the hill. It doesn’t seem too steep, but heeding good advice and good sense for a change, I ease up a bit and give a bit of a snarl to get some more adrenaline going.

It isn’t too bad going up the hill. It’s not as steep as I feared, just a long, grinding, winding grade. Along the way, there are signs marking our progress. They read things like: Sur-vivor Point, Pain in the Ascent, etc. I take a few opportunities to take some photos.

Hurricane point comes without too much trouble. I look back at where we began our climb and it is quite a view. Unfortunately, my time suffered. I had taken 10 minutes to get up one mile, so despite the warnings everyone gave me about going too hard down the hill, I put the hammer down and try to make up some time. As we began the descent, we could finally make out the Bixby Bridge.

Once we started to get close to the bridge, the sounds of the piano filled the air, floating across the span. On the far side there he was, Michael Martinez, tuxedo clad and playing the Theme from Charlie Brown. A nice familiar tune to keep me going. It also marked the halfway point. I finish the first half in 1:54:30, my slowest first half ever. My GU addled brain told me I could keep pushing the pace. So, I kept it up, trying not to go too hard on the downhill, but certainly moving with some real speed. The coastline was still spectacular and the ocean blue.

The terrain kept rolling too and we eventually moved slightly inland.

There were other musicians along the way. Two women with guitars, drummers, some Irish guy, and more. Some are playing old favorites, some their own compositions. All are a welcome distraction. I get to 20 miles without any problems. No real signs of fatigue, just a bit of weariness at the thought of 6.2 more miles.

We passed through some cliffs, reminding me a bit of Bryce Canyon in their shape. Soon, I started to hurt. I was counting miles more than before and starting to shuffle. My times were back in the sub 3:50 range, I just needed to hold the pace. The beautiful views of the coast were gone and we were in a more residential area. There were more people out though, so we had some cheering and occasional treats. Up ahead, I see a guy with a bowl of strawberries. I usually don’t take anything other than water, GU and Gatorade, but they looked good. I swipe at the bowl with my hand and come up empty. All I did was mash my sweaty paw though the bowl. There’s another one, this time I get a few and eat them quickly, delicious. Of course, my hands were then covered in strawberry goo. I wiped them off somewhere. No matter. I chugged on.

Just a few miles to go. Someone said there were just 4 little hills left. Ok, whatever. Usually when people tell you how far you have to go, it’s not right. They build up your hopes with, “It’s just over the next hill” or “Only a quarter mile to go!” In reality, you have two miles and 3 hills. If they ever say you have more than you really do, it still beats you up mentally and you limp in anyway. But here was someone saying I had 4 hills, very specific and not particularly easy anyway. Maybe he was right.

I’d been liking the downhills for most of the race. Even when I started getting tired, I could let gravity pull me and it helped. Now, I was starting to hate everything, even downhills. At long last, I saw the signs that brought me back to life: Mile 25 and 1 mile to go!

I got a little pep back and picked up the pace. I heard someone say that they could see the finish line. I didn’t see anything (even the people running in the race are not immune from saying misleading things). All I could see was an unending snake of runners. I tried to distract myself, waiting to get to the finish.

Finally, I spied the arch for the finish in the distance. One last tiny incline and then the chutes. I could hear the announcer calling names and telling people not to let their kids run on the course with them. I put on a sprint and he barely said my name before I crossed the line. 3:51 and some change. It was my slowest time in years, and well below what I would usually hope for, but considering the course, the heat, and that I stopped to take pictures a few times, I'll take it.

A few dizzy minutes later my chip was removed and I had my medallion. I was pretty well knackered and more than one volunteer stopped me to see if I was okay. I managed to joke with them all. I stepped into the finishers’ area and alternated between water and Gatorade, pouring and drinking. I congratulated a few runners I recognized from the course. I wanted to sit, but knew I’d regret it. Plus, there wasn’t a lot of grass, so I kept walking. Once I recovered, I headed over to the food tent. They handed us paper trays to fill with treats. I grabbed bagels, fruit, drinks, and a picture. I found a nice spot on the “grass” and after a few attempts, managed to sit without cramping. I ate my snacks and watched the people for a while. After most of my food was gone, I noticed people with soup. I ventured out and got one of the last cups of minestrone. It was some of the best soup I’ve ever had. Not sure why they gave me a spoon, considering I lacked the dexterity to use one and drank it anyway.

I went in search of my gear, hoping to put on some dry clothes. I was getting some good sun, but was still a bit sweaty. Past the arch was a glorious sight: row upon row of bags! I lined up by mine and they handed me my stuff. So simple, so effective! Hear that NY? Now I had a new bag for carrying food too!

All I needed to do now was wait for Valerie to finish. Soon enough, they announced her name and I went over to congratulate her. I assured her that it was the hardest marathon I’d ever run (maybe the hardest race) and she more than earned her status as a marathon finisher. She grabbed some food and we sat and reflected on our adventures.

Road Trip! Woo!

Last weekend I went out to Monclova Ohio for a half marathon.

At least, that was the plan. We got there plenty early and registered. I didn't really have any expectations for this race, having not trained for a race since New York. So, I was just about having a good run and hopefully turning out a good time and using that confidence at Big Sur.

I really enjoyed the pre-race interval. Having less of an interest in setting a PR and being an old war horse who now only does warm ups when he feels like it, I was able to sit back a bit and watch everyone else. It's interesting to see people get ready for a race. Some are nervous, checking their watches, fidgeting, trying to keep loose. Others are stay loose by avoiding everything that the nervous set does.

I chose not to do an extended warm up run, assuming 13.1 would be enough. So, I put in about a mile and a half maybe 30 minutes before the race. Everything seemed in order. Fueled up, stretched, and ready to go, I toed the line with one goal: stay with the group and then destroy them in the last .1 miles.

The first 3 miles were fine. We started a tad fast (sub 7) but eased into our pace and all was well. Then, around 4, things got goofy. First, the mile markers were off. Unless I ran mile 4 in 3.5 minutes, it was short. Rather that acknowledge that the race was now a half mile short, I spent the rest of the race telling myself I had more to run than I actually did.

Over the next 5 or so miles, I started falling back. Not because I was slowing, but because everyone else was speeding up. So, I maintained. I actually passed a few people and was still running pretty well even at around 10.

Of course, there were no real hills, but each of the slow inclines I bounded up with glee and determination. It counts, right? Then, the wind picked up and we were headed right into it. Plus, the cramp I had in my side was really starting to get on my nerves. It didn't hurt like it could have, but as I was starting to fatigue, it wasn't helping.

At that point, the last member of our group passed me and I was in the back again. As usually happens, the wheels started coming off. Still thinking I had 2 miles, I began a long stretch on a bike path. This was an out and back section, so I got to see everyone from the group, which meant I realized how far back I was and had to slog through all of them to get to the turnaround. Plus, my feet were starting to hurt, stupid shoes! New Balance, I don't heart you anymore.

With just over .1 miles, one of the other group members was there to urge me on. I really appreciated the gesture, but it kind of stung that he was so sprightly after having run his first ever half marathon and absolutely crushing me. I figured if he was going to run the rest with me, he was going to have to keep up with my customary stupid kick.

I put on the speed and I think I managed to pass one more person as I finished. Conveniently, they asked me my age right there to determine if I won anything. I told them, and I did not get anything. I tried guessing a different age, no dice. What, I don't look 60?
The woman who finished right after me begged me to tell her that the course wasn't short. She was so cute I almost hated to tell her the truth.

Anyway, our little band bagged the top two spots for the females and a handful of age group awards. PRs all around, many of which would have still been PRs, even if we'd had that extra .5 miles to run.

Stop for Directions

Today's workout was an untintended fartlek workout.

I'm really impressed with the system of metroparks around here. There are a handful of them and they have nice, paved trials. Sure, I'd prefer some dirt now and then, but this time of year any trail is deserted so, I'll take the peace and low traffic level.

I'm not impressed with the directions to said parks. There is a highway that rings the city, meaning some long roads cross it twice. So what is a newbie to do when the instructions mention two of those roads and offer no other directional advice?

Mapquest!

So, armed with a set of directions jotted down on the back of an envelope. What, you think I'm gonna print out the directions? Right.
No problem, until of course, I pull off at my exit.

There's a sign for the park. It tells me that I should go the opposite direction my map says. Now, I was suspicious of my new directions anyway. They didn't seem to bear any resemblance to the ones on the website for the park and the map didn't actually seem to show the address being in the park.

Left it is. I began to doubt myself immediately. Eventually though, I found an entrance. After I turned around (on account of missing the turn) I went down the driveway and there I was. Lost. This was not the place. It was however a nice spot to take a picture of the sunset that 5 minutes earlier had been spectacular.

Back on the road, following directions this time, I found the place. Of course, by then my friends had all left (what? no 14 minute rule?). I stretched, searched the map for the route (I thought) they'd take and off I went.

For some moronic reason, I thought I could catch them, at least a mile behind, tired, and alone. I did not catch them. What I did do was tire myself out 2 miles in so when they turned around and picked me up, I was a lifeless, shuffling mass of moist cotton and running shoes.

Fortunately, by this time the sun had begun to warm the air and it was a pleasant run back. After a short stop (where they left me again) I was once more in chase mode. This time I came within a few feet of catching them but decided to put in just a bit more before turning around. I settled into a more reasonable, conversational pace and made it an even eleven miles before calling it quits.

We stood around and relaxed after the run, the cool air refreshing us. Wrong turns aside, it was a good run and a great day. A new route I can run and a few more miles in the books.

Fast Friends

I'm starting to wonder if I'm not out of my league a bit.

Casually, before a run a few weeks ago, one of the other runners was telling people how he'd raced the last few weekends. Actually, he mentioned winning a marathon. After the run he pondered running 100 miles a day for a while.

Then, magically, on my Saturday long run, I was left sucking air half way through. That night I met a guy who ran the Men's Olympic Marathon Trials this year.

I'm kind of intimidated by all of these people. I should point out that they've all been incredibly nice and if I had met them under different conditions, they might not have mentioned their accomplishments. Still, it's humbling to be around such quick people.

It isn't as though I'm used to being the stud of any group I'm in. Usually there are plenty of people faster than me and some slower too. This just feels different.

I'm hoping it helps me to be a better runner. I know that running with faster runners helps a lot. I'm not going to even try to keep up with the two mentioned earlier (although I did beat one of them when he was struggling through a mid-week run, he probably could have sped up and whupped me good, but I finished that run first, so it counts, hah!) but I do see myself running with some better runners regularly.

Maybe now that I'm in a new place and running with new people, this is the year I'll meet some of my more substantial running goals.

Even if I don't, I'm enjoying the company, the scenery, and life in general.

Here's to another 365 of great running.

I'm in love with a wonderful.....trail?

I was hoping that I would find an apartment near some trails or at least sidewalks.

That was not to be.

Fortunately, there is a 15-mile bike path within 15 mintues of my place. Not only that, but there is a lake on the path, that offers pretty scenery and a bit softer ground for weary legs.

So, I'm sold. My first run there was an 18-miler in preparation for the marathon. I met up with some other runners and ran with them for a while. However, they were not looking to hit double digits, so for the majority of the run, I was on my own.

Well, I was running solo, but there were lots of other people out there. The path winds all the way into the city. I didn't take it quite that far, but I did get to the OSU campus. It was gameday, so I started passing people walking to the Horseshoe and getting to their tailgating.

The trail took me through wooded areas, parks, and along the river. I even managed to keep from getting completely lost.

So, I think I've found my new favorite. Maybe having to drive a bit from the apartment to run won't be so bad.

It's a Hill of a Town (NYC Marathon Race Report)

My secret hope before going to bed, was that I would wake up on my own, about 10 minutes before my alarm was to go off.

I got 15. So, a bit tired and even more anxious, I started getting my things together and getting ready to head out. I put on everything I wanted and left the apartment. When I got to the elevator, I decided I should put on my long shirt. Ooops, it’s still in the apartment. No problem, I’ll just open the door ever so slow-crud, it’s locked. Oh well, at least I have garbage bags.

I expected there to be people out on the streets. Not so much. However, once I started getting close to the bus stop at the library, I found some. The closer we got, the bigger the crowd. They herded us onto the bus and quickly left for Staten Island.

Speeding though the darkened NY city streets gave me a little time to relax. It was warm on the bus and most of the people around me were trying to sleep a little. When the bus finally pulled up, there was already a stream of people heading for the starting area. The feeling was a little bit like camp, volunteers lined the street, welcoming us to the marathon as we hugged our bags and shuffled through the gates.

We were quickly divided based on the colors of our bibs, although I had no idea where I really was. There was a small parking lot with coffee and water. Music was playing and I was starting to get excited. I made my way through the dark to where we were supposed to start. There were signs for each starting group. I found a nice patch of grass near mine and plunked down. I was getting a bit cold, so I put one garbage bag over my torso and put my legs in the other. I spent the next hour or so trying to keep warm, read, and keep my legs from tightening up. I did each one with little or no success.

The whole time this was going on, they were playing, on a constant loop, a recording of a voice telling us to be in the blue corral, corresponding to the blue on our bibs. It was dark and 5 in the morning mind you.

The area was starting to fill up and it was starting to get light. After fiddling with the Sunday times crossword, I gave up and went in search of some warmth. Just my luck, there was a generator powering the infernal speakers. I sat behind it and it simultaneously blasted my legs with warm and air drowned out the speakers. Nirvana!

About 2 hours to go. Time for Froot Loops, bananas, and pretzels. I eagerly downed my breakfast of champions and did a little more reading, but really I was too nervous and excited to read or sit still. By this time, the recordings had changed to one informing us it was nearly time to go to the bridge.

Having opted for lots of stuff, I needed to deposit my gear bag. Making my way through the throng I was met with an immovable object: The vast majority of the 39,000 runners trying to do the same. After waiting not so patiently and not moving anywhere near my baggage car (70, I could see 42 in the distance, giving me some idea of how long it would take me to still never get there) I turned around and decided to part ways with my cheap pens, day old paper, and extra box of cereal. What to do though, with my body glide? It’s a new stick and seemed silly to get rid of it. Fortunately, I managed to fit it inside my pocket. I’ll simply carry it until I meet up with the family and then give it to them. Problem solved.

I made my way to the street and eventually we started walking to the bridge. They walked us between a row of busses and the toll booths. I was totally turned around. I had no idea where the bridge or even NYC was. Then the cannons fired. We were off. Sort of. Quickly we moved around the busses and towards the bridge.

Seeing the Verazzano Narrows bridge ahead of me took my breath away. It was impossibly tall, almost shimmering, surrounded by an early morning haze. The first mile was a tangled mass of bodies, discarded clothing and the view from the bridge. I had no idea how fast I was going, but I was loving every minute. The first mile passed in 8 minutes and some change. Not too bad. It was opening up and I was actually able to get some running room from time to time. The second mile was pretty much all downhill and it was much faster and felt great.

We poured off of the bridge into Brooklyn and the real fun began. The crowds were out, cheering on the runners. They called out names of people who had theirs displayed on their shirts, yelled for foreign countries and gave good encouragement to everyone else.

Brooklyn was a blur of ethnicities, neighborhoods and waterstops. I was feeling good and starting to make up the time I lost in the early miles.

I knew my parents would be somewhere around mile 7. So shortly after the 10-k mark, I stopped slapping hands with every little kid on the side of the road and began scanning the crowd. A few miles later, sure enough, there they were, standing and cheering me, no wait, they didn’t see me at all. I turned around, hugged mom and handed off my body glide. Before they could even react, I was back on the road and heading for Queens.

Queens passed much like Brooklyn did, and I was loving life. I hit the halfway mark at almost exactly 1:45, perfect for a 3:30 finish. I was still running strong, but a little road weary at the thought of another 13.1 miles. Undeterred, I pressed on, telling myself the moment I passed the half, that I had less than 13.1 to go.

Unfortunately, there was a problem in Queens, towards the end. I couldn’t get the theme song from the “hit” television show the King of Queens. Driven nearly to madness, I crossed onto the Queensboro bridge. The voices in my head and the voices from the road subsided and I made my way towards Manhattan. At the end of the bridge, there were some posters psyching us up and then there was the sound. That faint, distant rumble, the unmistakable clamor of thousands of cheering fans.

It grew louder as we descended onto the island. For the next several miles, as we headed north, the crowds were several people thick on both sides, screaming, cheering, and impelling us onward in our quest to conquer the 5 boroughs.

I knew that Marc and my folks were going to be somewhere along the road. I watched the crowds for a few dozen blocks but couldn’t find them. Only after passing where they were, did I realize they were trapped on the other side of the street.

At the end of the road, we stumbled up a bridge and were quickly welcomed to the Bronx. A woman with a bullhorn shouted at us and made us feel welcome. A large television screen was waiting at the end of the street and I watched as everyone mugged for the camera. I did my best as I passed by as well.

As we headed back towards Manhattan, I was starting to feel it. The streets were not coming any faster. When I hit Marcus Garvey Park, I knew I was nearing the end. I zipped around and set my sights on 5^th avenue, which would take me into Central Park.

Much to my surprise and delight, my parents spotted me on 5^th Avenue. I really needed a boost and they gave it to me. Finally, we were entering the park. By this time, I was in all but full shuffle mode. I was slowing down, sore, and there was a strange tingling in my feet and hands. Somehow, I kept going and eventually the end of the park came into sight. I tried to avoid jumping the curb and hurting myself. No matter, my leg cramped up and went into spasm. I walked a few steps and started limping/running again. I fought off cramps for the next few hundred meters, hoping to get to Columbus Circle without further incident.

By this time they were breaking down the remaining distances in hundreds of meters. Good time to rely on the track training. Each hundred meters seemed longer than the last. That was until, 100 meters to go. I put all of my fatigue and pain aside and made a mad dash for the end. I jumped in the air at the finish line and pumped my fist. Man, I’m a dork.