It's supposed to be more the usual tomorrow and especially Sunday: below-zero windchills and generally icy, dangerous running conditions. "So, get a run in tonight!" I sez to myself when I get home. The temperature was quite reasonable for this town, this time of year, at about 36F. I put on the Sugoi running tights with the reflective stripes; found the old green fleece headband; and loaded up the Shuffle with Foo Fighters, Jay-Z, and Smashing Pumpkins. A slapdash mix, but it'll do.
I get out on the mean streets of Park Ridge, and it's 1/2" to an 1" of slush on the less-traveled residential byways. Surprisingly, I had really good traction. I can't explain it — I don't have havybeaks' screwspike-equipped running shoes or even trail running shoes. Just a plain old pair of trusty Asics Nimbus VIIs. I also felt surprisingly strong, cardio-wise, for not having run in quite some time. It's possible a skiing weekend out west 7 days ago is the explanation, but I dunno. Just 4 days at altitude shouldn't buy you any advantage, should it? Acclimation doesn't work that rapidly.
In the end, four miles. A bit of base built toward the half marathon in May (but it's really pushing it to connect a run this early with a race so far off). And some satisfaction in getting some work in before all that slush freezes into an impassable moonscape.
Did I mention I'm pleased to be heading to California for work again next week?
I got a 5-miler in last night before the door to the industrial freezer we call the Midwest slammed shut. My hair was frozen in matted clumps below my fleece headband, and that was at about 18F.
Fortunately, even I am not enough of a nutjob to run in this, the temperature of the moment:
…that's Fahrenheit, but it might as well be Kelvin. At least it's bright n' sunny. Everybody smile!
…is a must listen. It's no trade secret he's one of the hardest working musicians, period, and Foo Fighters has been a 13-year expanding ripple from the collision between Nirvana and the mainstream. But he's so plain-spoken, so thoughtful, so much like us (except for that superhuman talent thing) that it's all you can do to not run him straight to the top of your Famous People I'd Like to Buy A Beer list.
Oh, and "hi." I'm still here, but I'm so far behind contributing anything new at all, that I might as well circle around and start over completely. "I started marathon training this week; I think I'll use this site to post this-and-that about my training experience as the “Road to Boston” unwinds."
]]>If you're not living in the Chicago area you probably haven't heard much, if anything, about the "itch mite" problem that seems to have taken hold here. In the leafiest areas, especially around my northwest suburban neighborhood, there has been an outbreak of small, annoying, intensely itchy insect bites that seem to come from nowhere, but always affect people spending time outdoors. The story is well-covered in this CBS2 story and this huge Topix thread lists hundreds of posts by residents and visitors in northern Illinois who've noticed bunches of itchy red welts on their arms, necks, and torso. They itch for days and apparently the microscopic, oak tree-dwelling mite that causes them can't be warded off by repellent. The worst part is that you have absolutely no indication that you're being bitten; just the itchy marks to prove it ~12 hours later.
I got my first two or three bites after an evening run two weeks ago. The next day, I noticed them on my arms and on my stomach. Supposedly the mites don't bite until they've been on you for several hours, so a good shower should avoid the problem after time outdoors. Not true. I've been collecting these marks even after showering within an hour of finishing at 30 minute run, so I'm pretty sure the damage is done within minutes of the invisible, unnoticed mite taking a bite. Truly an annoyance.
So, what to do? Run indoors? No friggin' way. Wear long sleeves? Maybe, but a) it's still August and b) I've gotten these bites on my torso while wearing a short sleeve running shirt, so I think they can defeat loose-woven fabric. Stop running here at home until the first hard freeze, which is supposedly the event we need to kill these things off? Not likely. Still, it's demoralizing to step outside and know you're just gonna get some new itches for your troubles, and that's that.
My theory is this is completely correlated to the 17 year cicada cycle we encountered earlier this summer, even though these mites supposedly aren't their eggs' predators. It's too much of a coincidence.
I have neglected this poor VOX like I was being paid to do so. Pathetic. No Great Midwest Relay recap, no coverage of the simple, satisfying runs that make up the summer season (despite this being an off-year where marathons are concerned), no mention of something even remotely close to a Good Reason for my absence. Heck, I've missed you people, and that should be reason enough.
So, the supertight summary:
For the Great Midwest Relay, I volunteered to do our twelve person team's t-shirt design. We decided to get basic white technical short-sleeve shirts from a place called runningbanana.com, which came recommended to us by another runner. Each shirt is $36 shipped, so I'm hoping they're high quality, comfortable, and survive at least a few washes. The interesting thing about their process is that they use "dye sublimation," a technology used by a lot of personal printers optimized for digital photography. The design is dyed directly into the fabric rather than silkscreened over it, preserving the fabric's breathability. Posted below is the design, which will appear on the back between the shoulder blades:
…And there you have it. I'll post a review of runningbanana.com's product itself once it arrives, which may be the middle of next week!
Left work, iron-gray skies above. Got on train. Drops streaking sideways on windows. Ponds forming in every dimple of asphalt on passing station platforms. Got off train. Got on bike. Rode two miles in the rinse cycle to get home. Exactly half-soaked from front to middle. Leather shoes. Crap.
Cut my losses; change right into summer running gear. Step out the door, cooler by 10 degrees than when I left work, maybe. Muggy in an autumnal way — not in your face, but damp. Stretch, then set a good pace. Rain has settled into a mist; cools but doesn't soak, although slick pavement plots treachery with each stride.
Make it to turnaround at Edison Park; water fountains are already on for the season. Soggy softball diamond is deserted, tennis courts inviting only to the mallard set. Mist picks up a bit, more of a steady thin drizzle. Spurs me on.
Last stretch, fifth mile of this trusty loop is a fast one, sub-seven. When the summer heat arrives to stay, I'll look back on this evening and want a switch to throw that restores it.
Today my long-lost running partner Shawn and I ran the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon. We made this commitment shortly after I regained consciousness following the '06 Chicago Marathon; we decided that we should try to meet up at a race somewhat halfway between us (he now lives in Dayton, OH, while I'm still up here just northwest of Chicago). About a month ago we both concluded our preparations were vain and foolish efforts at best, and that the cleaning crew would most likely scoop up our corpses along with the other course-side trash, Gatorade cups, and bric-a-brac.
Turns out our angst and so forth was mostly misplaced. Cool, overcast conditions prevailed on Saturday in Indianapolis, and I'm guessing the start time temperature was about 60. A touch muggy, but quite good for this time of year. We got to the start corrals, lettered A through Z to subdivide everyone from elites to the almost-walking-the-entire-ways, and saddled up in the "B" and "C" zones respectively. Indy seems to have plenty of friendly volunteers on hand, a compact starting area for a field of 35,000 down a broad east-west avenue lined on both sides by hotels, and a course that provides an interesting twist on the usual out-and-back: 2.5 miles of it circle the actual Brickyard — the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. As someone born in Indy (but having lived just about everywhere else) and lucky enough to have viewed one 500 and several practice and time trial sessions, this was a special treat.
After a strange rendition of Back Home Again In Indiana (where "strange" is anything other than Jim Nabors at the ’500 itself) and the National Anthem, the starter up front waved the green flag (literally) and got the wheelchair racers started. Three minutes later, the rest of us got going in the usual ebb-and-flow manner of a field that massive. However, the field quickly spread out past the pinch-point of the start line and we were able to set our 7:30-ish pace almost immediately; a welcome change from the crush I'm used to with Chicago's larger races, even though this field size rivals any in the world. Being near the front helped immensely.
The race course was eye-opening. The first five miles wind along the White River and then head west into Speedway, which is a decidedly hard-luck part of Indy. Low ramshackle bungalows with peeling whitewash, uneven stoops and liquor stores on their shoulders lined most of the avenues we ran down. This is either refreshing honesty or civic boosterism of the most ill-considered variety by the event organizers. The truth is that, from downtown, there really is no other way to get to the Motor Speedway at this distance except to wind through the tough part of town. The spectators in and around these homes were all out in force, though, and were pretty supportive and enthusiastic.
When we made the big right-hand turn on to W 16th Street in order to get into the track, it was a sudden rush. I knew the tunnel underneath the grandstands was coming up and that we'd emerge on the other side in the infield and have the high-banked oval of this famous speedway to ourselves. I tried to take as many photos as I reasonably could during this stage of the race because I wanted to make sure I captured the experience. My W810i cameraphone is about as compact a device as I could have carried with me, and I think it did a pretty fair job considering that I took my shots in full stride. We emerged on the other side of the tunnel in the infield area, not yet on the track itself. After about a quarter mile of infield, we crossed through a gateway and onto to some of the smoothest pavement on the planet.
That oval looks a LOT smaller on television. Then again, the usual contestants cover that 2.5 mile circuit in about 40 seconds. I've heard that a some runners actually get down on hands/knees and kiss the bricks at the start/finish line itself (quite literally the "brick yard"), but I saw no such genuflection as I came down the straightaway. Running the track itself is something this race offers that of course none other can, and it's got to be among the most unique experiences available to runners.
The trip back into town resembled the outbound leg since it was mostly a reversal of the course back on itself. Some other observations:
I lost pace in the middle third, falling almost into a 8-minute mile, but strangely I didn't feel that fatigued despite some growing humidity and my own lack of belief in my preparation. I gave myself the spurs for the last three miles and I'm pleased that my last full mile, without out-and-out sprinting to the line, was a 7:09. The final mile is a straight shot down New York street with a slight downhill off the bridge. It's a confidence-inspiring boulevard where the largest crowds congregate.
Finally, the finish line itself: I am going on record with my belief they mis-measured the course. This course, under ideal GPS conditions, should've measured 13.11 miles. My Garmin 205, Shawn's 305, my coworker Joe's 305, and one other fellow I "randomly sampled" all read at least 13.23 miles, if not more. What's more, from the first official mile marker through the end, my AutoLap feature that clicks off a mile according to the GPS track was ~50 feet ahead of the marker. That differential continued to climb with each marker. A few hundredths here-and-there for the inevitable weaving through traffic are easy to explain. but a full tenth of a mile (plus?) shouldn't appear out of nowhere, should it? Maybe the DoD scrambled the open signal on Saturday just enough to account for this, or somehow cloud cover or other phenomena explains it. But my Garmin 205 has been ridiculously accurate for almost a year; it went off within a few yards of my crossing the finish line at Chicago, with a full 26.2 under my belt. My regular neighborhood runs never vary by more than that same 15-20 feet. Anyone else have an explanation for what we all recorded? My official time was 1:40:47, but I think it's possible I hit 1:39-something for the actual 13.11 distance. Whatever — no extra cheeseburger for me, even if I'm right.
Distance "controversy" aside, Indy is highly recommended. Easy downtown accommodations are available if you plan ahead; the course is fast, flat, and unique; Midwestern hospitality rules the day.
UPDATE: GMaps Pedometer, a site based on Google Maps' technology and which I've trusted in the past to do distance measurement, says the course was 13.33 miles. You have to trust my own point-and-click accuracy (always a stretch) and my best interpretation of the official map. Thanks to havybeaks for the suggestion I get some online corroboration!
Once again, our man Dean Karnazes shares what he knows best, which is the power of mind over matter (though his power is considerably greater than, well, any other runner I'd dare to imagine). His thoughts on The Marathon — not any specific race, but the complete and formidable challenge of the event itself — ring so true from my experience that I can't help but share them: The Marathon.
In particular, this quote strongly recalled for me a key moment around mile 11 this past fall, just before making the swing west out of the city center and into the dark heart of the back half of Chicago:
At that point in the race, not even close to spent, I labored under a sudden wash of doubt; about qualifying for Boston, about keeping up a 7:28 pace in unyielding, raw headwinds, about even finishing the damn thing at all. I became completely aware of the madness of the moment, in a way no training run or even my first marathon in 2001 had prepared me to face. I think that moment has to come to every marathoner, whether or not they recall it vivdly. A whisper under the cadence of your breath becomes raspier — "long way...to go...long way...to go" — and the rhythm of the doubt itself insinuates itself into your stride.You remain steadfast, knowing that you did not skimp, that you did not take shortcuts along the way, that every footstep was earned through months of diligent preparation. Still, with each wearing thrust forward, that little nagging inclination of self-doubt progressively advances toward the surface of your awareness.
How do you break it?
It's courage. Something we all have but too often fail to tap into. Courage that muffles the doubting voice and its stinging cadence. It might be someone shouting your name as you grind past the 25th mile marker; it might be stretching a cramped calf that seems ready to flap itself up underneath your kneecap like cheap windowshade, filling you with grim resignation, but it suddenly recovers just enough flex to allow you to get back in the flow of traffic; it might be just the right song at just the right time on your player.Courage comes in many forms, today you will have the courage to keep trying, to not give up, no matter how dire things become. And dire they do become.
Or, it might be the thought of telling someone "I tried, but I just couldn't."
I recalled what coworker and Boston native Eric Olson told me a couple days before the race: "Why not you?" That's the 2004 Red Sox down 0-3 and winning out from there, that's Lance winning seven Tours, that's Eruzione hurling his gloves in the air and jumping on his teammates as the Soviets skate off the ice in disbelief. All in one.
I'm finishing the damn thing.