"It Could Affect Your Judgment"

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

     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

Excuses to
follow.
                                                         

Countdown to Leadville, Part Deux

                 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".
                                                            

Countdown to Leadville

     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

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?

* * * * * * 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

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)

     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.

An Actual Race Report

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

     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:
                                         

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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