A Rundown of My Run Down Provo Canyon

The sun has gone down
and the moon has come up
and long ago
somebody left with the cup,
But he's driving
and striving...
--Cake, "The Distance"

It's Friday afternoon and I am nervously wandering the running expo held at the Utah Valley Convention Center just off of Center Street in downtown Provo, Utah.  I'm nervous because tomorrow will be my first marathon ever.  For the past 5 years I have been telling myself to stop being lazy and just run the 26.2, if for no other reason than just to say I actually ran a marathon.  My dad ran one, and two of my sisters have run one, but I am supposed to be the runner in the family.

This is something I should have done years ago.  In fact, I wish I would have run one right out of college, when I was in the best shape of my life.  Then the task wouldn't feel so daunting now.  But as it is, here I am, less than 24 hours from the longest run of my life.

I am going to attempt the marathon with minimal training.  Though I registered for the race back in February, I only managed to get my training up to about 40 miles a week.  My average training pace is 7:30 min./mile, and the farthest I have run at one time is 14 miles, which I did about two weeks ago.  Still, I am confident enough to think that finishing a marathon will not be difficult.  The difficulty will be getting a good time, which is why I am nervous.  I don't want to take forever on this thing...memories of my high school coach blowing out both knees and coming in just over 6 hours haunt me every night.

I meander through the serpentine rows of tables and tents, engulfed in a cacophony of merchants hocking their wares and runners' inquiries into the features of all the various doodads and gadgets.  What strikes me most is the selection of belts and armbands aimed at helping a runner carry things.  I don't want to carry anything with me.  I remember the days before cellphones and iPods...when running was much more liberating.

"Hop!?!"

I look up to see my good friend, Josh Rohatinsky, standing at one of the booths.  We quickly catch up, and I find he is now working full-time for the Big Cottonwood Canyon Marathon. What a life!  I now wish I was working in a field dedicated to running.

When I tell Josh tomorrow will be my first marathon, he responds, "It's a different animal...You want to run really slow the first half.  You need to feel like you're dogging it.  Then, you can pick it up if you're feeling strong, if not, you can just maintain your pace, and avoid hitting the wall that usually comes around mile 20-22."  I let his words sink in for a moment.  I don't want to run slow.  I have been fighting my whole life not to run slow.  But I see the wisdom in his counsel, and so, I resign myself to run very slowly the first half (around 8:30min./mile pace), and then push it the second half, because I'm sure I will be tired of running so slow.  Suddenly, I'm not so nervous about tomorrow, because I have a clear plan for success.  It's my first marathon, I don't need to break records, I just need to finish, and gain the experience, without hating the distance and never wanting to run it again.

I return with my friends to our hotel room, we layout our clothes for the next morning, and hit the sack about 7:30.  Sure, it's an early night, but the last shuttle leaves at 4:15 in the morning, so we plan to get up at 3:30.  I'm still anxious about the race, but all things considered, I sleep quite well.

I think I've prepared well for the race.  I have sweats, gloves and a hat to keep warm in the cold mountain air, and we make a quick trip to the store for some vaseline, but no bandaids (I plan to avoid the bloody nipples by simply taking my shirt off) before boarding the shuttle.  The shuttle ride is nerve-racking.  The driver, nearly an octogenarian, manages to keep us on the road, but hits no less than 6 of the orange and white construction barrels lining the road.  We finally arrive at the start of the race in Wallsburg, UT.  I know I have hydrated well, as I make three trips to the port-a-johns prior to the beginning of the race.  I have my new compression socks on and I relax on the grass and stretch in the heat of a nearby firepit provided by the race directors.  This will be easy, I tell myself.  I just start out dreadfully slow, and pick up the pace halfway through the race--this is my mental preparation for the race.

Finally, they call for the runners to assemble at the starting line.  It's not as cold as I was expecting, but I decide to wear my beanie and gloves, just to be safe.  All my other gear goes in the bag that I will claim somewhere after the finish line.  This is it.  I'm 26.2 miles from glory.  26.2 miles from joining a very elite group of millions of people across the globe who have finished a marathon.

"5...4...3..." I hear the man with the bullhorn countdown, "...2...1...Go!  See you at the finish line!"

And we're off.  I start my watch as I trot across the start line.

It's a bit crowded.  I relax, move to the left, and pass several runners.  One of the reasons I think this race will be so easy is the course.  It's almost all downhill.  And so, when I cross the first mile marker, I am only slightly shocked to see my time.

Mile 1--6:30.  Six minutes, thirty seconds.  What!?!  So much for running intolerably slow at the beginning.  I try to relax.  My legs are not working that hard...I think.  For the most part, everyone has settled into their pace, and there is not much change in the runners around me.  I slow down to a comfortable pace...

Mile 2--6:34/13:04.  Yes, I slowed down to 6:34 pace.  I question myself now.  Sure, the race is all downhill, but can I maintain this pace?  No.  I  am certain I will slow down.  Should I just stop and walk now, so that I can revert to my plan so eloquently stated yesterday by Josh?  "You need to feel like you're dogging it."  I do feel like I'm dogging it...but do I want to walk when I know I can run?  Besides, there are women around me...I think I can hang with them.  And there's a guy wearing long pants in front of me.  Long pants.

Mile 3--6:39/19:44.  Still not out of Wallsburg yet.  I feel good.  I feel relaxed.  I can't believe my pace. I know it's way too fast for my training, but I attribute that mainly to the downhill course.  I still feel like I'm trotting.

Mile 4--6:45/26:29.  There is the occasional group of spectators, but otherwise, the course is clear, and quiet, save for the pounding of our feet on the pavement.

Mile 5--6:55/33:24.  I think this race is a metaphor.  I was given good advice.  I know the right thing to do.  Yet, I insist on doing what I know is wrong, hoping it will somehow lead to happiness later on.  I have given up trying to slow down.  I maintain my comfortable pace.

Mile 6--7:12/40:37.  It's all downhill.  I am relaxed.

Mile 7--7:06/47:42.  I settle in for an easy run down the canyon.  I can see Provo Canyon Road ahead, and I take solace in the fact that I know this canyon.  I practically lived in the canyon while attending BYU.  So I tell myself, anyway.  I will watch the miles click away as I see the familiar landmarks leading me back to Provo and the finish line.

Mile 8--7:38/55:20.  A small hill ahead, but I can still see the lead runners...

Mile 9--7:40/1:03:01.  A second small hill and a glimpse of the dam. A police officer parked in the middle of the road counts the runners as they pass. I am 95.  Suhweet!  I could finish in the top 100.  This thought spurs me on, if I have to slow down at the end, it won't be that bad.  I'll slow down to 8-minute, maybe 8-and-a-half-minute pace, but still, I am on track for a decent time.

Mile 10--6:54/1:09:55.  The reservoir is close now.  I have been running in the sun for the past twenty minutes, but realize as I near the canyon it might get chilly, and I am glad I haven't ditched my beanie and gloves yet.

Mile 11--6:56/1:16:51.  The dam looks different.  I had forgotten about the construction done years ago.  Clearly, I am not focused on running, my mind is all over the place.

Mile 12--7:23/1:24:15.  There are people around me, but I don't pay them much mind.  I am just enjoying the descent into familiar territory.

Mile 13--7:07/1:31:23.  This is the halfway point!  As a point of reference, in January I ran a half-marathon (again without much training) and finished in 1:34.  My best half ever is 1:29.  Sure, it's all been downhill, but my mind has been trained not to consider this.  When running, one must find every reason to hope for the best.  Focus only on the positive.  That is my mantra.  Just as I hit the halfway point, I hit the port-a-john.  I haven't seen any suitable sites for a pitstop at the water stations, and I don't expect to see any more, so I figure this is my chance to rid myself of excess fluids.

Mile 14--8:04/1:39:27.  The extra thirty-second pitstop hardly takes a toll on my pace.  I'm still clicking along (way too fast).

Mile 15--8:07/1:47:35.  Still feeling good, but I have now resorted to walking at the water stations.  I know I need the fluids.  I was getting water at all the stations before, but now I get both the Powerade and the water.  This is officially the farthest I have ever run at one time.  I am in uncharted territory, as they say.

Mile 16--7:28/1:55:03.  This pace still feels good.  I am on track for nearly 3 hours.  And here I was, dreading come in slower than 3:30:00.  What was I worried about?  I am going to rock this marathon...I hope.

Mile 17--7:49/2:02:52.  Though I slow down by about thirty seconds, and I can feel a couple of blisters beginning to form under both of my big toes, I am still confident I will finish the marathon way faster than I originally thought.  Bring on 3:15:00.

Mile 18--7:58/2:10:51.  My toes are only slightly sore, but otherwise, I feel good.  A couple of runners have passed me, but I still manage to maintain a good pace.

Mile 19--8:35/2:19:26.  Yes, I am slowing down, but I was expecting this.  I just ran the fastest half-marathon of the year, and I am almost 25 minutes faster than my goal time.  Running one or two minutes slower per mile for the remainder of the race will not kill my time.

Mile 20--9:42/2:29:08.  My right leg is starting to tighten up; I feel a slight pain in my knee each time my foot strikes the ground.  No worries, I can hobble in to the finish and still feel good about my race.  Sure, I am upset that several runners have passed me.  In fact, it is a steady flow now.

Mile 21--9:27/2:38:35.  See?  Fifteen seconds faster than the last mile.  I can do this.  I think it is awesome that the water stations now offer Powerade, water, energy gel packets, and vaseline (on a popsicle stick).  Yes, I am still walking at the water stations.

Mile 22--10:14/2:48:50.  This is officially the farthest I have ever run in my life, and this is as far as I can run.  My legs are starting to cramp.  I shove my compression socks down to my ankles to ease the strain on my calves.  I am slowing down, shuffling my way along the course as an ever increasing number of runners pass me.  Now out of the canyon, I am cursing this part of the course--the gentle curve with a slight uphill before the long straight stretch into downtown Provo.

Mile 23--14:31/3:03:21.  I can barely walk.  I'm only three miles from my goal, and yet, just ten miles ago I saw the very real possibility that I would be finished by now.  What a fool I was!  Why didn't I listen to Josh?  Why didn't I stop and walk at the beginning?  Had I done so, I would not be moving so slow now. I stop and retie my shoes hoping that tightening them will ease the pain of the blisters.  I try to shuffle along, but my calves keep threatening to cramp up.  The guy in long pants catches up with me.  "These last three miles are really going to hurt.  I can barely run," he says to me.  "You're doing good, man.  I can barely walk," I reply.

Mile 24--20:12/3:23:34.  I am in pain.  My legs have quit, and I am almost certain I will have two bloody toes when I finish.  I want to collapse in the grass, roll over on my side and weep.  Every step I try to run, jog, or even shuffle, I feel my calves silently threatening to seize up on me.  They tell me this is as far as they will run, and I must walk to the finish.  It is so close.  I hate my calves.  I hate my blistered toes.  I hate my twitching knees, and the fact that my compression socks either hurt my calves or cut off the circulation around my ankles, so I have to keep moving them up and down.  Should I take them off?  My whole body aches in exhaustion...but that is not the worst of the pain.  The worst is the humiliation.  My conscience burns with the knowledge that I am no match for this race.  Though the course was all downhill, and though I felt comfortable with my pace at the beginning, I am not prepared for this.  The woman holding the 3:45:00 pace sign passes me, with her group of runners who will most certainly finish well before me. I want to quit, and I hate myself for wanting to quit.  The only thoughts that keep me moving toward the finish line are the people I will have to face later.  Although my body begs me to drop to my knees in tears and just rest on the grass, wait for a medical vehicle to come pick me up and take me to the finish and give me an IV or a really good massage, and although a large part of me wants to do this--needs to do this--I know that my friends and family will inquire regarding my endeavor.  I will have to tell them that I could not finish.  That I quit; that I did not finish; that I failed.  This thought alone keeps me trudging toward Center Street.  I fight back tears and walk on.

Mile 25--24:07/3:47:41.  Passing my old apartment, there is an ATV-truck with a cooler and a bunch of water bottles on the back.  As they slow down to deliver some water to one of the policemen guarding the road and directing traffic.  I shuffle up and beg the woman for a bottle of water.  She agrees, and as I reach for one she says, "Grab one from the cooler, if you want one that's cold."  You are a saint, lady. May God rain down blessings from Heaven upon you, and your children.  I keep walking.  This is by far the slowest I have ever walked a mile.  I resign myself to at least finish the marathon, though I stopped running long ago.  My only consolation is that I pass a woman in a pink shirt.  She is the last of the half-marathoners.  I actually pass one person in my last two miles of the marathon...

Mile 26--15:45/4:03:27.  My legs feel better?  Perhaps it is simply that they send the end is near, but I will them to pick up the pace.  With only a half-mile left, I am shuffling,  I am walking, I am shuffling, I am walking.  I am not crying.

Mile 26.2--1:43/4:05:10.    The last .2 miles I start to jog.  I am kicking toward the finish line almost as fast as a baby crawling across the floor towards a favorite toy.  And then, I cross the line.  Finished.  Finally.  I finished.

Running From an Angel

Running from an angel 
Running to the devil, devil yeah

--Hootie and the Blowfish, "Running From An Angel"

It's late in the afternoon on New Year's day.  He thinks it's about time to make some life changes, so he looks online for a website he has been to once before.  There, he registers for a half marathon race to take place in twelve days.  Over the past six months his training has been spotty--his typical runs were only 3 or 4 miles long and he has run no more than 9 miles at one time--so the thought crosses his mind that twelve days may not be enough time to truly prepare for such a distance.  He shrugs and clicks the register button, telling himself this will be a diagnostic race, a measure to tell him where he is at in his training, which to the casual observer is pretty obvious.  He is nowhere in his training.  But at least the race will afford him a beautiful view of Lake Mead and a goal to get him started on what he hopes to be a year full of long distance running.

Over the following ten days, he attends a spin class at the gym a couple of times, and goes for an hour-long run one morning.  Two days before the race he steps onto the treadmill intending to run at a 7-minute pace for an hour. After 30 minutes, he has had enough of running in the same place and cannot understand how people stay on such blasted machines for more than 20 minutes without going insane.  Perhaps they are insane, he thinks to himself as he moves to the stationary bicycle for another 10 minutes before giving up and going home.

The night before the race, after picking up his registration packet in the hotel banquet room, he stops for some Panda Express.  This is not a pre-race tradition.  It's just, they do serve rice, and he does need some sort of complex carbohydrate.  Not up-to-date on all the contemporary literature concerning pre-race preparation, he decides this will do as he lifts the chopsticks to his lips and tastes the kick of the Kung Pao chicken.  He hydrates throughout the evening and sets out his racing clothes before spending a restless 8 hours in bed trying to sleep.  

Finally, it is time to get up.  Checking the weather forecast, he decides it will be too cold to race in short sleeves.  Three wardrobe changes later, he is finally ready.  Opting for the training shoes instead of the racers, he zip-ties the timing chip to his laces and heads out the door.

At the starting line, the typical pre-race jitters are eerily absent.  He attributes this to his acceptance of the fact that he has not trained for this, that he would be lucky to place among the top runners in his age group, let alone the overall race.  His warmup, therefore is minimal--a few minutes of light running followed by a hamstring stretch, some calf stretches and a bit of Powerade to maintain hydration.

There is no gun. The clock counts down to the start and the runners take off when it reaches zero.  He starts off at a swift but comfortable pace.  He runs in second place for the first mile.  Checking his watch at the mile-marker, he is surprised at just how swift he is running.  6:14.  Too fast for what he is capable of.  Ah well.  Better to start off too fast than too slow.  First place gradually strides away from him and another runner passes him. He is complacent with running in third place.  In younger years, (more competitive years), he might have fought to maintain the pace, to keep his competitor at bay, but 12 days of training offers him little encouragement, and so he lets the runner go. The second mile ends in 6:35--still under 7-minute pace, which surprises him, but there are 11 miles looming ahead of him.

The course is full of uphills and downhills with hardly a quarter-mile stretch of level road anywhere.  He curses these hills silently.  Should have run more miles to prepare for this.  Definitely will if there are to be more of these races in the future.  The true misery of the course is that it is an out-and-back course.  He will retrace every step.  The uphills that were once his enemy, will aid him on the return trip, but the downhills will prove traitors to his cause.

The third runner passes him, wearing what appear to be yoga pants made for a Patriots fan and offering him a bit of encouragement by signaling to him to draft off of him.  He makes a meager attempt to stay with him, pulling up even with the Yoga pants, but then slowly dropping off the pace.  At least he is still in the top 5, he tells himself.  And then he tells himself if two more runners pass him, at least he will still be in the top 10. Optimism has always been one of his best traits.

By now he has settled into a 7-minute mile pace, which is faster than he was expecting, but still slower than he knows he should be.  Or wants to be.  By this time, he has started passing the marathon runners who started their race 30 minutes before him.  They too are running an out-and-back course, which causes him to look on the bright side of the misery he is feeling.  At least he only committed to the half-marathon.  At least his tight back muscles that plagued him in the first two miles of the race have ceased bothering him.  And at least his right shoe, which was tied too tightly before the race and caused his foot to go numb during the third mile (he knew it was too tight but shrugged it off thinking it would eventually loosen up), was still tightly tied but his foot had regained feeling.  At least now he was battling nothing but physical fatigue and mental weakness...and the 4th place runner, who just passed him.

These runners can't keep passing him, he tells himself.  They have all settled into their pace, and at this point, almost five miles into the race, few others will be able to match or exceed his pace.  He is safe in 5th place.  He will know for sure when he reaches the turn around point.

The miles are drifting by and seem filled with irony.  He tries to push the pace, and finds himself clocking a 7:35 mile, then somewhat slowing the pace (he thinks) only to split a 6:58.  At least he is still averaging 7 minutes.

At the 6-mile mark, just over half a mile from the turnaround point, he sees the lead runner already heading back to the finish line.  What he wouldn't give to be there already.  He tells himself, half-joking, that he could stop at the turn-around point.  Quit.  Give up.  It would be a nice ride back to the finish in the back of that van.  A long downhill and a long uphill ahead of him curving to the left and he can see the turnaround and all the other runners ahead of him.  Their leads slowly increasing.

Finally he reaches the turnaround and pleasantly greets the volunteers, making sure they note his bib number.  Hate to run all this way, only to be disqualified because he didn't check in at the halfway point.  And now he has to run all the way back.

The good thing about the out-and-back course is the fact that he can see exactly how close all the other runners are.  They are not close enough to worry him.  He is safe in 5th place.  The bad thing about the out-and-back course is that he must now run past all the other runners in the race.  Over the laborious next 3 miles he is more a cheerleader than a competitor.  He utters trite words of encouragement.  Good job, he says, keep it up. Over and over.

As far as scenic views are concerned, the return route is much more enjoyable.  At one point he crests a hill and realizes it might be the first time he has seen Lake Mead since the first mile of the race.  And he sees it more, now that he is nearing the finish.

Three miles to go and he tries to tell himself it's all downhill from this point.  But it's not.  The course has far too many hills left, but at least now it is just him and the road.  And it will be this way for the rest of the race, he says to himself.

At last he has reaches the 12-mile mark.  This is it.  The last mile.  The road stretches straight out in front of him.  A long, gradual uphill. He can see the last turn.  To his left, he can see the lake, and the last stragglers in the 10K race that started 15 minutes after his race.  Grateful they were on a different course and that he does not have to cheer them on as he is struggling to finish his own race, he tries to tell himself he can finish this race.  He has averaged close to 7-minute mile pace, and this is the last mile.  Just fight through the fatigue and the overwhelming desire to stop and walk.  Over the last mile, his legs beg him to stop.  They threaten to seize up, to cramp, to cripple him and drop him to the pavement if he does not listen to them.  Their threats fall on deaf ears.  Sort of.  He does not stop, but he slows down. The last turn finally arrives and he is a quarter mile from the finish.  

Suddenly he is struck with fear.  Glancing back along the course as he makes the turn, he can see another runner close behind.  Close enough to catch him, perhaps. Will he have to sprint to the finish to defend his 5th place finish?  He thought he was safe, but now another runner has come too close for comfort.  At point-one miles from the finish he checks his mile split and discovers why he has found himself in such a predicament.  Mile number 13 took him 8:42.  Pathetic.  With what is left of his motivation he musters a push for the finish line.  He finishes, safe in 5th place. 1:34:51.

Wanting nothing more than to collapse there on the pavement, he stands as a woman puts the medal over his head and clips his timing chip from shoe.  Already the lactic acid is flooding into his muscles, and he hobbles over to the food stands to begin what he knows will be a long recovery.

And that's his half-marathon in a Nutshell,

Hop

Scattered

People have been asking me lately why I haven't updated my blog recently.  This question crossed my mind about a week ago.  I was standing in a port-a-potty (of all places), reading the scrawlings on the wall.  Messages left from previous patrons, from those who carry sharpies around in the hopes of leaving their mark on the wall in a bathroom stall or port-o-john somewhere, and thus on society, I guess.

As I perused the declarations of "going home in a week", and "I was here", and dirty pictures, the thought occurred to me that these scrawlings, these vague and fleeting attempts at self-expression are like a blog. Like my blog, anyway.  They say nothing of importance to the reader,  and I question whether they mean anything to the person who wrote them.

Truth is, I have a lot to write about.

I've been living in Missouri for 4 months now. Missouri can be a beautiful place.  The problem is, being trapped in a place for Army training tends to take the beauty out of a place.  Most soldiers complain about how miserable the base is, wherever they are stationed.  I tell them it's only ugly because they don't see anything but the base, and because the training makes it miserable.

Two weeks ago, the leaves were changing colors here...and that is all I need to say right now...

More to come.

And that's my scattered brain in a Nutshell,
Hop