Jim and Cory's Ill-Advised Adventure

NIETZSCHE WAS WRONG. AGAIN.

2012-02-25T10:36:00.003-08:00

Yep, German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche was wrong. And Cory and I proved it last weekend. Admittedly, Nietzsche has been wrong about a lot of things. Like with his dating advice for impressing the chicks, "You go to woman? Do not forget your whip."

The thing he was wrong about last weekend was his advice, "What does not kill me makes me stronger." Really, Fred? Stronger? Is that why after last weekend's 100 mile race, Cory and I were going through the airport like Walter Brennan on qualudes? It seems to me, Fred, that you fell for the old "fallacy of the excluded middle", meaning that there is a third alternative between "dead" and "stronger"--call it, "beaten down to the last ounce of fortitude."

Or, to put it in other terms, CORY AND I BEAT THAT 100 MILE RACE LIKE IT WAS A RENTED MULE! Yes. We did it. We completed a 100 mile race. With 8 hours to spare. We weren't fast. But we found ourselves passing a lot of the fast guys over the last 40 miles of the race.

One of the tricky parts of a race that long, though, is that with 60 or 70 miles remaining, you have already gone 30 or 40 miles. So you have had body parts get squirrelly on you. You realize, "those toes have developed blisters" or "my shoulders are knotted up and sore" or "I have chaffed in that spot already where Vasaline won't help"or "if I sit down, I won't be able to get back up". And you know these things are going to keep getting worse. To the extent that you can shut out "what's going to happen" and focus on the immediate "I'm only an hour away from a cup of instant coffee", it helps.

For me, at least, the biggest payoff was the last 2 miles. I knew I was going to finish my first 100. I was far faster than I had thought possible. I was still able to run. Other runners who were outbound on the last 10 mile out-and-back were congratulating me as we passed. The sun was just starting to come up. It was quiet, peaceful and beautiful. As close to perfect a moment as I can remember.

ROCKY ROAD 100 RACE REPORT (Preliminary)

2012-02-21T13:16:00.000-08:00

We made it. We both finished and Jim had the run of his life. He smoked it in 24 hours and 38 minutes and won the age group. I was well behind him at 26:02. Details to follow.

OK, HERE WE GO AGAIN--Rocky Road 100

2012-02-16T10:04:00.000-08:00

               They say you can't really remember pain with the same intensity that you felt while going through it. They say that's how women can have more than one baby. Well, I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies but I guess Jim and I can be as forgetful as any women because the day after tomorrow we're going to give a 100 another try. This time it's the Rocky Road (not the Rocky Raccoon) 100 miler in Coto De Caza, California. I've never been there but what I know is this: it's not has high as Leadville, it's not as steep as Leadville, it's not as rocky and technical as Leadville. It is, however, exactly as long so we'll find out if it was really just the altitude that stopped us in Colorado.

          This time we're not going out weeks in advance to get familiar with course or the conditions. We fly out tomorrow, check into a hotel, get up Saturday morning, and start running at 6:00 am. With luck, we'll finish Sunday morning, probably between 11 and noon, get a shower, drive back to Los Angles, hopefully grab a beer and catch the red-eye back and arrive in Indy at 9:30 Monday morning so Jim can teach college math classes. (I have trouble making change for a dollar after a full night's sleep so I have no idea how he can do that).

          Anyway, that's the plan, such as it is. As Jim's favorite Mike Tyson quote goes, however, "Everybody's got a plan until they get hit in the mouth". I guess we'll see how well we can take a punch.

"It Could Affect Your Judgment"

2011-11-20T16:00:00.000-08:00

I haven't written anything on this blog since the Leadville Race, and with good reason. I've been sulking. The race was mean to me. Yes, it was. Expecting me to do all that hiking and climbing and running. Not willing to take my word for it, that I could do it, but had too many other important things to do to actually do it.

So, I came back to Indy and began a new plan, on how I was going to train so much better and be such much faster next year that Leadville would be begging my forgiveness. Starting with running a good 50 mile race in Texas at the end of October, and continuing to race longer races at faster paces until even the Kardashians would say, "No, no, let's not talk about us--let's talk some more about that Dobson guy!"

Well, you know what my favorite philosopher, Mike Tyson, says about plans. Or, if you don't, take a look at my October 22, 2010 post. And, like many other geniuses, Mike's wisdom stands up to the test of time. Because here's what my plan earned me:

The race started at 5:30am and about 11 miles into the race, while it was still dark, I showed that rocky, hilly trail who was boss. Yeah, I showed it, all right. I really showed--that it was the boss, by bouncing my head off of one of its rocks.

4 miles later I reached the next aid station, where the race personnel made me stop. Well, they made me stop long enough to take the picture on the right. Then they sent me on my way, after telling me how annoying my whining was becoming.

The picture on the left was at 25 miles, when I let them "force" me to stop. It was at that point that the doctor warned me about the danger of a concussion, emphasizing "It could affect your judgment." If she hadn't had the ultimate leverage--free pain meds--I would have suggested, "Take a close look at me, doc. How could you think I had any judgment before my fall?!"

Anyway, that was 3 weeks ago, and I am a reformed and reasonable runner now. No more ultras. No more trail races. No more falling down. Well, except that Cory wants to do a 50K trail run in December. And it would be just downright unneighborly not to run that with him. And he is talking about a 100 mile trail race in February. And that's such a bad idea, that I have to enter the race with him, to protect him from himself. And, of course, the Leadville Race still needs to cry "Uncle" to me. But, other than that, I'm rigid in my resolve. No More Crazy Races!

WHAT HAPPENED AT LEADVILLE

2011-09-11T14:46:00.000-07:00

   Well, it's been three weeks since the race, the blisters are almost completely gone, and I've been waiting for clarity to settle in as to exactly what happened at Leadville. Little by little the fog has cleared and I think I know now why I didn't make it to the finish. IT WAS JUST TOO DAMN HARD.

   The facts are these: they give you thirty hours to do the 100 miles but they also have check-points with cutoffs at various points along the course. If you don't make it to these points within a certain time, they give you the hook. We knew that, of course, and planned our pace with those cutoffs in mind. I made it to the forty mile cutoff at Twin Lakes in good shape and started up on over Hope Pass which, at 12,600 feet is the signature feature of the Leadville 100.

   The research we'd done said the way to handle the altitude is to never go completely anaerobic. You always keep moving forward but you never get to the point where your heart is beating so hard you can feel it all through your body--even if it means slowing down to a barely moving shuffle. I thought we'd done enough work and been at altitude long enough before the race that I wouldn't have to slow down too much. I was wrong. Whenever I pushed the pace my heart felt like it was going to jump up and explode out of the back of my head. At some points I was moving so slowly I'm sure the untrained observer couldn't have discerned any movement at all. Once I got up and down the pass I had to really hustle to make it to the turn-around check point at Winfield. I made it with a few minutes to spare and took off back toward the pass, hoping that lighting would strike and I'd find a way to go faster on the way back. That really isn't as ill-logical as it sounds. The far side of Hope Pass doesn't drop down as far as the way up--it's steeper but shorter so, maybe..... In any case, it didn't work. The further up I went the slower I had to go and I didn't make the cut-off at 60 miles.

   The funny thing is, once I got back down off the pass, I felt like I could have finished the last 40 miles if they would have let me keep going. Unfortunately, it was no dice. Nineteen hours of effort and the hook. So, the question is, now what? I feel like I need to know if I could really go a full hundred. Maybe the thing to do is to try one without a double mountain crossing in it. I'll have to give that some thought.

Leadville Report

2011-09-01T08:23:00.000-07:00

Excuses to
follow.

Countdown to Leadville, Part Deux

2011-08-15T07:47:00.000-07:00

OK, let's review:

This is all you need to go out for a run in Indiana:

This is just some of the stuff you need to go for a run in the high mountains in broad daylight, in good weather:

In fact, you probably don't even need the shorts in Indiana, depending on your speed and your level of modesty. We're learning, however, that the mountains are not as forgiving. The preceding post covered the requirements for a daytime run, or at least most of them. This post will cover the essentials for running through the night. But, before doing that, there's one very important thing that applies at all times. The need to carry water. I am old enough to remember when people simply said "Drink plenty of water." These days that just won't cut it. It seems to be a law that all the experts must say "Remain sufficiently hydrated at all times". If you are one of those people who insist on saying "hydrate" when you mean "drink" I won't judge you for employing that stupid, supercilious, pseudo-scientific affectation. As you read this you are free to mentally substitute "hydrate" or "consume replacement fluid substances" or "infuse facial orifice with liquid" whenever you see the word "drink" or "water". However you say it, you can't do it if you don't have it and if you want to have it, you've got to carry it with you. That's where these things come in:

The gizmo on the left is a CamelBack 50 oz fanny pack and the
one on the right is Nathan backpack that holds 70 0z.

   Whether you wear your water on your fanny or your back, it gets to your mouth the same way. There's a tube that runs from a plastic bladder in the pack around your back to a clip that attaches to your shirt up by your head. When you want a drink you detach the tube from your shirt and raise it to your mouth and suck out a mouthful of water. Not only is it an efficient way of drinking without stopping, sucking on a tube while running at altitude allows you to see some very interesting hallucinations. I prefer the Nathan backpack because it has pockets of various sizes in the front that hold about anything you want from power bars to little things, like say pharmaceuticals, if the altitude hasn't already altered your mind enough. The Camelback has pockets in the back, which means you have to run along holding a tube to your mouth with one hand while reaching around to your butt with the other, all while running along cliffs. I have enough trouble remaining upright as it is.

   So much for thirst. Now on to a couple of problems specific to night running: Cold and Dark.

                First: Cold. Not much mystery here. The higher the elevation, the lower the temperature. Add in the fact that, after 18 or so hours, all of your energy is being spent just putting one foot in front of the other and there's not much left your body can do to generate heat. Hence the advice we've gotten that if the temperature is expected to be about 30 degrees, you'd better dress for 10. Here's how I intend to do that:

Base Layer: Nothing new here. Polypro turtleneck, fleece vest, gloves, half-tights, warm pants, wool socks.
Pretty standard stuff.

Next is the outer stuff:

Outer Layer: Knit Ski Mask/Hat, kerchief/scarf, Patagonia waterproof jacket

Again, nothing really different from what you might normally wear for a winter run in the mid-west. As always, additional layers can be added or, in Jim's case subtracted. (There seems to be little doubt that Jim will end up in Hell because his body was specifically designed for it. His normal body temperature seems to be just short of the boiling point of water. Often when we run in Indiana I will resemble the Michelin Man and he will be shirtless. Concerned people have actually stopped and yelled "Put a shirt on!", although they may have simply been commenting on his body. It's hard to tell.)

Having now addressed the cold we now turn to the dark. Sure, you can carry a flashlight but here's the problem. As you recall from the previous post, there are sections of the course where we will use hiking poles (Black Diamond Carbon Cork, Flicklock---I just like saying "Flicklock" for some reason). Then the question becomes how do you carry a flashlight when you've got your hands wrapped around your Carbon Cork grips? Use your head--literally:

Continued. Click "read more".

This is a Petzl headlamp. It does just what it looks like it does. The one thing you have to remember when you face another runner is to not shine it directly in their face or you'll blind them---a frowned upon competitive practice. Pretty cool, huh? But wait, there's more. Take a look at these babies:

KnuckleLights! Are they cool or what? They strap around your hand so you don't have to hold them and instead of one flashlight you've two. For a night-blind Geezer like myself, this is a meaningful benefit. I just love these guys, if for no other reason, they make me feel like I'm armed in some way, although I'm not sure a hungry bear would necessarily be intimidated. Blinded maybe, but that would probably only piss him off.

OK, are your ready? Here is the Full-Monty:

Running Geek from Outer Space

     I realize that this picture is blurry but that is simply as a kindness to you, dear reader, and because Jim was laughing so hard when he took the picture ( and, frankly, I refused to put all that crap on again--it will be bad enough to have to strip down naked in the freezing cold when it's time to put it all on. Although, that may be just the trick to scare the bears).

     So, there you have it. It's taken two posts to describe the technology we've acquired and I didn't even mention the hand warmers or the Flux-capacitor (but I'm sure Jim will because it gives you a lot of numbers and he becomes peculiarly aroused when people talk numbers---yes, it's spooky). Will any of this help? Who knows? All I know for sure is that if I'm going to keep going for 30 hours at altitude I will need all the help I can get. Hopefully, none of it will hurt and, besides, finding it all has kept me occupied. Now that the acquisition part is done there's nothing to do but wait and that's the part I hate.

   It's Monday and the race doesn't start until 4:00 am Saturday. I'm going to have to find something else to keep me out of trouble until then. Maybe I can get Jim to explain the math behind the Flux Capacitor again. Either that or spend the time trying to understand what the people of Iowa see in Michelle Bachmann. Both make the same amount of sense to me.

Countdown to Leadville

2011-08-12T11:03:00.000-07:00

   As Jim has reported accurately, we are in Leadville getting ready for the race. Where he has not been accurate is in his slanderous allegations that I spent the month of July in Michael Jackson's oxygen chamber. I would never waste money on anything so frivolous. The fact is I had a lung transplant from Lance Armstrong. It was expensive but the performance enhancing substances which saturated the tissues were thrown in for free so all-in-all it was a pretty good deal.
   Jim may have gotten the details wrong but his main thrust is on point--this mountain trail running requires more stuff than just throwing on your running shorts and heading out the door. In fact, the more we get up in the mountains the more we realize that there are things you've just got to have if you're going to finish. In what follows I will describe some of the gizmos and gadgets that I never before knew I needed. Some are necessary at all times and others others just at night. (Hint: it gets dark and cold at night in the mountains--who knew?).

   DAYTIME--ALL THE TIME

   Here is a picture of some of the daytime gear that's needed:

From the top down, what we've got here starts with a hat that sends the message to the world that you no longer care whether everyone clearly sees the inner dork you have been desperately trying to conceal since middle school. It has a curtain around the back like Rommel the Desert Fox, only on anyone else it makes you look like Norman the Desert Numbnuts. A picture says it all:

The opposite of cool is not warm--it is this.

     Anything this ugly had better be functional and this actually is. It not only keeps the mountain sun, which can burn you to a fritter, off of your ears and neck; it is made of "Icefil" material, which wicks away heat. The manufacturer claims that it lowers skin temperature by 11 degrees. I don't know by how many degrees, but I do agree that this material does keep you cooler, as we shall see when we consider the rest of this ensemble.
     Next up is the sunglasses. I have long been a follower of ZZ Top, who, as we all know, advise "Get yourself some cheap sunglasses". However, while that advice may have always gotten them sharp-dressed women with pearl necklaces, it won't work in the mountain sun. You need good sunglasses because the rays are super intense. One Experienced Mountain Runner warns that if you don't wear good sunglasses during the day you will burn your retinas and won't be able to see at night. Not being being able to see while running down dark, steep, rocky trails is what Experienced Mountain Runners apparently called "being screwed". Fortunately, I didn't have to wrestle with my inherent Scrooge-ness because my lovely wife cashed in some rewards points and got me some Oakleys. Oh man, just wearing them makes me feel like a really cool athlete-Dude. Too bad the hat completely trumps everything else.

  Next is what appears to be your run of the mill T-shirt. Au contraire, technology Bozos. That is not just what is referred to as a "Tech Shirt" in that it is made of completely synthetic fibers not found in nature, no, not by a long shot. These  fibers  happen to be the aforementioned IceFil material, which means that in addition to the "I'm an idiot" hat, your shirt is also working to keep you cool, although in a much less ridicule-inducing way.
     Continuing on with this theme, notice that it looks like someone has cut off the sleeves of the shirt but neglected to throw them away. Once again Icefil makes an appearance. I think like Vonnegut's Ice-nine, Icefil is slowly going to cover the globe. When I first saw these I thought they were supposed to be arm warmers and were every bit as much an affectation as the leg warmers all the disco chicks wore to jazzersize in the 80's. Once again Icefil proved me wrong. Not only do they make your arms feel cool, they block the sun and eliminate the need to slather sun screen up and down your appendages.
     Diverting from clothing for a second, directly below the sleeves are my new Black Diamond Alpine Carbon Cork, Flicklock ultra-light hiking poles. They're expensive but what can I say? They had me at "Flicklock".
     The running shorts are RaceReady. They have several pockets all across the back where young hotties have "Juicy" across their posteriors--not that I've ever noticed. This allows you to stuff in numerous Gu packets which will not only keep you going but give quite an unexpected sensation if you plop down somewhere and burst a few of them all over your butt.
     The kinky-looking black things below the shorts are Zensah compression thigh sleeves. I know. They look like they should be made out of fishnet and be found on masked men in grainy videos. The theory is they help prevent the blood from pooling in your legs and they facilitate lactic acid removal. What can I say. I'm desperate. I'll try anything. After the hat, what does it matter? Continuing on with this theme, below the thigh sleeves are calf sleeves. Same rational plus, once again, the sun protection without slimy sun screen.

     On the left calf sleeve is a black band that velcro's around my lower left leg. It is supposed to add stability and help keep that old devil Pes Anserine Brusitis at bay.

     Under the calf sleeves is a pair of "Dirty Girl Gaiters". You've seen the hat. Do you even have to ask if I feel less than manly wearing something called Dirty Girl? Anyway, they really work to keep the little pebbles out of your shoes. If you've ever tried to ignore a little pebble in your shoe for a few miles you know how soon it can become a LARGE GODDAMN ROCK. I chose the always tasteful Rattlesnake pattern since it was guaranteed to match absolutely nothing else. For a hoot go to the Dirty Girl website. They look like people who know how to have fun.

     Moving on: SmartWool socks. I've never worn wool socks before but, once again some Experienced Mountain Runners (the woods are full of them) recommended them and, based on the last couple of weeks' running, I'm hooked. They say they are the best for blister prevention.

     At last, two pairs of trail shoes. We'll run through water several times and won't change wet shoes during the day because it's so dry here. But, after the last river crossing just before dusk when the temperature drops down into the 30's you want to change your shoes and socks. Kevin, also a very Experienced Runner at the Blue Mile store in Indianapolis recommended Brooks Cascadias and I liked the first pair so I bought a second. They're a little heavier and stiffer then running shoes but on the rocks and rubble that's a good thing. The tread is also better for traction for those places where, as yet another E.M.R. said, "you'll feel like you're surfin' on snot". A very vivid picture.

     OK, that's about it for the stuff you need in daytime. This is getting too long so I'll cover the rest of the technology (yes, there's more--much more) in the next post. In the meantime, just to tide you over I'll surrender all my pride and show what all this looks like in practice. Remember, be kind. I know what I look like. I just can't help myself. I'm obsessed and I admit it. I'm also desperate for any small assistance I can get. I'll buy anything that promises to help and, if the devil makes anywhere near a reasonable offer, I'm willing to sell too. But you knew that as soon as you looked at this picture:

I warned you.

Ice, Ice, Baby

2011-08-05T08:18:00.000-07:00

Well, Cory and I are in Colorado. After a stop in Hays, Kansas (temperature - 108 degrees; city motto: "We're So Nice, It's Spooky"), we arrived here on Tuesday, August 2nd, giving us 18 days to prepare for the race.

Our first full day here, we hiked up to the top of Hope Pass, which is the highest point on the race course, and ran down. We figure that will be one of the main challenges of the race and we wanted to establish a base line for how long it takes us to make the ascent and to make the descent. If things go well, after we've been here a while, we will get more adjusted to the altitude and the trails, but now we have what we hope is a worst case scenario--2:39 to ascend to Hope Pass on the outbound part of the race and 1:30 to descend the same stretch on the inbound part.

It also gave us a test of whether Cory's sleeping in a Michael Jackson bed (see below)

did anything beyond confirming that he is a disturbed and perverted individual.

It turns out that the bed did pay off. Or something did. Cory went up the trail like a mountain goat. And not just any mountain goat. Like a mountain goat being chased by Michael Jackson. (Okay, I'll stop the MJ jokes--for now.) It was very impressive, especially since we can still remember how much we were debilitated by the altitude when we first got here for the training camp in June.

There are still two weeks to go until the race, so we have ample opportunity to do something that sabotages all our training and preparation, but at this point it's hard to point to a reason that this plan of Cory's to do both the Comrades Marathon and the Leadville 100 can't be done.

I will say that I still worry about race temperatures. Even on our climb on Wednesday, with the sky overcast and the temperatures in the 50's and 60's there were times when I was uncomfortable.

Actually, I should say, I was still worried about race temperatures. But then as I was listening to the greatest song of all times, the answer came to me. Any time I'm feeling warm, I can dip my shirt, my arm sleeves and my bandanna in ice water. Let the musical genius Robert Van Winkle explain this strategy:

"Yo, VIP, Let's kick it--

"Ice, ice, baby; Ice, ice, baby

"All right, stop, collaborate, and listen; Ice is back like a brand new invention; When its cool grabs ahold of Jim tightly; He'll flow like a harpoon, daily and nightly [because it's a 30 hour race so part of it is during the day and part of it is during the night].

"Will he ever stop? yo, I don't know [actually, Jim will stop eventually, but it will seem like he's running forever to him while he's doing it]; Turn off the lights and he'll glow [because he'll be wearing a head lamp and carrying a flashlight, plus the trail will be marked with glow sticks--sort of like a rave without any of the fun].

"If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it; Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it;

"Ice, ice, baby."

Now that I've got that going for me, I've got nothing to worry about. Well, except for fans of Michael Jackson catching up with me.

Can't We Buy Success?

2011-07-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

* * * * * * TECHNOLOGY REPORT * * * * * *

Since Cory hasn't filed his technology report, I'll fill in as best I can.

There's this stuff, see. And you buy it, see. And the more of this stuff you buy, the better you do. And if you run out of stuff to buy, well, you just aren't looking hard enough.

END OF TECHNOLOGY REPORT

I'm not anti-technology, by the way. Why, if it wasn't for technology, my vocabulary of swear words would be far smaller. And I have no criticism of anyone who tries to buy his way to a successful finish of the Leadville 100 mile run. Not even someone, who might answer to the name of, say, Cory Brundage, who buys an altitude tent to enclose his bed. Think Michael Jackson, but not as normal. But since my running partner has chosen to do this, I fully respect his demented decision.

As for me, I refuse to venture into the arena of purchased performance-enhancement.

[Go ahead. You know you want to. Insert your own ED drug punch line here]

Instead, I rely on the one thing that's at the core of everything I've ever accomplished: a sneaky dishonesty and lack of scruples. I'm willing to do anything--even, despite how much it sickens me, be nice--if it will trick others to do my work for me.

In this case, my claim-credit-for-the-work-of-others strategy has two prongs to it. First is the "crew" prong. On an overnight race like Leadville, the crew members are the ones who do the hardest work. I'm not talking about staying up all night. I'm not talking about standing around for hours in 35 degree weather with flashlights as the only source of warmth. I'm not talking about driving like crazy down unmarked dirt roads in the middle of the night, not knowing for sure if you're even going in the right direction, all the while having to dodge other crews driving like crazy in the opposite direction. All of those things happen, and all of those things are extremely demanding. But they are all a Club Med vacation compared to . . .

DEALING WITH THE RUNNER!!!

I'm sure there are some long distance runners who are nice people. Some who help old people across the street and mentor children at the local elementary school. Some who teach Sunday School and pick up litter on the weekends. But at 18 hours into Leadville, when it's pitch dark, getting cold, and there's still 35 miles to go, there are NO nice runners. And when you've got two grumpy personalities to start off with--say, Cory and me--it's obvious to all concerned that it would be more fun to go quail hunting with Dick Cheney than to crew for a couple of sour ingrates like us. And yet the crews stick with it.

Here is a typical exchange between a runner and his crew in the later stages of the race:

RUNNER (first words upon arriving at the aid station): "Where the fuck is the stuff?!"

CREW: "What stuff?"

RUNNER: "Goddamit! I'm losing time! You all are fucking worthless."

CREW: "Here's everything you told us to bring. [holding out about 40 pounds of stuff that they have lugged by hand 2 miles from where they had to leave the car] Do you need something else?"

RUNNER: "Shit, fuck, space carrots." (grabs a jacket that a crew member is wearing, not noticing his own jacket that is tied around his waist) [runs off]

In other words, here's a picture of the Perfect Crew:

Our crew is Cory's son, Ben. When you consider that Ben has known Cory all of Ben's life, and he's still willing to crew for us?! That is truly incredible.

The second prong to my plan of letting others carry me to success is the "pacer." Now, contrary to the name, the pacer at a race like Leadville doesn't really have much to do with setting the pace for the runner. You can only have a pacer after the first 50 miles, so Ma Nature has a lot more to say about the runner's pace over the second 50 than any human. But what the pacer does do is threefold. First, he or she carries your shit.

That doesn't sound like much if you are picturing a normal sort of running race, such as a 5 miler. But at Leadville, you pick up your pacer with typically 15 hours of the race still ahead of you. So, think what you do in a normal 15-hour period. THAT is what I mean by carrying your shit: you're going to need food; you're going to need lots of water; you're going to need a jacket, a hat, gloves, a head lamp or flashlight, tights; you're going to need toilet paper; you're going to need a newspaper or magazine to read while you're doing your "business"; and, of course, you're going to need a battery-powered boom box playing the theme from "Chariots of Fire". So if you have a really strong pacer who will carry everything for you, your chances of getting to the finish line in time go up dramatically.

The second thing the pacer does for you is that he or she functions as your brain. Because that gray mass inside your skull is just excess baggage for the second half of the race. Now, I have an advantage here, because that describes my brain at any place or time, but for most people, they go from smart to really stupid over the course of the race. The pacer has to tell the runner to drink fluids, to eat nutrition, to put on clothes, to take off clothes, to run, to stop running, not to worry about the three-eyed, five-legged giant Chia pets that the runner is hallucinating about. And these things have to be repeated for hour after hour. Seriously. Imagine a newborn's total dependence, but a teenager's ability to harm to oneself. That's the pacer's problem.

And the third thing the pacer has to do is to keep the runner moving forward when all the runner wants to do is stop. You can expect the runner to resort to whining, name calling, and outright lying. "I'll just sit down for 10 minutes; then I'll be all set to continue." "I've just discovered a solution to Fermat's Last Theorem! I'll just stretch out on this cot while you go get some paper so that I can write it down." "I just heard the call of a pack of carnivorous deer up ahead. We'd better not leave this aid station." I've never been a pacer for a 100-mile race, so I'm not sure what the best tactics are for the pacer to overcome this behavior. But I'm pretty sure a bullwhip is involved.

So, to sum up, the perfect pacer would be the combination of (1) a pack mule; (2) a sadist; and (3) a student of Sigmund Freud. Unfortunately, all of the people I have found with that skill set are busy auditioning for the next "Survivor" episode.

Still, a very nice person whom we met at the Leadville Training Camp who lives in Colorado has been recruiting pacers for us. An extremely nice person. A LIVING SAINT. (In case she's reading this blog.) She has found 3 people who don't know us who are interested in being our pacers. Yeah, I know. Once I say that they are willing to be our pacers, you immediately knew that that don't know me and Cory. Thanks.

So we've got a crew and pacers. And weird tents and titanium hiking poles and cooling sleeves for our arms and pseudo-snakeskin gaiters for our ankles and vitamin tablets that Barry Bonds envies. I think we're out of excuses.

Leadville Training Camp

2011-07-08T07:18:00.000-07:00

Maybe you've heard that this was a very wet, snowy year in the Rockies? Turns out, those rumors are true. Turns out that the number one thing I took away from the Leadville 100 Training Camp was the meaning of the word "glissade." The meaning, based on the way it was used in reference to me, is when a guy loses his footing while trying to walk across a snow field and ends up sliding downhill on his butt until his descent is stopped by hitting a patch of bare rocks. To paraphrase Abe Lincoln, "If it weren't for the honor of being complemented on my excellent glissade, I would have rather walked uninterrupted across the snow field."

My little snow-slide adventure didn't happen until the fifth day we were out in Colorado. Cory and I went out a few days early to start to acclimate to the altitude, and as a favor to all the people that were trying to improve the image of Indianapolis.

Our first full day out there, we walked and ran around Lake Turquoise and back. Yeah, I know. That doesn't mean anything to you. Just say, "ooh, aah, cool." It actually was all those things. The route is all trails around a 7-mile-long man-made recreational lake at 10,000 feet among the pines. It was slow, but it went better than we had expected, so we bit off a bigger chunk for the next day--going up the "Power Line", a 1400 foot climb over 2.5 miles, then another 10 miles of a mixture of trail and road. We also recruited another sucker, oops, I mean, runner to do the workout with us--a runner from San Diego who had also come out to Leadville early to acclimate.

Well, things went well on the way up. And by "well", I mean, better than what was to follow, because we first had to go through a pond about 100 yards across that normally doesn't exist but has been formed by runoff from the excessive amounts of snow. Then we realized that someone had forgotten her car keys, which we needed because we were running from my car to her car and then going to drive back. It would be wrong to point the finger at someone for making such a common mistake, so I won't. I'll only say that it was one of the people in this picture:

The solution to the forgotten car keys? Send someone back through the arctic pond to retrieve the keys. But who should we send? By a vote of two-to-one, the decision was made that the tallest person would be least inconvenienced by freezing his lower extremities. Yes, that would be me.

After those difficulties were surmounted, we were only left with the 1400 foot climb, in thin air and a bright sun. And that was going to turn out to be the easy part of the workout.

You see, once we got over Sugarloaf Pass at 11,200 feet (at which point I did not sing "Green Eyed Lady"--and if you understand what I'm referring to, then shame on you! You clearly spent your youth listening to the radio instead of doing your homework), you would have thought that everything would get easy. A nice long downhill in the shade.

Which would make sense except in this case, "in the shade" meant "where the snow hasn't melted yet." We hit an 8-foot pile of snow right away. We tried to circle around through the woods to meet back up with the trail. Instead we kept running into big piles of snow. This went on for 40 minutes as we kept working our way down the mountain but not making any progress at getting back to the trail, by which time one unnamed member of the party became very concerned that we were about to become chew toys for wild bears. I felt confident that there was little risk of that--we were near the Colorado Trail where there are large numbers of hikers and, hence, very few big animals. The bigger risk, in keeping with Colorado traditions, was a Donner-Party-type human sacrifice when we ran out of food, but I decided that it might not be all that calming to point that out to the concerned member of our group, especially since she was the smallest one in the group.

Anyway, everything turned out fine. Well, fine for Cory and me. And by the time those bones are found, no one will remember we were ever there.

The next day, Friday, we did a 5 mile run and otherwise rested up for the start of official Training Camp. Official training camp began on Saturday with breakfast and a 26 mile run. I did really well at one of the two. It wasn't the run. Cory and I did okay, I guess, but the distance and the altitude made us whimper like the big babies we really are. The main good thing about the run, other than the breakfast, was after the run on the bus back to Leadville we discovered that we weren't the most despicable, soulless people at the training camp. (Well, I knew I wasn't, but as for Cory, who's still a practicing lawyer, well, . . .) It turns out that one of the other runners was not only a lawyer, but a lawyer for ExxonMobil. Talk about your moral black hole, where no glimmer of conscience can ever escape! When Cory stood next to her, he literally glowed with virtue! Strangest damn thing I ever saw.

The next two days were more of the same--having our egos handed back to us after being pummeled into puddles of goop by altitude, heat, distance and reality. We eventually got the message--we need to buy more shoes, more clothing, more gear, and more drugs. (Or we could train better. Nah, that sounds too much like work.) I'll leave it to Cory, who is now our technology guru, to fill you in on our once and future acquisitions.

Comrades Marathon Experience--(not a race report)

2011-07-01T09:25:00.000-07:00

It's been almost a month now since the Comrades Marathon and Jim and I are in Colorado, at the Training Camp for the Leadville 100 Trail Run which takes place on August 20th, so a detailed report on Comrades is overdue. I think the purpose of blogs like this is to share information that may be useful to anyone considering whether to do a particular race. I will do that a bit here but, before going into the details, let me just skip to the bottom line and say that this race was a wonderful experience and, if you are considering it, you should do it. It is not without some hassles but those all have to do with getting there. Once you're there, it's a pleasurable and rewarding experience. I'd go back and do it again without a second thought. Jim will get into the actual race reporting in his next post. What follows is not so much about the running of the race as it is about the experience of being there.

GETTING THERE

You may live in a part of the world blessed with good flight connections to the rest of the planet. Those of us from Indiana, however, live with the adage that "You can't get there from here---at least not easily".

   It took us four different flights and something like 28 hours to get to Durban. After all the cramped, uncomfortable, low-level abuse that is modern day economy class travel we were finally on the approach to landing in Durban. We descended to a level where we could count the palm trees but then stayed there for an extremely long time while we seemed to be circling. Suddenly, the pilot pulled it up in a steep climb and flew in a direction I was pretty sure was away from the airport because we seemed to be headed well out over the Indiana Ocean. He then came on the intercom with his best Chuck Yeager tone (tinged with a South African accent) and said that the "folks on the ground have waived us off because of an improper vector" but he was pretty sure they'd get it right on the next approach. By that time, after having been stuck in flying metal tubes for going on the second day, my feeling was that I didn't care whether he landed it or crashed it, just as long as we got off the God-damned plane. He nailed it the second time and we got off and picked up our rental car which, because they drive on the left side of the road, has the steering wheel on the right side and you shift gears with your left hand. After spending eternity in sleep deprived travel hell, it seemed to make perfect sense and we took off for Pietermaritzburg.

   BEING THERE

   Comrades is run every year between the big city of Durban (on the Indiana Ocean and very modern--think Miami Beach) and Pietermaritzburg, a less big city of 1/2 million or so that really seems much, much smaller than that. Every year they run it in the opposite direction from the year before. This year was an "up" year meaning it started in Durban and was up hill all the way from sea level to Pietermaritzburg, elevation roughly 2000 feet. If that entire elevation gain was a constant grade spread out over the whole 87 kilometer distance (54 miles) it might not be so bad. Of course, it isn't. As we shall see in Jim's post, there are are more hills than you can count which present both steep up-hills and long descents; but more about that later. For now the important thing to convey is how good a time we had in Pietemaritzberg.

   The race organizers operate out of Comrades House, which is an old, red brick victorian home in a quiet neighborhood. They couldn't have been nicer or more helpful to a couple of jet-lagged bumbling American flakes who seemed to have forgotten to bring all the things you are supposed to have at registration. We met numerous people who have run the race mutiple times, some as many as 18 or more. They were extremely patient and answered all our dumb questions and gave us good tips and were just generally a lot of fun. They were genuinely glad to have international runners come and try their race, which this year had about 13,000 starters (and a little over 11,000 finishers--accurate statistics would be on the race web site).

   One of the things we came to appreciate from talking with the Comrades organizers, runners, and volunteers is how different the running culture there is compared to back in Indy. There the prospect of running 54 to 56 miles every year is considered absolutely unremarkable. It's just something you do. In Indy the big running event is the 500 Mini-Marathon, a half marathon run in conjunction with the Indianapolis 500 that is now drawing 35 to 40,000 entrants every year. The thought for most people is "Boy, if I could only get in good enough shape to do the Mini I will have really accomplished something" and maybe that's true. I'm not denigrating it. Everything is relative. In South Africa, however, it's not "Boy, if I could only get in shape to do Comrades" it's "I really want to keep my string of 15 finishes going so I'd better do three or four marathons to sharpen up."

   The way they go about it is also different. They seem to have a "we're all in this togather" attitude. It was, after all, called Comrades by the original organizer to honor his buddies who fell in combat in WWI. That would be this guy, Vic Clapham:

When a person has completed nine Comrades they are given a yellow number. When they've completed ten they are given a green number which is theirs for all time. At a point about half way though the race we were handed a single long-stem red rose by some volunteers. I had no idea why. About a quarter mile up the road we came upon a wall lining the course. On the individual stones were memorials to previous runners who have died. Each little plaque had their name and number. Yellow ones for runners with fewer than ten finishes, green ones for the ones over ten. We saw that the locals were going over and putting their roses on the wall beneith the individual plaques. Clearly this race was so important to these people and their families that they wanted to continue to be part of it even after they were gone.

The South African runners are organized into running clubs and they support each other during the race. Even among runners from different clubs (or races, for that matter) the attitude was that they weren't racing each other--just the clock. The cut-off time is 12 hours. Finish after that and it's no metal for you. If you're under 11 hours you get a different and more highly prized metal. Under 9 and it's better yet. And so on. To help each other make their respective goals, groups of runners will organize into "busses". A twelve hour buss is a group of people who plan to finish under twelve hours. They will run togather the whole way, sometimes chanting in unison or singing and just basically helping pull each other along.

The race just has a old-school patina to it. Even though it is a national facination like our Super Bowl (they show the whole 12+ hours on national television live) it has none of the glitz and smaltz of other sporting events. The finishers' medals are just that--old fashioned medals, not the enormous pie plates other races give out for walking a 5 K. Here's a comparison of the Indy Mini-Marathon medal and the Comrades medal:

   The Comrades medal looks like something a soldier
   brought back from the war.
   The Mini medal looks like something you'd
   get for regular attendance at a whore house.


   We met people from several running clubs. Jim and I stayed in Pietermartizburg which presented a logistical problem. Since the race started in Durban at 5:30 am we either had to get there in the morning before the start or go there the night before and get a hotel room for one night. If we drove down to Durban the night before the race we'd be running away from our car and need to go back to Durban to get it after the race when we assumed we'd be practically dead. An alternative was to take the bus provided by the organizers down to Durban the morning of the race. This was not appealing because the bus was leaving at something like 3:30 am, which would mean getting up a 2:00 or so, which meant never really getting any sleep. We decided to get a room in Durban and find a way to get there the day before the race. Easier said than done. Surprisingly there were no Greyhound or "big bus" connections that would work.

   We had seen numerous mini-buses all over the streets of Pietermaritzburg that seemed to have no official stops but would pull over anywhere and any time to pick up anybody. There seemed to be two employees on every bus. One to drive and one to lean out the window and yell at people who weren't showing enough interest in getting on their bus. The passengers who were on the buses, which always seemed packed to over-flowing, appeared to have all their worldly possessions piled on their laps. We found out that some of these mini-buses made the trip to Durban and asked around at Comrades House if taking one of those would be a good idea. The several volunteers standing around sort of shot glances at each other and one finally said "Well, you'd have a real South African experience", which we did not take as a glowing recommendation.
     Eventally, one of the organizers, Ileen Hall, said "Why don't you come to my running club's pasta dinner tonight and see if you can catch a ride with someone to Durban?" She told us to look for her husband, John Hall, at the Natal Carbineers Drill Hall. We went and found ourselves at the club house of the Natal Carbineers of 1879, who participated in the invasion of the Zululand, during which 23 of their members died, and numerous subsequent battles. Needless to say the place was extremely cool. It was also extremely packed with hungry runners from all over Africa, black and white. There was a pitch-in spread with every kind of pasta dish you can imagine and all you could carry. It wasn't hard to spot John Hall. Every few minutes he would make an announcement in a booming voice and remind the Carbineers to look for each other during the race--which would be easy because they all wore knee high red socks. We quietly went up to him and asked if he knew of anybody driving down to Durban the night before the race and he said "So, you're the Yanks. My wife said you'd be here." He immediately shouted the noise down and yelled "We've got a couple of Americans here who need a ride to Durban". Looking at Jim he said "Is anybody driving down who can give a big seat to this fellow?" And then, looking at me, he added "And a not so big one for this one?".
   A tall African man named John stood up and said he was the head of their club and if we could meet them early in the morning there was room on their bus. Perfect. We met them and talked with him the whole way to Durban. He was 52 and about to do his 22nd Comrades. He explained that most people he knew didn't like America too much but they liked Americans and we seemed alright to him. He asked what we thought of Obama and gave no hint of how he felt until we answered. He then agreed with us that Obama is a good man doing the best he can.
     We got to Durban bright and early, with a day to kill, and wished him and his team good luck. As it turned out, we saw him several times during the race as we passed him or he passed us and he was always smiling and talking to everyone around him and apparently having the time of his life. Nice guy.

     That's pretty much the way it went the whole trip. Wherever we went we never felt threatened or at risk. They say the gods protect drunks and little children and maybe you can add foolish Yankee tourists to that because Jim and I got along there with no trouble. Which is not to say we probably could have gotten into some if we tried but, for the most part, we didn't put ourselves into any bad situations and nothing bad happened. For instance, we went to a large downtown shopping mall in Durban in the middle of the day and the place was absolutely packed. Out of thousands of people we appeared to be just about the only whites who lingered as we sat and had lunch. Nobody paid any attention to us at all. That night, our room in Albany Hotel was on the third floor on the street side and we were right over the entrance to a disco with thumping music blaring out of the open door. The people on the street were loud and the place was jumpin'. We knew we didn't belong there and we didn't go out. No problem.

     The start of the race was exciting. It is a tradition to sing a South African song, "Shoshaloza" and to listen for the recorded and amplified sound of a rooster's crow (there's a story behind it). While waiting for all this to take place, I noticed the guy next to me had his arm in a sling. (Actually, I couldn't help but notice because we were packed togather like sardines). I told him I thought it was a bummer that he'd injured his arm before the big race and he explained that he'd actually injured it 15 years ago shortly before Comrades and had to run in a sling and he'd worn one in the race ever since for good luck. It wasn't untl then that I noticed that his sling was embroidered with the dates of all his races. He tried to explain that when he got tired his old injury made his arm flap but by then it seemed clear that the sling was just part of the tradition for him. And that's the thing about this race. It's a tradition for everyone and each person seemed to have some special way of honoring their own personal tradition.

     If you do this race, here's a hot technical tip for you: watch where you're going. Like New York, people are shedding clothing continuously for the first few miles. Mostly it consists of a kind of tissue paper pajama top they give you in your goodie bag. While it really wasn't very cold by Indiana standards, clearly a lot of these runners felt chilly and the pajama tops were popular until things warmed up. Then they seemed to litter the course like tumbleweeds and that's exactly what I did--tumble. I caught my toe and did a complete sumersault. Of course, having fallen four times at the JFK, I've come to accept that it really isn't a race until I've fallen on my ass. Anyway, no harm done and we were off.

     Another exotic fact about the race is the way they provide water. It comes in little plastic bags that hold a few ounces. They call them sachets. You bite the corner off and squeeze the water into your mouth. I liked them because, unlike drinking from a cup on the run, you actually get most of the water into your mouth. And, you can carry one or two with you well past the aid station without shaking it all out. The coolest thing about them though is that when somebody drops one and somebody else steps on it, there's a "POP!" and you get a free shower.

     Jim will tell you about the hills. Just be aware if you are considering this race that it's defining feature is the hills. On the up run they're exausting and I'm told that on the down run they're quad killers. I can tell you that we walked most of the five named hills, which are monsters, and still finished with times that made us happy. The final hill, Polly Shorts, (no, I don't know who Polly was) took 19 minutes to walk up. It comes along with just a few miles to go when you are good and tired. Once at the top, however, I found it not too hard to bring it in fairly strong. Just the knowledge that it was almost over kind of put a spring in my step.

      Here's a picture, taken from the course, of the surrounding countryside that will give you some idea of the area they call the Valley of A Thousand Hills.

As you get to the big park where the race finishes in Pietermaritzburg the crowd is electric. It lines the course for a long way before the finish line. I recommend you go on U-Tube and find a few videos of the finish. It will give you some idea of how thrilling it is. For about the last half mile as I approched the finish an African runner behing me was loudly wailing "Thank you, Jesus! Thank you sweet Jesus!" With about a quarter mile to go we passed a guy standing on his car with an amplified megaphone lecturing us that "God did this for you!" I have to admit that my thought was unless he was talking about the bearded guy who handed me water at about the fifty mile mark, I was pretty sure I had run the whole thing myself. What is it with evangelicals? This is the second time that right at the finsh line of an ultra-marathon one of them has tried to push their religion on me. They must figure that their spiel works best on people who are brain-dead tired. If I'd have had the time or the energy I might have stopped to explain that the only response they inspired in me was "Bite me".

After the finish the international runner's gathering area was a treat. All the good food you could want and best of all, lots of chairs and free beer. There's nothing better than pleasantly fatigued runners wearing their metals and getting a mild buzz on. Here's a shot of Jim and I in mid-buzz (at least I am).

BOTTOM LINE

If you get a chance to do this race, you should. It broadened my outlook as to what is a normal and usual undertaking. I will no longer consider simple marathons as something extraordinary. I also came away impressed with the sporting spirit of the South Africans. The ones we met were vibrant and friendly. Both Bart Yasso and Amby Burfoot have written about this race and their material is easy to find on the web. Check out what they have to say and decide for yourself. I for one will remember this race as one of the highlights of my humble running career.

An Actual Race Report

2011-06-22T18:18:00.000-07:00

It just occurred to me that a race report with some actual facts might be more useful for a rational person than the deranged ramblings that I produce so dependably. Or, at least, it will provide me with a shred of evidence in my favor for the mental illness commitment hearing.

Cory and I started in the fourth corral (seeding group) out of eight. Still, it took us over 3 minutes to reach the starting line. A big part of the reason is that the race officials enforced the seeding every bit as effectively as they enforced the race rule that no one could wear a hat or visor unless it had the logo of the race sponsor, Reebok. Which is to say, they did not make even a token effort to enforce either rule. So about half of the people starting in front of us were seeded behind us.

It turns out, that was a good thing. Besides taking 3:15 to reach the start line, we also had about a half mile of alternating walking and running before it spread out enough to run continuously, and that let us ease into the race and gradually speed up to a comfortable pace, rather than the typical situation of starting out fast from adrenaline and excitement and having to try to pull back on the throttle.

We had made a plan before the race to alternate 10 minutes of running with 2 minutes of walking throughout the race, except where the hills made that impractical. Of course, since the first 25 miles of the race are one continuous hill, with three mountains and a few flat areas thrown in, our plan was--even in our own minds--more of a wishful thought than a practical expectation.

My biggest surprise was how close we were able to come to the plan. We ran 25 or 30 minutes before our first walk break, but that included the walk/run at the start and was at a very easy pace.

The first "mountain" on the course is Cowie's Hill, at about 8 miles. It rises about 450 feet in a little under a mile. We walked the bulk of the hill, but began running about a quarter mile from the top where it started to get less steep. Being an asshole, I said to Cory, as we jogged past some walking South African runners, in a voice loud enough for them to hear, "When does Cowie's Hill start?" Cory replied, "We're already on it." To which I said, again loud enough to carry to the other runners, "Geez, this is nothing compared to Heartbreak Hill!" (We had been told multiple times that Heartbreak Hill at Boston would be considered a flat stretch at the Comrades Marathon. In fact, that was true, but I wasn't going to admit it to the South Africans.)

There were a few stretches where we ran 12 - 14 minutes because of a nice downhill, and we walked Field's Hill (2 miles, rising 800 feet) and Botha's Hill (1 mile rising 400 feet), but we generally stayed with the 10 and 2 schedule through the first half of the race.

We hit halfway at 5:03. According to several advisory blogs, that put us at a finish time of just under 11 hours, which was our goal. The funny thing, though, was the 10 and 2 schedule was not any harder to do and, because of rolling terrain, and hence more downhills, we were running faster while still feeling like we were running comfortably.

I timed each 5K of the race, as a way of checking how consistent we were--it's long enough not to be too influenced by an uphill or a downhill but short enough to provide sufficient data points. What I discovered was surprising, in a positive way. Here are the 5K times through the first 60 kilometers of the race:

5K 37:03 10K 35:43 15K 34:18

20K 32:33 25K 39:24 (includes Field's Hill --800 feet up in 2 miles)

30K 33:20 35K 35:06 (includes Botha's Hill--400 feet up in 1 mile)

40K 33:16 45K 33:45 50K 33:34

55K 31:20 60K 31:30

Halfway was at 43.5K. As you can see, we were getting stronger the further we ran. This is not because we are such he-men (sadly), but because the race strategy of staying out of oxygen debt and not letting our legs take a pounding on the downhills was paying dividends. By 60K, the temperature was getting above the comfortable range for me, and we were on a long stretch of the course with no shade, so I had to slow down. I am pleased to say that Cory did not. More proof of the soundness of our strategy.

Cory volunteered to stay with me as I slowed down, so I had to pull the old "I'm right behind you; just keep running" ruse, then hide behind other runners so that he had to go ahead on his own. (If you look at the race from the proper perspective, I really was right behind him, in that I was much closer to him than, say, the west coast of Australia) Even though I slowed down, I was running the 5K segments in 35 to 37 minutes. Cory, I can estimate, was running them in 30 - 31 minutes.

Then there was Polly Shortts--the last named hill. It was about a mile long and a rise of 300 feet, making it the least steep of the hills, but at nearly 50 miles into the race, it is a hill that everybody walks. Some runners run 50 or 100 yards of Polly as some sort of macho thing, but the reality is that Polly always wins. We met a guy who ran a time of 7 hours 5 minutes (a pace of 7:52 per mile) and I asked him, "Did you walk any of the race?" He looked at me like I was slow-witted and replied, "I walked Polly's, of course."

Even walking Polly's, my second half was only 15 minutes slower than my first half and Cory's second half was 12 minutes faster than his first half.

As Cory and I prepare for the Leadville 100, I am a believer in the strategy from Comrades. You don't help yourself by going out fast to "put time in the bank". As long as you are ahead of the cutoff times and running comfortably, you are where you want to be. As the race goes on, the cutoff times get longer, so simply by maintaining your pace you build your cushion.

I also want to voice my agreement with Cory about the Comrades experience. So many nice and helpful people. Such a great running atmosphere. Such a memorable course. A special experience that I recommend to anyone who can make the trip.

Home Again in In-dyah'-na

2011-06-03T12:04:00.000-07:00

What can I say? The race went well; the trip went well; we didn't screw up anything of importance. (I don't consider leaving my passport in the seat pocket on the plane a screw-up of importance.) To what do I attribute this uncharacteristic behavior of Cory and me? Well, partly to the fact that we understand that "Cory and myself" would be an improper use of the reflexive case, despite its disturbing popularity of usage. Certainly, good grammar is a crucial element in any success--just listen to the interviews of any successful athlete. But more important than that, even, is the fact that, shortly after our arrival in South Africa, we were exposed to a mantra that totally changed our core beliefs.

I even have a picture of that life-altering mantra:

NO!!! NOT THAT MANTRA!!! If we had started living our lives by that mantra, it would have required us to reverse every aspect of our existences. It would have been like reversing the polarity of the earth's magnetic core. Like mixing matter and anti-matter. The entire universe would have disappeared in one gigantic fireball.

No, here is the actual picture of the life-changing mantra we discovered:

From the moment we left the airport parking lot, we were surrounded by trucks with a sign that said "ABNORMAL." Now, maybe I'm paranoid, but it seems to me that when people half a world away know you're nuts before they've even met you, it's a pretty strong indicator that some serious self-evaluation is in order. Or at least a brief respite from some of the more obviously delusional behaviors. And that, dear friends, is why there is a mental institution/prison/trauma ward in South Africa today with two empty spaces.

And, speaking of Abnormal, let me tell you about the language they speak in South Africa. It's like they aren't even trying to speak like Americans. What's up with that? Don't they realize where the English language comes from?

For example, while South African Airlines was wonderful--helpful cabin attendants; good food and snacks; unlimited beer, wine, juice, soda, and water; individual TVs with tons of movies to choose from--they put us on a plane with no overhead compartments or overhead bins and no window shades. Yeah, I know--hard to believe, but true. Instead, they gave us some lame "overhead lockers" and "window shutters." Sure, they seemed to be just as good as bins and shades, but if they weren't inferior, why would they have such funny names?

And when we were changing planes in Jo-Burg, I saw an airport shop that had a sign "Air Times at Till." Come on, man! What sort of language is that? I was going to go into the shop and get to the bottom of this strange pidgin English, but I couldn't tell whether or not the store would have the airline departure times shown at the cash registers, so I didn't want to take a chance on missing my flight. (You'd think that a shop in an airport would let customers know if they had airline departure times available in the store.)

And once we got to Durban, we found that their driving was as bizarre as their language. They required us to drive on the LEFT side of the road! In a car with the steering wheel on the RIGHT! And a gear shift to the driver's LEFT! I was about to tell them what bozos they were as a nation until Cory made the astute observation that they really didn't have a choice. Because they are south of the equator, they have to drive on the left. It's called the Corialis Effect, he said. Otherwise, the earth would spin out of its orbit.

There is a lot to be said about the race itself, but the thing I'd like to start with is how well we were received. The people at the Comrades House went out of their way to look out for us. A local running club president found us a ride to Durban the day before the race with a group from a running club from northern South Africa. One of us not named Jim left a bag of items he had bought on a table in registration and forgot about it until the next day, and the lady at the table not only kept it for him, but she and the ladies at the next table tried to track us down to return it. And during the race itself, people cheered for us both by name (our first names were on our race numbers) and by calling out "In-DYAH'-na" as we ran past--apparently a South African term that means "goofball-that-needs-looking-out-for." Also popular was "Indiana Jones!" Steven Spielberg, your marketing prowess is second to none! To my amazement, there was in fact one guy who called out "Hoosiers" (he looked a lot like Gene Hackman, now that I think about it) and one guy who sang, "Indiana wants me; Lord, I can't go back there." Now, that guy is somebody you want on your team for any music trivia competition!

I will be publishing an additional post with an extensive mathematical analysis showing that Cory and I performed with superhuman excellence at the race, complete with scatterplot display and statistical modeling, but for now let me just say, we feel lucky about the race and the trip and want to admit that we duped people like crazy into thinking we were okay guys. THANK YOU, ALL OF YOU FOLKS WHO TREATED US BETTER THAN WE DESERVED.

Comrades Marathon Today

2011-05-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

Well, The Rapture didn't take us--or anybody else for that matter-- so we had to show up and give this thing a try. We finished a few hours ago. The race was 87 Kilometers and one of us was a little under Ten hours and the other a little over. We count this as a success. We'll post more details later. For now, suffice it to say the guy who told me that the hills at Boston are like the flat part of this race wasn't kidding. There are five big hills that have their own names (and would be called mountains if they were in the Mid-West), and at least a hundred others that don't even have names that would legendary if they were on a course in the States. The combination of steep and long up-hills followed by steep and long downhills eventually caused just about every part of my body to hurt at one time or another. At one point even my butt hurt, which I realize almost certainly falls into the category of Too Much Information. I offer it here only in the name of Serious Sports Science.
The people in South Africa have been wonderful and the crowds were great. This race is their Super Bowl and everybody is into it. We've got a few more days here and we plan to see as much as we can (sore butt and all).

New Concerns

2011-05-10T10:21:00.000-07:00

Well, Cory and I completed our 30-mile run yesterday with no injuries or capture by mental health professionals. We have our tickets for our flights to South Africa, leaving May 22 at 6:00am, and places to stay in Pietermaritzburg and Durban before and after the race. So, it's smooth sailing from here on out, right?

Of course not. I have two new things to worry about, both of major consequence. While listening to National Bolshevik Radio last Saturday, I heard a story about a man named Harold Camping and his followers. Camping's careful reading of the Bible has allowed him to verify that The Rapture will occur this May 21, when all of God's chosen are raptured directly to Heaven.

You will notice that this is the eve of our planned trip to South Africa. So now I am worried that I will show up for the flight and Cory won't be there--only a pile of his clothes.

Cory has tried to assure me that there's no chance he'll be raptured. But, for once, I think he's missed the big picture. Doesn't it seem likely that God has a sense of humor? I mean, how else can you explain Donald Trump?And what would be a better practical joke than to rapture Cory Brundage straight to Heaven while leaving all those blowhards who have been claiming that they have been friended on God's divine Facebook page standing on earth watching Cory rise? Nothing. There is no better joke than that. Even the cleverest joke ever invented by man (yes, I'm referring to the whoopie cushion) pales in comparison.

So I have every reason to be concerned.

And if that weren't enough, I have just learned from Cory that a possible side effect from his anti-malaria medicine is "psychotic behavior." Now, Cory's wife Linda has asked, "How will anyone know?" But it only makes sense to me that a medicine that makes normal people act psychotic could make a psychotic person act normal. Right? And what if Cory suddenly becomes Mr. Outgoing? "Hey, stranger. You say you signed up for Comrades, but didn't bother finding a place to stay? You can stay with us! And you there. You want to tell us why we need to convert to your religion? Hop in the car! We'll take you to dinner!" What can I say, other than that I am praying franticly for The Rapture.

Glide Path to Comrades

2011-05-08T10:36:00.000-07:00

Twenty-one days until Comrades. Two weeks before we leave for South Africa. Jim is more than ready. He clipped off a smooth marathon about a month ago (age-adjusted 3:01) and he's had to restrain himself from doing too much since then. We've got our shots, our malaria medicine, and our reservations.

Yesterday I did the Indianapolis 500 Mini Marathon, a local tradition, as a training run and managed to avoid the urge to race. All the ususal aches and pains are within normal limits and we have only one tough day of training left. Tomorrow we go 30 and, from then until the race, it's just a matter of light workouts and paying attention so as not to pork up. So far, so good.

The Picture of Cory-an B.

2011-04-24T12:20:00.000-07:00

Well, he's done it again--sped through a marathon at a pace that left many far better trained than he far behind him. As you have read, Cory credits his success on his freakishly intense workouts on the stairmaster and the exercise bike. Which I do know to be true. But com' on man! You can't run 26 miles at an 8:48 pace without doing large chunks of running. There's got to be something else going on here.

Something sinister.

Something dark.

Something disturbing.

Something, well, how can I say this? . . . Something so TOTALLY EVIL that only an attorney would do it.

And that frightening reality, I'm convinced, can only be explained one way. Or, at least, can only be explained one way that entertains me as much as my following supposition.

Doesn't it make sense that what's really going on here is that, hidden in his attic, covered with lead-lined blankets, and inside a Fort Knox-quality safe, is a painting of Cory? A painting that right now is ravaged with injuries that would scare off Mother Teresa? A painting of a 63-year-old man with a broken pelvis, a sports hernia, an inflamed Romulus-and-Remus tendon, a stent in the heart, and--most horrible of all--grey hair.

Meanwhile, the Cory we see runs on like a Hollywood superhero.

This is a picture from 29 years ago, but pictures of him following this year's Boston Marathon would look identical. Well, almost identical. I think this year he finished with a beer in each hand.

So, watch out South Africa! Here come Dashing and Doofus!

BOSTON 2011

2011-04-19T16:40:00.000-07:00

Thanks to prednisone, acupuncture, massage, and a big-ass tail wind Boston turned out OK. I took it fairly easy with the thought in mind that all I was out to accomplish was to get a four hour marathon to use to move up a few corrals at Comrades. For some mysterious reason a nine and a half hour fifty miler starts you way behind a four hour marathon, although there is no comparison in the degree of difficulty of the two. A nine and a half hour fifty is way, way tougher.

Anyway, I resolved to maintain a moderate pace and just get through it without beating myself up--if the dreaded pes anserine bursitis would let me. The Gods of pain kindly loosened their grip enough to let me go the distance and the last several weeks of stair master and stationary bike drudgery seemed to have been enough to stay in reasonable shape. My qualifying time got me a spot in the rear of the first wave so once the gun went off and the elite runners took off, leaving me to trudge along at a gentlemanly pace, I pretty much had the road to myself, until, that is, the fast runners in the second wave caught up and began to pass me by the thousands. That was hard to take. I was sorely tempted to pick it up and go with them, especially when I got passed by a guy dressed like a giant French Fry. I was really steamed by getting dropped by somebody in a foam-rubber suit and took it as a direct affront to my dignity as senior gentleman runner. I was just about to abandon my resolution to behave reasonably when the French Fry's partner also blew past me dressed like a big sloppy Cheeseburger.

At that point it dawned on me that it just didn't matter if I got passed by the whole fast food menu; all I needed to do was just plug along and get in under four hours. From then on it was fun. I slapped hands with all the little kids and laughed with all the early morning drinkers standing out in front of the taverns. I winked and smiled at the Wellesley girls and soaked up the support of the crowds lining the whole way up Heartbreak Hill. The final stretch as you round the corner where the Elliot Lounge used to be and then turn for home down Boylston is like no other race in the world. The roar of the spectators and the joy of the runners as they were pulled toward the tape actually sent a shiver through this jaded old body. It was a great day. Conditions were so good that the winner broke the world record and I managed a 3:51:01 without doing any real damage to myself.

So, it's on to Comrades. Now that ought to be something. I was talking to a South African guy who I met right after the finish at Boston. He said the hilly part of Boston, including Heartbreak Hill, would be considered the flat part of Comrades. Oh well, at least it's only a little more than twice as long.

Two Gentlemen

2011-04-17T14:16:00.000-07:00

The Steve Miller Band was right. Time does keep on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future. Not to mention that my new legal name is Maurice, because I speak of the pompitous of love. (Can you believe that Steve Miller is still not universally recognized as the Wittgenstein of our era?!) But back to me and Cory. Cory is in Boston right now, preparing to run the Boston Marathon tomorrow. If all goes well, he will improve his starting position for the Comrades Marathon. If things go REALLY well, he will kiss all the girls at Wellesley College, whether or not he improves his starting position at Comrades Marathon. In any event, it continues to look like our Comrades race will really happen. We now have rooms booked in Pietermaritzburg for the entire time we're in South Africa. I confess I used a subterfuge to obtain them, telling the booking agent that I was looking for rooms for two gentlemen coming to their country for the Comrades race. Boy are they going to be surprised when Cory and I show up! We've been called many things by many people, but the closest we've come to being called gentlemen was before the New York City Marathon, when that Orthodox rabbi pointed at us and warned his daughters, "Now you see why I've warned you about gentile men!" At this point, we are 5 weeks out from our flight to SA and 6 weeks out from the race. I have my typhoid and Hepatitis A shots, my malaria tablets and Cipro. I have my Indiana University Cross-Country Team singlet. I can only think of two things still missing. (1) A team name. Surprisingly, this is actually a requirement for final acceptance into the race. Considering how stupid it is to put our old bodies through this torture, I was thinking "The Crimes Against Nature", but Cory seems to think that is not a great idea. (By the way, it was right after I suggested that that he decided we should get separate rooms in Pietermaritzburg. What an odd coincidence.) We are considering "Two Gentlemen from Indiana", but there is that whole "false pretenses" legal thing. We have about two weeks left to come up with a name, so I'm sure inspiration will strike. If not, we'll just call ourselves by some random number. Like 46664. I'm sure that wouldn't raise any eyebrows. Anyway, the other thing that is missing is the brainwashing. I find on my long runs that when things start to hurt and there's still a long way to go, I tend to forget that this thing I'm doing is great and rewarding, etc. I tend to point out to myself, "You're the one who decided to do this; and you're the one who can un-decide it." If I can find a good brainwasher so that I cease to realize I have a choice, I'll be completely ready for the race. Actually, I think I've got it--the thing that will make my brain a compliant gob of jelly. Time to load my iPod with a continuous loop of Steve Miller! Space Cowboy!

Temporary Setback

2011-04-04T08:17:00.000-07:00

     To quote the famous Canandian philosopher/woodsman, Red Green, this has been the winter of our discount tent. Nothing is more boring than talking about the weather unless it's talking about one's infirmities and injuries so I'll be as brief as possible:

     1. Did the JFK. Got beat up by it.
     2. Caught the flue or the grunge or the mange or some crap that wrung me out and wouldn't let go for a month.
     3. Started crawling back after the first of the year with the knowledge that Boston was coming up and Comrades was a month after that.
     4. Went out on a cold, rainy-ass, miserable March day (Is there any other kind? I've forgotten) and did 18 hard miles on all hills.
       5. Developed a pain below my left knee that hurt like a mother.
     6. Went back to the doctor who did a scope surgery on my left miniscus two years   ago.
     7. Got x-rays and an MRI. No miniscus problem, no stress fracture. So, what is it?
     8. Consider several things. Feels like stress fracture. Did they miss it?

     The rest is covered in the e-mails below exchanged with Jim:

From: jim
Sent: Saturday, March 26, 2011 11:07 AM
To: Cory
Subject: broken but unbowed

Hey, Dude,

Have you gotten confirmation of your self-diagnosis? (Having all of your multiple personalities agree doesn't count as confirmation.) If so, what practical advice did your doctor have? By "practical", I don't mean "stay off of it"; I mean, "resume full training after __ weeks of the exercise bike."

I went out to the Fort yesterday for a long workout, and was reminded that 56 miles of uphill is a slog, plain and simple. I'm about to go onto the interweb to research "reversable lobotomies." I'm pretty sure that's the way to go. And maybe "reversable" isn't that important.

By the way, Immanuel Kant defines being a moral human being as incessant toiling that puts one on the path of progress from bad to better. (Yeah, a really cheery philosophy.) Anyway, I hope that, in your physical character, at least, you are finding yourself on that path.

Jim

From: Cory

Sent : Saturday, March 26, 2011

Subject: Broken but unbowed

Well Dude, here’s the story. After rejecting the theory of Patellar Tendonitis because research indicated it would be more centrally located and higher on the leg I came back to the theory that it was a stress fracture because of the location and the symptoms. I exchanged messages with the doctor’s staff and asked them if they felt sure the MRI had been read correctly or maybe it focused too much on the knee joint because of the earlier surgery. They got back to me and said they re-read the MRI and called the person who originally read them to consult and they were sure there’s no stress fracture. I had mixed reactions to this because in some ways a stress fracture would be good because the recovery time is fairly finite whereas if I don’t know what the problem is it’s hard to predict how things are going to go. Fortunately, the re-reading seemed to reveal something new or, at least, something that wasn’t in the original report which was some inflammation in the Pes Anserine Bursa, which, as everyone knows, is located under the Pes Ansrine or “Goosefoot” tendon where the Sartorius, Gracilis, and Semitendinosus tendons join and insert into the medial surface of the tibia, about two to three inches below the joint, on the inside of the knee.

This problem is most commonly caused by overuse of the hamstrings, “especially in athletes with tight hamstrings. Runners are affected most often. Improper training, sudden increases in distance run, and running up hills can contribute to this condition.” You will not be surprised to learn that the NPABA ( National Pes Anserine Bursitis Association) has named me as it’s 2011 Poster Boy.

How do you treat this tragic condition, you ask? Well, with major doses of common sense. Yes, indeed, I am a dead man. Nonetheless, I have done the research and here’s what they say: “Reduce the strain on the injured tissues. Stopping the activity that brings on or aggravates the symptoms is the first step toward pain reduction.” (Now that was unexpected advice). “It may be necessary to modify some of your activities.” Long-term, improving flexibility is key. The hamstrings have to be taught a lesson in flexibility.

The good news is the big PAB (Pes Anserine Bursitis) “usually responds well to treatment” and “athletes may return to sports or play when the symptoms are gone.” DUH. One site actually says “ If the symptoms don’t come back, the athlete can continue to progress to full participation in all activities.” DOUBLE DUH.

Fortunately, there is, in addition to the futile admonition to employ common sense, a medical approach. The doctor called in a prescription for a Medrol Dose Pack, proper name: MethylPrednisolone. This is some kind of steroidal britzkreig which is supposed to knock the snot out of inflammation. You take decreasing doses for six days until the medicine, and hopefully, the inflammation is gone. I’m on day four and it seems to be working. I have also been going to acupuncture and taking Chinese herbs I get there and to massage, where I have been given holistic creams, emoulents, and more hands-on contact with a woman than I’ve had in years. Tomorrow, I’m going to sacrifice a chicken and bury it in the backyard.

In the meantime, I continued to work out on the bike and the stairmaster hard every day (total of 3 hours today) and I’ve added some upper-body weight training and a lot more core work and stretching to my routine. I have resolved to “get tough” with the thought being that I’ll be able to run when the time comes but I’m going to miss a lot of running in preparation. I haven’t ruled out Boston but, if I do run it, the goal will be not to beat myself up so bad that it threatens Comrades.

Well, that’s the scoop. How you doin’?

Cory

From ; jim
Sent: Saturday, March 26, 2011 4:58 PM
To: Cory
Subject: Re: broken but unbowed

CB,

The Pes Aserine Bursa, eh? Along with Sartorius, Gracilis and Semitendonosis. I get your drift. Most folks might find those names confusing, but I've read "The Lives of the Caesars." I recognize the names of the young men who Tiberius kept at his villa on Capri. Or was it Caligula? Anyway, I'm sure it's nothing that a heavy dose of penicillin won't cure.

Seriously, I'd say that PAB is good news. While inflammation hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, it does respond to massive amounts of steriods, or so my friend Jose assures me. "The words I speak out of my mouth are the Truth. They Burn Like Fire."

It sounds like you will be running again sooner than would have been the case with a stress fracture. I don't know about Boston, but how late do we have to turn in a time to Comrades? If we can push the timing back to the end of April and look for a flat course, we could run it together. With all the work you are doing on the Stairmaster and bike, I'm not concerned about you being ready for Comrades, so let's not rush the running distances. I know it's too late in our lives to expect us to acquire common sense, but, like respecting women, I'll bet it's something we can fake if there's a payoff to be had.

Jim

So, there you have it. Pes Anserine Bursitis. Yesterday was my first attempt to run in three weeks. I did 12 (run ten minutes, walk two) with Jim who was on his way to do thirtyfive. Today I'm sore but optomistic. Boston in 14 days. Who knows?

Still Crazy

2011-04-03T14:25:00.000-07:00

Well, I ran 35 miles on Sunday. No, I didn't have a good reason. I wasn't raising money for orphans or saving Timmy from a well, or even doing my small bit to reduce our use of fossil fuels. Nor was I being pursued by the Carmel, Indiana Fashion Police. Though, if you've ever seen me after I dressed myself to go running, you would know that's an ever-present danger.

I just had gotten the idea of running 35 miles in my mind, and then I couldn't come up with a good reason not to. (If you are a follower of me and Cory, you know that none of the following are considered a good reason: avoidance of pain, exercise of good judgment, demonstration of mental health, obeying a physician's orders.)

It went okay, with Cory joining me for the miles from 7 to 20. You see, he's been dealing with some sort of inflamed bursa in the knee and hasn't run for 3 weeks, so naturally his first day back running he chose to go 13 miles. (When either of us questions our own sanity, we can always point to the other and assure ourselves that "I'm not that crazy!")

But to continue, last week, I got the information about the major hills on the Comrades course to try to get a sense of what to expect. The measurements were in meters and kilometers, but I got out my conversion formulas and--voila!--I had the hills expressed as the increase of feet of altitude per mile. The hills were tough, but survivable, as long as we were slow and steady. Then I had an awakening! The numbers I had come up with were actually yards per mile. The hills were all THREE TIMES AS STEEP as I had calculated. At this point I put a bullet in my brain. Or I would have, except I once again was off by a factor of 3. My ceiling is very upset with me, I might add.

So where does that leave me? It leaves me knowing that this race is going to be less fun that "a 56-mile footrace in Africa" sounds like. Luckily, Cory is on the mend, and keeping up with him is a good motivator. Besides, I hear that Durbin, South Africa has some hard-nosed, relentless fashion police.

"Why Does That Guy Have His Age Pinned to His Shirt?"

2011-03-13T11:54:00.000-07:00

That was the question being asked all around Ellerbe, North Carolina yesterday, as an old codger with the number "94" pinned to him was seen seemingly wandering aimlessly around town. That old codger being me. And the wandering being my running (loosely defined) of the Ellerbe Springs Marathon.

If you read my prior blog, you are aware of my hope of advancing my starting position for the Comrades Marathon by running a sub-4:00 hour marathon at Ellerbe. That worked out fine, as I had a race time of 3:42:09. That makes me pretty special! (Let's ignore the fact that Cory, who is 2 1/2 years older than me ran 21 minutes faster on the Fargo Marathon last May. I mean, come on, guys. If you insist on comparing me to people who are actually good at things, my boasting is going to be terribly damaged.)

I can honestly say that I did earn a coveted "Not-The-Last-To-Finish" award (well, not an official award), thanks to the presence of a few coots even older, slower and more delusional than me, and those couple of young guys who decide the night before the race "Let's run that marathon tomorrow", without having done any training. Foolish boys! You need to leave that sort of stupidity to trained professionals. Right, Cory?

Anyway, let me express my thanks to the nice people of the Mangum Track Club in Ellerbe. You couldn't ask for a friendlier or better run marathon. And a special thanks to the 8- or 9-year-old boy just past mile 23 who told me as I went past, "Way to go! You're number 10!" pause as I give him a questioning look "You're the 10th runner since I started counting!" With enthusiastic support like that, of course I had a good race!

Does That Sound Like Banjos to You?

2011-02-26T13:05:00.000-08:00

Well, I have made my decision. I have signed up for the Ellerbe Springs Marathon in Ellerbe, North Carolina, on March 12th. If I run a sub-4:00 hour marathon, it will move me up from start-group F to start-group D for the Comrades Marathon. That would mean that an additional 4500 or so real athletes will have to line up behind me at the start of the race. What a cruel fate to impose upon them! When they seem my sad efforts to "run",they will no doubt remember the great words of "Casey at the Bat"--"That runner is a Pudding; That runner is a Fake." And thusly they will learn a great life lesson--"Life Is Not Fair." (And Neither Am I.)

I'll confess that I don't know much about this Ellerbe marathon. I have never been to Ellerbe, NC, and only skimmed the race website. Once I confirmed that the race takes place during my spring break, and that Ellerbe is within driving distance, I blocked out all further information. Knowledge would only confuse me. Nonetheless, I'm sure my mental picture of the town is 100% accurate:

Picturesque; full of friendly people; and pleasant. It's true that having to whistle and carry cane poles while running the entire race barefoot, may hurt my time some, it will assure that I blend in with the natives. And, yes, "I Like Ike." And know that we must "Impeach Earl Warren."

Of course, Cory has a darker mental image of Ellerbe. Just like his view of everything else. But then, again, he is the guy who considers Malthius "a rose-colored Pollyanna." Nothing good ever happens, and if it does, it's only so that the bad thing that follows will feel so much worse.

If you could go inside Cory's brain--not recommended for anyone as kind-hearted as, say, Joe Stalin--and enter his version of Ellerbe, here's what you'd find:

I guess I should be a little nervous. If there's anything a guy who grew up in southern Indiana should know, it's psychotic bumpkins. But I'm guessing that in North Carolina, they think of Hoosiers as being the real hicks. They'll be too busy feeling sorry for me to mistreat me. For once, being from the Land Where Time Stands Still, is probably going to be an asset.

Once I get a marathon time to submit to the Comrades Marathon, I am also required to submit the name of the running club that I am affiliated with. Of course, Cory and I are not affiliated with any running clubs, or, for that matter, any clubs of any sort, as that would require us to have at least minimal social skills. So, I guess we'll have to create our own running club. I had the perfect name for our club. I hadn't yet told Cory, but in my mind, I could see us heading to the starting line of Comrades wearing our "Bitchin' Total Frickin' Rock Stars From Mars" running club shirts. But then some TV sitcom actor snuck inside my brain and stole my idea, damn it. I don't know how he did it; I was sure that my kitty cat blood and Don Knotts DNA would scare away any intruders. Whatever happened, I'm realizing that my brain can't process it. That's all for now. Time for me to wax my mercury surfboard.

Facing Facts

2011-02-10T14:30:00.000-08:00

If you have read my previous posts, you may have come to the conclusion that I have one, dull schtik that I keep falling back on--namely, an exaggeration of how pathetic and decrepit I am. Yep, you spotted my only metier. Of course, I'm not as broken-down and worthless as I pretend. I do actually train between these races we report on, and during that training I do actually stave off the slide to abject slug-dom.

So today I come clean. All exaggeration and false modesty aside, how fit or unfit am I actually?

I think the following picture will answer that question better and more honestly than whatever I might say:

I hope that answers any questions you might have.

What's that?

You say that's not a picture of me?

Of course it's not! It's a picture of disgraced New York congressman Christopher Lee.

And doesn't that make my point? When you wonder whether I'm really as prone to bad decisions as I pretend to be, what could be a clearer answer than that picture? "Compared to some folks, I'm a genius."

But now I have another decision to make. No, it does not involve Craigslist.

Where I teach has its spring break three weeks from now. That would be a sensible time to run a qualifying marathon for the Comrades Marathon. (I have a qualifying time already, but it qualifies me to start near the back, where I belong, rather than near the front, where I can perpetuate a fraudulently inflated version of myself. So should I just accept what I deserve? Come on, man! You know me better than that.)

But if I am going to run a marathon in 3 weeks, I should change my training, mainly by running less.

On the other hand, the week of spring break would be a good time to do a really long run--say, 45 miles--because I can take all day if I need to, and can lie around in bed all the next day.

However, I probably shouldn't try to do both.

According to well-placed sources in the entertainment industry, Lindsey Lohan has declared that if I were to do both, that would be "irresponsible." Well, she went on to add, "unless necessary to avoid court-ordered drug testing." And since I'm not subject to court-ordered drug testing, not since the judge's ruling was overturned on appeal on a technicality (thanks, Cory--just send my your bill), I'm thinking I won't do both.

My Let's-Think-This-Through Role Model

So, I've got some serious decision-making to do this weekend. Luckily for me, there's a package store just down the street. What better way to decide things than through a stupor?! Because I think Will Shakespeare said it best. He was referring to marriage, but it works just as well for decision-making:

"Let us not to the true impediment of decision-making admit minds." Yep, I can go with that.

STARTING OVER

2011-01-08T14:16:00.000-08:00

It's January; the days are getting longer; virtually the whole year is in front of us; nature's cycle of renewal is at its new beginning. So for us, it's an encouraging moment. This year, we're going to be better people! We'll floss every day! We'll give up sweets! We'll obey the speed limits! And, most of all, we'll not complain about anything!

As we unveil our new and improved selves, let me mention that I've picked the title "Starting Over" for a reason--the reason being that there was a movie in the late 70's with that title, starring Burt Reynolds. And Burt Reynolds is the perfect reflection of where we are at the beginning of this new year. Because both Cory and I are virtual doppelgangers for Burt Reynolds. Cory is the spitting image of the young, dashing and sophisticated Reynolds.

And equally importantly, I am a perfect match for the old, decrepit and dottering embodiment of Reynolds.

Well, actually, I'm being overly generous to myself to make the comparison to Burt. Probably a more accurate comparison would be to the old, decrepit and dottering Hugh Heffner.

Day after day, I go out and muddle along in cold, frequently snowy and slick weather. I don't muddle fast enough to call it running. I'm miserable most of the time I out. Not once has an attractive young woman offered to give me a hug to warm me up. (Or even an attractive young man--I'm beyond the point of false pride on this matter.) And no one gives me chocolate cake at the end of any of these runs.

So how does that connect me to Hugh Heffner? Well, you may have read that Hef, now age 84, just recently got engaged to a 24-year-old. So, you see, we both keep doing the same thing over and over long after we've forgotten why we're doing it. The only difference is that nobody thinks it's ridiculous what I'm doing. . . . What's that? . . . Really? . . . How many of you feel that way? . . . Oh . . . Never mind . . . I guess there's no difference between me and Hef.

All Cory's Fault

2010-12-19T06:28:00.000-08:00

Ouch! Dang it! Scheisse! I am sore! And tired! And rundown! And I blame it all on Cory Brundage. He's such a damn good example. He tries to pass himself off as a cautionary tale of how to misspend your life, but it's all bluster and facade. In fact, he's the most annoying of all friends, the good example.

So how exactly is my pathetic condition his fault? Isn't it obvious? He went out and trained hard and ran hard and did really well at the JFK. So well that he's still recovering from all his efforts. As for me, well, we know about me, Mr. Phone-It-In.

Sadly for me, in a moment of moral clarity I realized that I should be more diligent, more industrious, more given to hard work and sacrifice. In sum, more like Cory Brundage. So I signed up for the HUFF 50 (aka the Huntington Ultra Frigid Fifty), a 50 kilometer trail race through the woods around a lake near Huntington, Indiana. It was held yesterday, with an inch of snow on the ground and a starting temperature of 8 degrees. And now I realize something really, really important--when moral clarity comes calling, I need to pretend I'm not home.

I ran two of the three laps of the race--about 21 miles--and stopped because--believe it or not--I wasn't having much fun at all. Even cleverly reminding myself that "the woods are lovely dark and deep/But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep" ceased to be amusing long before I ceased to be running. And now my legs ache, my knees have swollen up, my quadriceps hurt when I go down stairs, and my energy level is where it would be if I'd been desanguinated by a vampire, only without any of the intriguing psycho-sexual overtones. And it's all Cory's fault.

But I have a plan! A most excellent plan! If I get the urge to run, I'll put my running shoes and socks on, limber up, and collapse on the bed.

That way, cold toes won't wake me from my nap.

I haven't given this plan any thought, since that would require effort, but I'm sure it's foolproof. I'll take a nap every day. And who else takes naps every day? Why children take naps every day! And what do we know about children? We know that they are young! And what else do we know about children? We know that they are full of energy! And what else do we know about children? We know that when they do really dumb things, everybody thinks it's cute! So how can there be any doubt that my plan will make me young, energetic and cute? Watch out, Justin! You're about to be Biebered!

What can I say? Other than

2011 IS GOING TO BE AN INTERESTING YEAR!

JFK 50 RACE REPORT 2010

2010-12-06T06:38:00.000-08:00

BOONSBORO

Boonsboro Maryland is a small town nestled in the rolling countryside that surrounds the Appalachian Trail, about seventy miles northwest of Baltimore. It's kind of like someone took Kentucky horse country and threw in a lot more rocks and a long, undulating ridge that juts up 500 feet or so from the surrounding hills and runs forever from one horizon to the other. Surrounding the town is a mix of some pretty snazzy country estate-type homes and much more modest, pickup-with-a-gun-rack places. Hunting seems to be a major pasttime. In fact, the day before the race, when I stopped in Crawford's Restaurant for coffee, the staff was having a laugh at one of the regulars who apparently bought the wrong kind of bullets with his morning hash browns. This seemed strange to me because I hadn't noticed "bullets" on the menu, however, as I looked around it became clear that Crawford's had hit upon the ingenious marketing plan of offering munitions along with your meal. On the way out I took a closer look at their sign.

That appears to be Grandma Crawford whipping up a batch of Thirty-ought-sixes for dessert. No

wonder Granny and the girls were having a laugh at the poor sap who bought the wrong bullets--she clearly knows her stuff. In fact, the whole population of Boonsboro seemed quite proud and maybe just a little defensive about knowing their stuff. A bumper sticker we saw reminded all visitors that "We're just rural. We're not Stupid". Given their obvious firepower, I wasn't about to disagree. Granny was nice though and the coffee was fine and nobody seemed hostile to the notion that the next day a thousand looney runners were going to clog up Main Street, just outside their door and just behind the only stop light in town, while they waited for the gun. Ironically, the hostility came later, almost at the end, when the pack was strung out over the last eight miles and occupying only a small sliver on the exteme edge of the back-country road. There just seems to be something about the sight of staggering weirdos stuggling along that incites twenty-something guys with decals of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbs peeing on a Chevy on the rear window of their Ford F-150 to swerve over menacingly and yell "Fucking idiot."

Really, there was no need for the young gentleman to point that out because, at the time, I was more than willing to agree that I was, indeed, a fucking idiot for deciding that running 50 miles was just a ducky idea. By that time I was about eight hours into what had become a kind of never-ending fever dream. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I suppose most of these "race report" things start with a bit more reportage under the theory that others want to know what to expect if they do the same race. So, here goes.

THE START

Like most races the JFK has a "mandatory" pre-race meeting. You can skip it. It's located in the high school, which is a good half mile from the start and we didn't go and got through the day just fine. I'm told all they do is explain the rules and logistics and tell you not to litter, which is all stuff you can pick up on the internet before you go.

I liked the actual start (right in front of the old Guns & Ammo Cafe). Unlike a lot of races there was no speech from the mayor, no frustrated fireman/rock star signing the Star Spangled Banner and no wave from Miss Boonsboro Gourd Festival. They just said "Ok, thirty seconds" and then shot the gun.

THE FIRST COUPLE MILES

Probably the second best part of any race is the beginning. There's a jolt of adrenaline and everybody's ready to rock & roll. At the JFK, you start on paved road and, as you run out of Boonsboro, you go up and up and up toward "South Mountain" where you finally go onto the Trail. The incline is steep enough that even though everybody is chomping at the bit to get into the run, most people do a good bit of walking because what you gain in time from running you more than lose in energy and muscle fatigue. This year the weather was almost perfect, for me at least, with the temperature in the thirties at the start. It looked like a lot of people did what I did, which was to wear an outer layer at the beginning which they intend to shed when they meet with their crews at Weaverton, the 16-mile mark.

THE TRAIL

I had one plan for the trail and that was to not break my damn neck. As it turned out, that job required my complete attention. There's a technique to trail running and I have had no occasion to acquire it. I fell four times on the trail (well, actually the fourth time was just off the trail, but I'll get to that). The first time I tripped on a rock. The second time it was a root. The third time, I'm convinced it was a shadow. By then I hated the goddamned place. What I learned is that you can't run a rocky trail and stay upright unless you eyeball the ground like you just lost a contact and prance like a pony. The minute you let your guard down and start to sling your feet in a normal stride you're going to bite a boulder. It also helps to be naturally light on your feet. It seemed to me the women were doing much better than larger men who try to bull through the thing. In a way, it's like dancing and, like dancing, most women are just naturally better at it than most men. In any case, I was lucky and even though I pancaked a few times, I didn't get hurt. I did get vocal by the last time and told the trail exactly what I thought of it, much to the amusement of the people stepping over me. Disappointingly, the trail was unapologetic.

THE TOW PATH

You come down off the trail at Weaverton Clifts and that is just what they are--clifts. You lose about 500 feet on switch-backs that are so steep there's a real risk of pulling a Tour De France type alpine crash. At a few of the hairpin curves there would be a sapling you could grab and do a kind of 170 degree pole dance that would fling you down the next stretch with enough centrifigal force to put you in fear of launching the person in front of you over the edge. The guy behind me lost it at one point and lurched forward, pushing me in the back with both hands. Fortunately, the path was zigging around a big tree at that point which stopped us both from becoming airborne. It was a great relief to finally come down. This is one of the places where your crew can meet you and you can shed any extra clothes and make adjustments. As I hit the nice, soft, flat area, I scanned the crowd for Jim's wife, Joyce, relieved for once that I didn't have to run with laser focus on slippery rocks.

I was feeling pretty cocky at that point and mentally trash-talking the trail for having failed in it's mission to render me crippled. Little did I know that the trail and the tow path work together like two old grifters to hoodwink the unwary. Something, I don't know what, tripped me and I took my fourth and most spectacular header of the day. As I tumbled ass-over-elbows, I heard the crowd go "Aww" and when I completed my barrel roll and through sheer accident came up on my feet moving foward like a Cirque de Soleil clown, I heard someone say "Way to hang in there, man!", which was nice but didn't quite drown out the guy who yelled "Showboat!"

PUNCHIN' THE CLOCK---HAM AND EGGIN'---ANOTHER BITE OF THE APPLE

Once you get started on the tow path it's like being the second dog on a dog-sled team. The scenery ahead of you doesn't change much. For a little over 26 miles what you will see is the Potomac River on your left, a flat, leaf-covered road in front of you, and woods and clifts to your right. It's pretty but it doesn't change. Here's a picture of the Potomac, looking down river. The tow path is not visible but it would be on the left.

That picture is taken from a dam at the end of the tow path where you start the last 8.3 miles on paved roads. It is looking back at the direction from which you have come. This next photo shows what it looks like for great stretches as you run along the tow path with the river to your left.

For four or five hours, that's it. That's what you see. It's pretty but it doesn't change much. There's nothing to do but keep plugging. On this stretch, my strategy was to run ten minutes and walk two. It was monotonous but had the benefit of being simple. No decisions to make, no subtleties to evaluate; just punch the clock. It seemed like the distance remaining to be covered was endless but, on other hand, with each ten minute run a little over a mile went into the bank and the end was that much closer. A couple of thoughts crept into my brain. I'm not zen enough to have a sophisticated, all-purpose, solid-gold mantra but that day a couple of cliches served as sort of one-use, disposable mantras ( at least I hope they're disposable because I got really tired of them going off in my head like a car alarm). One was sort of a mutation of the saying "You eat the elephant one bite at a time." It occured to me that I don't know where they eat elephants but it didn't matter because somehow, whenever the all-too-short two minutes of walking was over, what would repeat in my head was "Time to take another bite of the apple". Of course, after a while I began to argue with myself that I didn't want any more damn apple but I could handle the thought that I just had to take one little bite.

For some odd reason, the other thought that crept unbidden into my brain and wouldn't leave was a golf expression: Ham and Eggin' It. When two golfers team up for a scramble and one is driving well and the other is putting well they say they're Ham and Eggin' It. I found myself involutarily thinking of my ten minute runs and two minute walks as ham and eggs. So there you have it. My deep yoga-like source of spirital strength: food metaphors. I am relieved to report that once I got onto the final eight mile-stretch of road, I snapped out of the hypnotic boredom of the tow path and switched over to thoughts of beverages. I wanted a beer--bad.

ZOMBIES

I can't leave the tow path without first telling about Jim. This should have been his day. I could tell the whole last three weeks before the race that he was ready. Sometimes, if you've trained well, avoided getting sick, and tapered off sufficiently before the race, your feet just seem to spring up off the pavement. You feel good and your anxious to go get 'em. That was Jim. While I was all foreboding and caution at the start, Jim was like a kid at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning. Once we got up the hill to the trail, he was gone. I didn't try to keep up. He's a good trail runner and when you're feeling it, you've just got to let it happen.

We reconnected at the base of the clifts and started on the tow path togather. I suggested it was time to start the 10 and 2's and he looked like a fourth grader who was told it was too rainy to go out for recess. He said we really ought to go for at least 20 since we weren't really tired yet and, against my better judgment, I said ok. For the next 20 minutes I ran along with him thinking we were going too fast but not saying anything because I tend to be a pessimist in the beginning of races and maybe he was right, maybe we could run like crazy people! and get away with it. Shortly before 20 minutes was up, we fell in stride with a young woman who was running well. She and Jim began talking and pulling ahead of me noticably. I let them go figuring that when Jim started walking in just a few more moments I'd catch up and we'd walk our two minutes togather. Didn't happen. Twenty minutes rolled around and Jim was feelin' it. When that happens, you've just go to go with it. I started walking and pretty soon he was out of sight.

By this point we were about 20 miles into the race. I kind of figured I'd catch up with him later, probably at one of the points were Joyce was going to meet us, because he would stop to stock up on the stuff she was bringing and maybe change shirts. So the ham n' egging began. Eventually, I saw Jim up ahead. When I was finishing a ten minute run I would just about catch him. Then I'd start to walk and he'd start to run and he'd pull away. Little by little the gap was closing and, as we approached the crewing station at 27 miles he was only a dozen yards ahead. As I ran up he was standing with his back to me talking to Joyce. When I walked around in front to him this is what I saw:

Needless to say, I was a little taken aback. Jim wasn't wearing his number! No, seriously, the whole left side of his face and entire eye socket was covered in blood and he had an open wound on his temple. I was stunned. I been following close behind him for a long time and I hadn't seen anything happen. It was like he'd been hit by a thrown rock or something. He said that just before he got to Joyce he slipped on the only part of the tow path that wasn't soft dirt. There was a short stone bridge where he must have caught a toe and he fell forward and skidded along the rocky surface. Head wounds bleed a lot and he looked horrible. I was afraid he'd broken the bones around his eye or gotten a concussion, although his eyes were clear, he said he wasn't knocked out, and he was making sense. He said he was going over to the first aid station and he thought he was done for the day but that I should keep going and Joyce would meet me 10 miles up the course, as planned. I took a long look at him and he seemed in contol so I told him to get patched up and I'd see him when he caught up. I took off thinking that he'd either catch me before it was over or they'd discover he was more messed up than we hoped.

When Joyce wasn't there in ten miles, I knew they must be at the hospital because otherwise one or both of them would have been there. I was worried that he'd gotten a concussion after all. A broken eye socket they can fix. A concussion would be another matter. Between the two of us, he's the only one with a brain (lawyer, hospital administrator, math professor) and if he got scrambled who would there be to help me figure out pace times and things like change for a dollar? As the day wore on and my mood got darker I began to imagine all sorts of gruesome outcomes. I had a picture of me pushing Jim along in a wheelchair through the Boston Marathon as his drool cup rattled on his chin and the crowds politely saluted his courageous spirit. (Naturally, this would cause all the women in the crowd to look very favorably on me as the steadfast and loyal friend--who wisely did not deviate from the plan and run off ahead like a crazy man).

THE ENDLESS END

Finally, after 42 miles, you come off the tow path. The last 8.3 miles are on rolling county roads and it's a relief in some ways to have a little variation in the terrain. You are released from the monotony of the tow path but, at the same time, you are forced out of the comfort of the mindless routine of 10s and 2s or whatever pattern you've employed. B.F. Skinner, of Skinner Box fame, said that people don't really like freedom because having to choose creates anxiety. I don't know about that as a universal principle, however, I can tell you this. When you've been running for 7 hours and now you're deciding on a case -by-case basis whether you should run or walk up that hill in front of you, it tests your mettle. I had driven the last 8 miles the day before the race and I thought to myself that on a regular training day I would have run the whole way. I also knew that most people who have done a few JFK's agree that you should walk the first hill that leads up and away from the river for about a quarter mile, and maybe some of the others along the way. The problem is nobody paints on the road "walk this one" or "run this one, you wuss". It's just up to you and how honest you are with yourself. I had no trouble accepting the advice that the first one is a definate walker. Here's a picture of a sign a the top:

That pretty much sums up the first hill. The problem is after that they aren't as long or as steep but still, they're hills and your mind says, "Boy, you know, it really might be a good idea to walk this one because you're really tired and you've still got a long way to go and your quads could give out and you might bonk all of a sudden and not be able to finish at all and wouldn't it be better just to walk it in than to fall over and have to crawl and maybe not finish at all?" But then you start to feel guilty about walking and you start to run again and you find out that even if your body doesn't like it much, it's not refusing to do it and you really can keep running if you just stop whining and keep plugging. So, you suck it up and keep shuffling along and run those little bumps that part of your brain keeps trying to convince you are dangerous peaks.

At this point, about 45 miles, even though my legs felt terrible and my arms and shoulders ached, I was noticing that I could manage a relatively smooth running pace at maybe a little under ten minutes a mile. That won't set any records but at least it's moving. The time was passing awfully slowly, though, and I was ready to be done. The old "one bite of the apple at a time" thought wasn't doing it for me anymore. I wanted whole thing to be over and I wanted it over NOW. My mind kept trying to think of ways to solve the puzzle of how to make it end. There must be some simple way to stop this discomfort. This is where it became like a fever dream that just continuously looped back to the beginning and ran it's fuzzy course over and over. The answer to the puzzle was the same every time: the only way to end this is to keep going. The only way it is going to be over is to run to the end. The problem and the answer were the same: how do you solve this problem of having to keep going? You keep going. I think I got a little nuts.

THE FINISH

Finally, there was a little more than two miles to go. It was clear that no disaster was going to strike and, if I kept working, I had a chance to finish under 9 and a half hours, which, if anybody had offered to me beforehand I would have gladly taken. I knew the course flattens out more and more as you get closer to the end, except for an up-hill finish of a few hundred yards, so I resolved to run the last two miles as briskly as I could. It hurt but it was doable. At about the one mile mark Jim appeared out of the crowd and started to run along beside me. He really didn't look bad at all and he was pretty cheery. He told me that he'd had to go to the hospital to get stitched up (six in all) and that it took forever. He was full of apologies for not meeting me at the aid stations later in the race.

That's Jim, he almost scrambles his brain and he apologizes. He was cheering me on and telling me how well I was doing and how well I was running and, even though I thought at the time how nice it was have a friend to jar me out of the desolated wasteland of my dark ruminations, I just couldn't talk. Just about that time, about a half mile from the end, a guy passed me. My first thought was "I don't care. I'm going as fast as I can and I just want to finish." Then I noticed that the fucker had grey hair. For a few seconds I argued with myself not to be a child and to let him go. That it didn't matter and sprinting now would be stupid and prove nothing and would really hurt. Then the little boy in me said "Fuck it. I do care" and I started after him. It came as a surprise to me that my body responded. It actually liked running in a different manner than it had been for miles and miles. I leaned forward and got up on my toes and my quads quit complaining. As I gathered momentum I felt like I was flying. Throughout my running life, this has happened many times and it's one of my favorite things in the world. Running becomes automatic and effortless. You feel strong and fast. In reality, my pace at that point probably wasn't anything to brag about but the feeling, after all those miles, was ecstasy. I blew by old grey hair (who I later found out wasn't even in my age group so it was all unnecessary--but I'm glad I did it) and looked up just in time to see the finish line photographer pointing his camera at me. I think for the first time all day I smiled 'cause I was feelin' good.

DID ANYBODY GET THE NUMBER OF THAT TRUCK?

For at least the last ten miles I'd been telling myself how good it would feel to stop. Well, it didn't. I don't know if it was because of the sprint at the end or what but almost immediatly I felt like I'd been surrounded and beaten with clubs, head to toe. A very nice lady stopped me as I staggered past the finish line and cut off my chip. She then spun me around and two more nice ladies put a medal around my neck. Then a third lady, who looked more spooky than nice, stepped out of the crowd and pressed a small piece of paper in my hand and then they were through with me. Something about the spooky lady's purposeful look into my eyes said the little paper was important but there was no way I could focus at the time so I stuck it in my shorts. Just about that time the floor really fell out from under me and I staggered into the middle school gym at the finish, laid down on the floor and pulled off my shoes. The soles of my feet had been burning for miles and I was sure they were both one big blister. Surprisingly, there were no blisters--they were just really hot and it felt good to just put them on the cool tile floor.

Absolutely nothing else felt good. I'm not trying to be overly dramatic but waves of pain seemed to cascade over the rest of my body. My shoulders hurt, my arms ached, my quads were being fondue'd in Tobasco sauce, and my stomach felt like it was struggling to contain a bad burrito. Each area would take turns claiming the summit of Mont Just-Kill-Me-Now.

As for what came next, well, I got over it. Jim and Joyce threw me in the car and we went back to the hotel where I took an epic shower and then we went to dinner. After a bacon cheeseburger, fries, apple pie with ice cream and most importantly, lots of beer, life was good again. Here's Jim, looking not much worse for the wear, with his better half Joyce, who was a trooper throughout all the little-boy foolishness we put her through. And here's me, happy at last.

POST SCRIPT

In a previous post Jim identified himself as a Tysonista (one of their basic beliefs is that everybody's got a plan until they get hit in the mouth). I, myself, am a Frizbeterian. We believe that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and you can't get it down. On the whole, we are a pretty laid-back group. We do not proselytise and we do not recruit. Most importantly, we do not mind other peoples' business.

Others, unfortunately, are not so restrained. The spooky lady apparently belonged to one such group. When I got back to the hotel and peeled off my shorts, out fell the little card she thrust on me in my weakened state at the finish. It admonished me to give up my wicked ways and seek salvation, which apparently can only be attained by joining her particular cult. Normally, when people attempt to hand me such things I politely decline. She clearly had calculated, however, that someone who had just run 50 miles and was docilely following instructions from race officials would be too confused to resist. As the bumper sticker said, they're just rural, they're not stupid. Well, I was just tired. I'm not gullible. I flushed it.

EUREKA! More Insights--

2010-12-05T11:22:00.000-08:00

1. Running in snowy, windy, 25 degree weather isn't as much fun as I remembered it being.

2. My rugged manliness isn't as much of either as I imagine it to be.

3. T. S. Eliot had it right when he said, "The years between 50 and 70 are the hardest. You are asked to do things and yet you are not decrepit enough to turn them down." (And by "things" I'm sure Eliot was meaning "running in snowy, windy, 25 degree weather".)

4. T. S. Eliot even had it more right when he said, "Teach us to care and not to care-- Teach us to sit still."

5. "I shed my blood at Antietam." How many Americans alive today, besides me, can say that? Maybe Shirley MacLaine was right, and I had a prior life as a Civil War soldier. Heaven knows, there's not a smidgeon of "flake" in Shirley MacLaine.

6. Did you know that "you gotta be cruel to be kind" didn't originate with Nick Lowe? I discovered this week that it is said, in a slightly less elegant way, by Hamlet to his mother, "I must be cruel only to be kind." Which raises the metaphysical question of whether it was a flash of brilliance or a criminal insult to the source to have "Cruel to Be Kind" on the soundtrack for "Clueless." Feel free to weigh in on this topic. Inquiring minds want to know.

7. "Among twenty snowy mountains, the only thing moving was the eye of the blackbird."

WELL DONE!

2010-11-23T07:49:00.000-08:00

Let me start by congratulating Cory. He never felt good before or during the JFK 50, which probably wasn't helped by his 4 tumbles on the Appalachian Trail, but he looked the race dead straight in the eye and told it, "You ain't got enough hurt to make me quit." (When the going gets tough, Cory gets talking like a guy that grew up in Evansville.) It was really a remarkable performance. In his first 50 miler, in the largest and oldest 50 miler in America, he was 5th in his age group. As Albert Einstein said when he published the theory of relativity at age 26, "Well, it's a start."

I, on the other hand, was only too glad to say, "I've got an oowie; I've got to quit!" One stumble, one scratch on the noggin, and I'm heading for the beer tent. Well, actually, the Washington County Hospital, but, judging by the amount of attention being given to patients, it might as well have been a beer tent. Below, on left, how I pictured myself after the fall; on right, how I'm sure I actually looked.

Anyway, now Cory and I will find another race to run between now and the Boston Marathon (April 18, 2011). Due to chronic substance abuse in our younger years--i.e., up until yesterday--we only have short-term focus. So we need a race in the near future or we'll turn back into the bloated slugs that are our true natures. We'll let you know what we pick.

P.S. I owe an apology to all bloated slugs for that last comment. What I should have said was "grotesque, hideous, degenerate, obscene slime creatures." Yep, that's accurate.

Mixed Results

2010-11-20T14:39:00.000-08:00

THAT was hard. I finished in 9:25 and some change and Jim fell on some rocks, got six stitches in his head
and finished in the Hagerstown Hospital. More to follow.

FINALLY

2010-11-18T15:43:00.000-08:00

At last. Thirtysix hours until the gun. Let's get the party started. The weather is supposed to be great. The two of us are healthy and, if we don't get some serious exercise soon, I'm going to jump out of my skin. Next stop: Boonsboro, Maryland and the JFK 50.

WAITING, WAITING,WAITING

2010-11-05T16:34:00.000-07:00

I agree with the essence of Jim's post, below. You would think that finally beginning to taper off on training would be great but it kinda sucks. While my decrepit body is beginning to feel relatively normal, my mind, such as it is, has been freying at the edges. I'm imagining all sorts of terrible possiblities including blizzards, broken bones, abject failure of will, or most likely, hours and hours of pure discomfort. The compulsion to squeeze in just few more long, hard runs is strong.

In my rational mind I know that tapering is the right thing to do, as proven by generations of runners who have had their best races after periods of reduced training and sometimes, because of injury, illness, or lack of bail money, total inactivity. All the science shows it's even more important to taper the older you get--which, in the case of Jim and I, means we should have started years ago. The problem is that the neurotic side of most runners' subconcious nags and nags that taking a few days off or even just cutting back a little will cause you to get totally out of shape in just a few hours. Another problem is that while the amout of exercise you're getting goes way down, your appetite stays just about the same which, as we all know, leads to just one thing:

A Fine Mess . . .

2010-11-02T11:24:00.000-07:00

Well, we are now a little more than 2 weeks away from the first checkpoint in our plan ("Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." -- John Lennon), the JFK 50 Miler. Sadly, life hasn't managed to happen in any way that would excuse us from this race. Despite my best efforts, neither Cory nor I have sustained any debilitating injury, been the subject of incarceration, or been committed to a mental institution so as to render us unavailable for the race. In light of the postings on this blog, I find the last fact to be particularly troubling. Doesn't anybody keep an eye on severely disturbed individuals?

With 16 days to go, the serious training (clearly insufficient) is over, and the time for easing up (and ballooning to the size of the "Ghostbusters" Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man) is upon us. Now is the time for reminding ourselves of all the things we should have done better in our training, and of all the well-deserved suffering that is waiting for us on race day because of our pathetic character flaws.

In short, now is when we finally understand the way our friends looked at us when we said we were going to run 50 miles--like we were either liars or idiots. Dang it, why did they have to be so right? And now that the race is almost upon us, we are forced to acknowledge that we would rather be idiots than liars. Curse you, Virtue!! Who could have foreseen that Cory or I would bow at your altar?!

The main solace I have is the knowledge that 10 or 11 hours after I start the race, it will be over. And though I must face the fact that I will spend most of the race creeping at a petty pace, rather like the whining schoolboy (who himself creeps like the snail) unwillingly to school, it is also true that this is enough, t'will do. And at the end, the finishers, one and all, can claim, like the dog that sings opera, "It really isn't important whether we did it well. The important thing is that we did it at all."

And, for me, that solace will be accompanied by the further thrill of having Cory announce upon finishing, "You know, Jim, don't you, that the Comrades Marathon will be a lot harder."

Being Like Mike

2010-10-22T13:47:00.000-07:00

Wow. Cory's last blog is really good! Who knew he had thoughts? It's kind of embarrassing for me--having to have a shirt made with an arrow and the legend "I'm With Erasmus."

Not that I'm a superficial guy myself. I even have a favorite philosopher, but in my case it's a contemporary thinker--Mike Tyson. Not only has Mike offered the deep thought, "If I only tattoo half my face, then I must only be half crazy", but he has given me a philosophy of life: "Everybody has a plan, until they get hit in the mouth."

I'm going to postulate that what marathoners and ultramarathoners are about, after you scrape down past the DSM IV stuff, is about Mike's philosophy. 'Cuz one thing I know for sure is no matter how prepared you are and how smart you are, a race like the JFK is going to hit you in the mouth. And more than once. Something will happen that throws up all over your plans like a President at a Japanese state dinner.

We wish it weren't true; we wish races were about having done good training and having a good race strategy, and then the race itself is easy. But what racing is really about is how you handle the throw-up. Your best success, unfortunately, comes from doing what is not easy.

At least, that is what Tysonists believe. And while I belong to no organized religion, I am attracted to the "hit in the mouth" message of Mike.

That and the idea of following his advice on relationships. I will be sure to shout to the other runners, "My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want to rip out your heart and feed it to you. I want to eat your children." Who wouldn't be charmed by friendly banter like that?!

Herman or the Hottie?

2010-10-20T13:04:00.000-07:00

The question that comes up when considering an ultra-marathon, or a regular old 26-miler for that matter, is: Why do it? For non-runners the answer seems to come easily. "Because you're nuts", they say, some with more distain than others. (The ones that love you usually say it with what passes for fondness. Your friends say it with a slight shake of the head that signals "I like you but sometimes you're just a little on the flakey side". And strangers and others who may feel a little guilty about not exercising say it with barely concealed disgust.) The only answer that really matters, of course, is the one that works for you. It may be that you're one of those lucky people who are satisfied with the realization that "I just like doing it." If so, bless you. Chances are, however, that some time or another, on one of those really dark, gloomy, cold, wet, windy, miserable, dead-of-winter twenty-milers you've asked yourself "Why the hell am I doing this?" I distinctly remember two particular runs over the years when the rain and snow was blowing sideways with the temperature in the teens and the slush-ruts in the road held ankle deep ice water that splashed up to my groin with every step when that question pounded me in the brain like it was on a pogo stick.

     I hate it when that happens. It ususlly means I'm over-trained, hung-over, or just really feeling my age. I'm afraid to open that Pandora's box and analyze whether all the five a.m. alarms are worth it. But sometimes it's just unavoidable--you've got to come up with an answer that works for you or just stop in your tracks.
     Lately, I've concluded that one of two people can supply the answer: Herman Melville or Paris Hilton. Melville knew that humans must have goals and the most valuable goals are the ones that cost you the most dearly and, if you pursue them to the point of obsession, they may destroy you in the end.
     Paris Hilton, on the other hand, knows how much fun it is to look in the mirror. Ever since Narcissus humans have loved to see their own reflections. Those of us who don't get as flattering a return from a mirror tend to hold up other surfaces to measure ourselves by. Like a 50-mile stretch of road. In that sense an ultra-marathon is like a mirror for plain looking people. Or, if you want to be a bit more generous to us and a bit less so to Paris, she's shallow enough to be satisfied with herself simply if she thinks she looks "hot" but runners need to feel like they've probed deeper into themselves and found something of merit because they didn't quit at 38 miles.

So, who's more correct, Herman or the Hottie? You've probably dealt with the question yourself and have a pretty good idea what your answer is. As for me, call me Ishmael.

Herman

The Hottie

TIN FOIL HATS

2010-10-17T14:19:00.000-07:00

   Ok, I admit it. When I went to crew for Jim in Leadville for the 100 I expected to see a bunch of skeletal, grinning weirdos in tin-foil hats communing with their home planets as they rattled their boney ankles over the rocks. It really wasn't like that. Oh sure, there were some obviously disturbed types that you wouldn't look you straight in the eye on the subway but there were relatively few of them--probably no more than in any crowd.

   What I saw was a group of seemingly normal people who just happened to be facinated with the idea of trying to run 100 miles. Now, by "normal" I don't mean the kind of normal you see in a crowd of random people at the mall and certainly not at the Indiana State Fair, where the big hit this year (I am not making this up) was fried butter. I mean normal in the sense that they probably have relatively sane day-to-day lives that include friends and families.

   In fact, most of them had friends and/or family members there to crew for them. As far as body types go, they weren't all gristly Mick Jagger-Madonna clones. There were a few of those, sure, but just about all types, except for the truely overweight, were represented. There were some pretty beefy guys and more than a few kinda fleshy people. In fact, being fleshy didn't necessarily seem to be a big drawback. There is some scientific support for the proposition that after your body burns through all the glycogen it can store, it switches over to fat burning for energy. This is not to say that being fat is a good thing--it's not. But we all have some body fat, even Jagger if you look hard enough and, as it turns out, science says a little body fat is a good thing in an ultra marathon.

   Women make the transition to burning fat more efficiently than men, which probably accounts for the number of women who seemed to be doing really well at Leadville. Also, most of them seemed to have dialed in their mental approach to the challenge of the race. They were so smooth and serene. While a lot of the guys, especially the younger ones, would come charging into the aid stations and bark at their crews, "Gimmie my Power Bars", "Where are my special socks?", the women would tend to glide in smiling and their mostly female crews would hug them and say things in pleasant voices like "Oh, Sweetie, you're doing so well". The best runners seemed to have a kind of zen thing going and the best crews just seemed to know that psychological support is as important as groceries.

   One thing they stressed at the pre-race meeting is that you can keep going long after you think you can't. So far, the hardest training I've done is a hilly 15 on one day and 30 the next. I did notice that even though it was profoundly uncomfortable toward the end of the 30, it was, in fact, possible to keep going. What they didn't mention at the pre-race meeting, however, is that the realization that you can, indeed, keep going does nothing to lessen the really irritating, pervasive discomfort.

   Oh well, nobody's making us do this and it is kind of interesting to search for that zen-like serenity that the women showed at Leadville. Maybe I need to get in touch with my feminine side. Like Yogi said, "90% of the whole thing is mental and so is the other half."

Whining into Race Shape

2010-10-11T13:43:00.000-07:00

Cory has reported "the facts, ma'am, just the facts" of our exploration of the race course, in a manner that would make Jack Webb proud. (However, unlike Jack Webb, it is possible that Cory could provide a rendition of "Try A Little Tenderness" that would not make you Try A Little Neuro-Toxin.) [Before you accuse me of slandering Jack Webb's memory, go on the internet at http://www.bomb-mp3.com/index.php?search=try+a+little+tenderness+jack+lemmon and give Jack's version a listen. There are some things even the First Amendment shouldn't protect.]

Anyway, now let me give you my perspective on the weekend's benefits. First of all, I learned that there is an official highway sign that contains the information: "CAUTION. WATCH OUT FOR D.U.I. DRIVERS." I saw it beside the road in western Maryland. It was right after I passed "Scott's Pizzaria", which struck me as two words I would not normally associate with each other. Truly, travel broadens one's horizons.

The biggest benefit of the trip, though, was to help me whip my whining skills into race shape. Luckily, I was able to get a great workout of complaining in on Saturday. "The weather's too hot!" "These rocks are too hard!" "This hill is too steep!" "This trail is too bumpy!" "This is hard work!" "I'm tired!" "I'm bored!" "My feet hurt!" "My knees hurt!" "I'm not having any fun at all!" All useable complaints for the 10+ hours of running, walking, crawling and/or whimpering I expect to be doing on race day. My physical stamina may fade during the course of the race, but--thanks to my first-rate training regimen--my mental attitude will be as stoutly negative at the last step as at the first one.

Thanks to this training, if I complete the JFK 50 Miler on November 20th, I will know in my brainwashed brain that I have achieved a super-human accomplishment, that no person in all of history and pre-history has ever suffered one-tenth as much as me, that at a minimum I deserve sainthood for what I have endured. It is only my modesty that keeps me from pointing out that I truly am the greatest human being of all time.

Preview

2010-10-10T12:03:00.000-07:00

Jim and I went out to take a look at the part of the JFK 50 course that's run on the Appalachian Trail. Wow. It was an eye-opener for an Indiana boy. The race starts in Boonsboro, Maryland and you run the first few miles on a highway leading out of town to where you jump onto the Trail. Those first few miles are bad enough in that they seem to go uphill forever. It isn't long after you get on the Trail, however, before you realize how good you had it on the road. This is the elevation map for the course:

As you can see, you climb over 1200 feet in the first five miles or so. What you can't tell from the map is that the footing is absolutely trecherous. In some stretches it's like running on cobblestones that have all been sharpened to a point. In others, it's like they tore down a five story building, piled up all the rubble, and marked a trail right over the top. Here's a picture of a random portion that was actually one of the more innocent parts:

Seeing this firsthand has caused me to lower my expectations for what kind of pace we can carry over the first fifteen miles. There's a lot of technique required to run trails like this well without breaking your neck and I, for one, haven't got those skills. Even Jim, who's run the entire Leadville course, said that patches of the Appalachian Trail are worse than most of Leadville in terms of runability. I saw large portions of the Leadville course and I know what he means. While parts of it looked unrunable to me, at least they are clearly so, like the steeper side of Hope Pass. The thing about the Trail that's dangerous is that you are tempted to run by seemingly harmless stretches that all of a sudden turn into ankle-breaking mine fields.

Six weeks to go until the race. I think I'd better try to find somewhere around Indy to practice Trail running. Maybe they've torn down a big office building somewhere.

FINGERS CROSSED

2010-10-03T16:50:00.000-07:00

We're seven weeks away from the JFK and so far, so good. Our training has been going well. Jim and I run together on Sundays and make up our own programs during the week. There seems to be a consensus in the information we've found on the internet that the best way to train for an ultra is to put in some pretty significant back-to-backs on the weekends. For me, that means running up and down whatever hills can be found in good old Indianapolis (they're aren't many) on Saturday and going long on Sunday. We've done the first of what will be three thirty milers and we'll hit it pretty hard through the rest of October. The JFK is on November 20th, so we'll taper for the first three weeks in November.

   I have no doubt that Jim will be ready. After doing well in the Indianapolis half marathon on May 8th and the Fargo marathon on May 22nd, he went on to run the Rainier to Ruston Fifty Miler in Washington state ( race motto: "You can rest when you're dead") on June 5th, where he promptly set the "Men's Super Master (aka: "geezer") Course Record" by turning in a 9:11:04. That's Jim above being congratulated.

      That's a half-marathon, a full marathon, and a 50 miler in less than a month. Not bad for an old dude. But that's Jim. I don't think he's ever been out of shape. In fact a few years ago he spent several months in the mountains in South America teaching math to indigenous kids. (It isn't bad enough that they have to live in poverty high up in the mountains where there's never enough to eat and life is hard---they make 'em learn math, too). While living and hiking in the cold, damp, thin air he managed to get a nasty case of pneumonia. He drug himself down out of the mountains and made it to the capital where he sought help. After unsuccessfully attempting to shoot himself in the butt with a syringe full of who-knows-what they sold him at a pharmacy, he stuffed down a handfull of the "miracle drug" they also provided (which turned out to be ibuprohen) and somehow got his obviously diseased carcass onto a flight home. They met him at the airport with an ambulance and slapped him straight into surgery where they cut him open and drained the fluid out of his collaped lung. I saw him. He was a shade of bilious, Grinch-like green you don't usually see on living people. Three months later he ran the Marine Corps Marathon. See what I mean? I think he can handle the JFK.

What Now?

2010-10-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

If you have read the prior posts, you know that Cory and I have told ourselves, and anyone else who will listen, that we are going to run a marathon, a 50-mile race, a 56-mile race, a 100-mile race and climb a 19,000 foot mountain before next September.

So now your question becomes, where will this scheme go off the rails? Because surely a spectacular, fiery crash is the way this will end. I don't know about Cory, but I agree with you completely. Sooner or later, this madness will go terribly, terribly wrong.

Only, not just yet. We ran our first 30-mile training run last weekend; Cory ran 18 miles and 20 miles on consecutive days this weekend; and I ran 9 and 20 miles on consecutive days. Next weekend, we go out to Maryland to survey the first 15.5 miles of the JFK 50 mile race. The course rises 1200 feet in the first 5.5 miles and then zig-zags like the teeth of a handsaw along the Appalachian Trail for the next 10 miles. We don't have any place in Indiana that can prepare us for that part of the race. (The difference in elevation between the lowest point in Indiana and the highest point is about 900 feet.) Our plan is to do a 30 mile run including that first 15.5 miles of the race course.

This provides us with our first really good opportunity to smash some vital body part. Steep ups and downs on a rock-strewn, leaf-covered trail are excellent places to tumble. So the madness may soon be over. Keep your fingers crossed and your animal sacrifices active!

A Memory Is A Terrible Thing to Lose

2010-09-23T14:58:00.000-07:00

I am really impressed by Cory's first blog. He tells an incredible story. By the way, "incredible" has a definition of "not reliable; not to be believed." Sadly, that summarizes Cory's blog. It is true that I have committed to the stupid plans described by Mr. Brundage, but any of his suggestions that "we" had these ideas is the product of a troubled, deluded memory. (Lest you think I am exaggerating Cory's delusional behavior, the picture below is just one of many examples of his tendency to wander aimlessly toward certain death.)

Let me tell you what really happened.

Starting at the beginning, this is all Cory's fault. If he had had the good sense to remain the pathetic invalid I had come to expect, none of this would be happening. You see, after running 6 marathons in 25 months in the mid-90's, including a 3:00:08 marathon in Ohio and two Boston Marathons, our Mr. Brundage had spent the next 12 years finding ever-increasingly-unlikely ways to injure himself. So when he came up with the idea of running the 2008 Boston Marathon at age 60, I thought it was "cute." Like when a little boy tells you he's going to be a pirate when he grows up. (Or, in my case, when my little girl decided that she was going to be a pirate when she grew up.) You know it's not going to happen, but you play along. "Great idea, sweetheart. You'll be the best pirate ever!" So, thoughtlessly, I encouraged Cory in what I thought was a harmless delusion. If only I had seen where it was heading . . .

Well, Cory seemed to be living up to my expectations. As Exhibit A for the Buddhist belief that "Life is Suffering" he managed to hurt himself 8 weeks before the 2007 New York City Marathon (his intended qualifying marathon for Boston) and couldn't run more than 6 miles at a time. So surely that was the end of this story.

Certainly, if there were any justice in this world it would have been. But I am convinced that Mr. Brundage has opted to avoid justice through some despicable alliance with Satan, because he not only finished the marathon, but qualified for Boston with 5 minutes to spare.

So on to Boston in 2008, where Cory ran 26 minutes faster than his New York City time, finishing 31st in his age group. He followed that up at the Fargo Marathon this year with what he called "a good time." Yeah, and Angelina Jolie is okay to look at. What he actually did was to win his age group and run the fastest age-adjusted marathon of his life--an age-adjusted 2:40 marathon. So, yes, I am now sure that ownership to Cory's soul is now held by the Dark One. Still, if I could be as fast as him, . . .

Anyway, that should be the end of this woeful tale. Cory comes back from years of degeneracy and disgusting excess to prevail over all others. If he had any grasp on reality, he would have realized that he had succeeded beyond anything he could have hoped for, and committed to spending the rest of his days boring all those around him with the story of his triumphs at New York, Boston and Fargo. Why, instead, he came up with the insanity which he refers to as "The Plan," I can't explain. You have already read his description of that lunacy, and have no doubt said to yourself, "Could these guys be any more nuts?" To which I'd have to respond, "No, not really." Of all the stupid things I have ever done, The Plan is the Sir Isaac Newton of stupid ideas. It does, in fact, stand on the shoulders of the Giants of Stupidity.

So, what is my message to you, the reader? Simply this. No matter how many bad choices you have made in your life, Cory's and my pursuit of The Plan will convince you that you could have done worse. Welcome to our Ill-Advised Adventure.

THE PLAN

2010-09-21T16:13:00.000-07:00

Ok, here's how it all got started. Jim ran in the Leadville trail 100 in August, 2009. I went out to crew for him. I'd been injured the year before and had recovered but had lost momentum for running and had degenerated pretty far down the evolutionary scale. Jim, on the other hand was his usual super-fit self.
Leadville has to be the toughest 100 miler going. The percentage of finishers there (less than 50%) is way lower than at the Western States 100 or any other 100. Unfortunately, Jim drew the hottest day they've ever had for the race and called it a day after 50 brutal miles. Heat is to Jim as light is to Dracula. He wisely resolved to return and fight another day. This is Jim, blisters, scabs, scars and all after a hell of an effort.

Watching him soldier up and over mountains for fourteen hours shamed me into getting off my increasingly pudgy butt and lace 'em up again.

Our training went well in the fall and into the spring of 2010. We did the Sam Costa, a small half marathon in Carmel, Indiana in March for a tune-up and then did pretty well in the Indianapolis half marathon ("the Mini") in early May. Three weeks later we headed to Fargo for a marathon. (Fargo's city motto: "We're so nice it's spooky").

We both had good days at Fargo and qualified for Boston in 2011. The only problem was that left us with eleven months with nothing to do but train, clearly more than our limited attention spans could handle. Our minds began to wander. Doing the Indy half marathon again was a no-brainer since that's our home town but that's pretty much old hat to us by now. Besides, that's a couple weeks after Boston and didn't really give us anything new or exciting to think about. We started trolling the inter web to find something just a little more exotic than Fargo.

I was talking to this South African guy who owns a running store in Indy (Ashley Johnson--he was a world class runner and South African Olympian. He and his wife Andrea, herself an accomplished runner, own the Running Company in partnership with Bob Kennedy, past US record holder at 3,000 meters, 2 miles, and 5,000 meters.) We were talking about Alberto Salazar and how he had a spectacular come-back race and won the legendary Comrades Marathon in South Africa in 1994. Actually, Comrades is not just a marathon. At fifty-six miles and 18,000 participants it's by far the oldest and largest ultra marathon in the world. It's a point to point race and every year they run it in the opposite direction. One way's mostly up hill and, of course, the other is mostly down. It's held In late May, which means we couldn't do it until next year after Boston and Indy. Next year it's the up hill route. Now there's a challenge.

It certainly meets the exotic requirement and, since we'd be in good shape after Boston, why not? We added Comrades to our list. Then we got to thinking. We'll be in Africa, we'll be in killer shape, we'll never be any closer to Tanzania and we'll never be any younger (although we do seem to get better looking every day, Jim's Leadville picture notwithstanding.) The next step was obvious---Kilimanjaro. We could take a week or so to recover from Comrades, preferably somewhere at altitude to prepare us for the 19,000 foot climb, and then let 'er rip. It takes somewhere from five to seven days to make the climb, depending on the route. That would put us somewhere around mid-June when we get back to the States. Then we got to thinking. We'll be in great shape, we'll be used to steep terrain, and we'll be adjusted to altitude. Now what could we do with that? Great shape, used to climbing, adjusted to altitude, hmm...? LEADVILLE! August, 2011. One hundred miles starting at 10,200 feet and going over 12,600 foot Hope Pass --twice. Thirty hours to finish. At thirty hours a man comes out to the finish line with a gun. He turns his back so he can't see who's stumbling, staggering, falling, or crawling inches away from the tape and, exactly at ten a.m., he shoots his gun. That's it. Race over. If you haven't crossed the Iine by then, they don't know you. You are DNF even if you've made it 99.9 miles. Make it and you get a belt buckle. Come up short and you get to see that guy's back. Those mountain people are tough.

So, we had a plan. The only problem was it still didn't start until Boston 2011. What to do until then? A little more web searching and the answer was easy: The JFK 50 on November 20, 2010 in Maryland. Sixteen miles on the Appalachian Trail, 26+ on the Chesapeake and Ohio tow path next to the Potomac River, and eight final miles on country roads. Twelve hours to finish. Our Fargo times got us in. (Qualifiers are called "Elite Citizen Athletes" by the organizers, a nice touch.) After the JFK there's the Huff, a fifty K trail run Huntington, Indiana in mid- December.

After that, we'll still have four months until Boston. We may add some more races if they tickle our fancies or stroke our fantasies or whatever. We're open to any suggestions.

So, that's it. That's the plan. Sometimes it feels a little ambitious but the more we think about it, the more doable it seems. A lot of people do these events every year and if they can do it we can too. I think. Anyway, we'll never be any younger and we'll never know unless we try so, why not? It ought to be a hoot.