Yesterday in the mid afternoon I received an email from the fine folks at SRC alerting me and all others on their email list that if we wanted to, in the next 2 hours we could submit our top 10 choices for race numbers (between 1-300). First come, first serve. A neat little idea. Since I was at work, I had nothing better to do and IM’d my brother (also at work and likely bored) for a little brainstorming session.

One might think the obvious choice is #1, a race number I’m actually not unfamiliar with. But one would be wrong. Unless you are in the running to win the race, looking down at your bib halfway through the race and seeing "1" serves more as a reminder that you are in fact very far from #1 in both that race and surely other aspects of life. What one wants with a number, if they have a choice, is something they can glance at or think of in a moment of hunger and feel either strength or pure happiness/amusement. Either a tonic to climb over the pain or a pill to help forget it if only for a few moments.

Before I get to my top 10, I’ll relay some of the poor numbers that had to be axed. At first, under pressure of time and with literally millions of options before me, I panicked and just started picking numbers almost at random, starting with athletes I admired (Will Clark, Scottie Pippen, Zack Greinke) and then moving on to even less inspiring choices, like my birthday and my cat’s weight converted to ounces, but cooler heads eventually prevailed thanks to my brother, who felt not the pressure I did and casually started dropping winners left and right.

In numerical order, here are a few he and eventually I was able to bump:

#8 – Steve Young…plus my ultimate goal of 8 hours – Montana was the man when I was a kid, but Young was at the helm when I started religiously watching NFL Primetime at the Carmichael’s house Sunday evenings. Plus he was left handed. And Mormon. And hot.

#9 – The age at which I started shaving.

#19 – Top 20! – By mile 10 I’d probably forgot what 19 meant and get upset.

#23 – Zack Greinke – Maybe last year this would have worked…this year it’d just make me sad and reflexively cause me to drop down and start doing some girl pushups.

#29 – My % body fat and reminder that finishing this race will surely drop it to 28.6 or something much more respectable.

#33 – Scottie Pippen – Would not inspire me or amuse me…would probably only remind me of all the acne I had in 1992. Also possibly the number AC Slater wore on the Bayside football team?

#34 – Bo Jackson – His Tecmo Super Bowl persona is legendary, but at mile 37 I think the last thing I’ll need is a reminder that I am in no position to comfortably sit and play some TSB w/an ice cold glass of Rockstar, nor will I be for at least a couple hours.

#69, #169, #269 – I was once 26, I won’t deny I had a cruddy sense of humor and not all of it has left me.

#80 – Jerry Rice – Obviously the greatest WR ever, but why did he have to go and end his career with the Raiders and Seahawks?

#98 – The year of my high school graduating class. Because nothing inspires me more than the thought of myself at the age of 18, a full head of really bad hair, few friends, and only heroic (COUGHwiffleballCOUGH) greatness in my future.

#103 – A production company I started with Mark Montgomery way back in high school…we eventually had a business license and everything! I think our total gross profit was minus eleventy hundred dollars, so in hindsight maybe not all that inspiring. Fun, but uninspiring.

#187 – Murder was the case that they gave me!

#214 – My birthday! What better motivation to grind through those final miles than the reminder that…my birthday is in 6.5 months?

(and then there were a few we bandied about despite being past the 300 barrier)

#420 – Terry was once 26, but he won’t deny that he had a cruddy sense of humor and not all of it has left him.

#530 – The zipcode to my hometown of Chico, CA. When I stated this one, Terry responded with “ha, loser!”

#619 – Terry’s preference for a zip code number, which points you to San Diego…hometown of one pro wrestler Rey Mysterio, who also has a awesomely retarded move called the “619″. This brought on a potpourri of wrestling-related numbers and got us sidetracked for about 20 minutes.

711 – Their slurpees were once post-run staples on the high school XC team, back when we’d loiter outside by our hot rods and plan the evening’s events…usually N64 parties, donuts, soda, and zero women.

So those were cut. After about 20 minutes I had a list of 10 I was willing to submit. I’ve tried not to think about this since I hit “send” since I knew I’d obviously come up with better ideas once the pressure was gone.

(drumroll)

1. #42 – Teen Wolf – Terry’s first idea that got me off the “real athlete” kick and begot a flood of inspiring/hilarious character athletes, none more inspiring/hilarious than Teen Wolf himself. The body hair, the 73″ vertical leap, the ladies, the marketing campaign, the good grades, the jealous teammates, the breakdancing in the high school halls, the pissed principal, biting into beer cans after games, etc etc. Suffice to say that Teen Wolf would not only set the course record at White River, he’d do it with style. And head lice.

2. #3 – Kelly Leak – Speaking of head lice, I’d place Kelly 2nd only to WWWWWWWOLF! in terms of sheer badassery and dominance…plus he was a 12 year old who smoked, rode a Harley, and wasn’t afraid to approach adult women in a ballet class, rattle off his little league stats, and still seem to possess a shot at actually bagging the broad. “I’m hitting .841…I’m on the Bears. You live around here? I got a Harley Davidson. Does that turn you on? A Harley Davidson?”

3. #00 – Misc – I know it wasn’t between 1-300, but I had to include it just in case it was possible. Follow in the footsteps of Jeffrey Leonard, Robert Parish and…most importantly, Willie Mays Hayes. Also, I’m just guessing but I wouldn’t be surprised if Chubby from Teen Wolf also wore double zero. (nope, i was wrong…he wore 55)

4. #71 – Bill Goldberg – One of the stars from the heyday or pro wrestling’s comeback in the late 90s and the name I always drop when I want to make my brother wince and/or laugh. Terry’s over-the-top impersonations of Goldberg are always gold. The mere thought of them makes me laugh. So why not use his number from when he sporadically played 3 seasons in the NFL before donning the ol’ fanny pack and climbing into the squared circle?

5. #12 – Tanner Boyle – The yin to Kelly Leak’s yang on the Bad News Bears, Tanner never backed down from anybody, even going toe-to-toe with Kelly Leak himself before a game when Kelly dared call him a “runt”. He might fail at White River, but not for lack of trying and not for lack of swear words on the course or fisticuffs with fellow runners.

6. #99 – Ricky Vaughn – Wild Thing from “Major League,” a movie that should be thought of more highly than it is…which is pretty damn high to begin with. Rick Vaughn’s badassery has been hampered by the 80s-era cheese “Major League” expels when trying to get “cool,” but it’s all worth it for the scene early on when he, Willie Mays Hayes and that boring Jake Taylor guy go to dinner at a nice restaurant. Vaughn wears a sleeveless leather vest with a tie, lamenting that “I look like a banker in this.” In my head, had I gotten this number, my opponents on the White River course would be the douchey guy that Jake Taylor’s ex is dating, and I’d be Vaughn in my banker suit. “You want me to drag him outta here…kick the shit out of him?”

7. #13 – Pedro Cerrano – Pedro from “Major League” was a little too religious, relying a bit too much on superstition for my tastes, but his ensemble when arriving to Spring Training (full length open black trench coat…no undershirt), and his practice of shaving his head with a bowie knife, is the kind of mind frame I would want to have when the chips are down at mile 7.

8. #11 – The number of tackles Bill Goldberg racked up in his three NFL seasons. Every time I looked down and saw “11″ on my bib I’d think to Bill Goldberg tackling somebody and doing that Bill Goldberg-thing he’d do in WCW after spearing/injuring some jobber…and what Terry did before occassional ABs in the wiffleball league.

9. #25 – Barry Bonds – Only two actual human athletes made the cut, and he’s one. The greatest hitter who ever lived, arguably the greatest all-round player to every play the game, inspiring me, the greatest runner–from Chico California–to ever grace this course. The amusing thought here…hmm…only thing springing to mind is Bonds acting all surly to fat sportswriters and their hawaiian shirts that are covered in mustard stains and diet coke. That’s never not amusing.

10. #22 – Will Clark – And the other human athlete. My first-ever athletic hero, I’d also find amusing the thought of him cackling at me in that voice of his to “gidder dun!” or spitting tobacco juice at me & calling me a faggot runner.

*************

I also plan to bring the ol’ iPod shuffle with me for only the 2nd time ever. I plan to merely use it at certain points when I find myself both a) in need and b) completely isolated. If I was guaranteed to have a fellow runner nearby at all times, I’d forgo this plan, but I distinctly recall last year’s race, when I saw WAY more people than I thought I’d see actually wearing earbuds, including a few elites, and I distinctly recall being alone for 90% of miles 27-50 and wishing I had some goddamn music to break up some of the monotony. The shuffle weighing about the amount of a standard-issue postage stamp, and being about as cumbersome, was the final straw. I have 7.5 hours on it, ready to go. I know I will not be alone for 7.5 hours of the race, but I also know my patience level will be less than usual and I will be skipping many songs if they don’t fit the exact spirit I’m jonesing for.

The 7.5 hours is led by the Three Kings of Peter Gabriel’s “Sky Blue,” 69 Boyz’ “Tootsie Roll,” and, of course, this:

(Oh yeah, this morning I found out I indeed got #42. Only a couple days to find myself a long brown wig and let my body hair grow back in.)

It’s all downhill from here. On the 4th of July weekend I clocked 42 miles (30+12), and this past weekend, the 17th and 18th, I clocked 40.9 (17.9+23), which is about as much a “peak” my sad little legs can handle. Today I sat in an office chair feeling sore but, thankfully, uninjured.

I have been dealing with a gimpy left calf these past couple months. Towards the end of hard runs and the hours thereafter, he wants to cramp…or sometimes he does cramp. Upon completion of hard runs, I spend the time before the next run icing and massaging. The next day’s run is typically on the easy side and after more icing/massaging, he seems to return to normal, just in time for the following day’s hard run. Rinse, repeat. It’s been going like this all summer. I figured I could get away with ONE last tough weekend before giving him a couple weeks of taper to be ready for White River. For mostly mental purposes, I wanted to clock 40+ miles one last time.

Saturday would be the “easy” of the two, as I did 17.9 road miles (plus a bit of Lincoln Park) at about a 7:30ish pace.

The 2nd run, the final “hard” run, which occurred yesterday, wound up being more a mental test of sorts. It was the 2nd of the two White River preview runs SRC puts on, 23 miles starting with the last 6ish miles of the course (miles ~43ish-50) and then taking us from mile ~27 of the course back to mile ~43ish. As I sat in the back of Adam Lint’s car on the drive there, I couldn’t really hear the conversation between he and Dustin up front, and even if I could, I was probably too concerned with my left calf to really be bringing much in terms of passenger entertainment. My calf was quite a bit more sore than I was anticipating after the plentiful but easy miles I’d completed 24 hours earlier. I didn’t have my massager, so I just used my hands as best I could (not very) and hoped for the best…being that my calf would miraculously be pain-free after 20 minutes of clumsily inept, last-minute massaging in the backseat of a cramped car.

I was also exhausted from a very non-fitful ~6 hours of sleep, and the constant drone of unintelligible voices in the front two seats was acting as a sedative of sorts. So zoned out I was, I forgot to ask if Adam could play my new Bret Michaels CD that I had bought for $18.99.

We got to the trail head around 9am, a sizable crowd ready to get after it. I transported my crap into Patrick’s car and readied my supplies, which included about 200 S-caps. I do not believe the cramping of my calf has anything to do with lack of hydration or salt, but being dehydrated and/or without sodium certainly wasn’t going to help matters.

Roughly a quarter mile into the 23 miles, I was alarmed at how much my left calf seemingly wanted nothing to do with running. I figured he’d give me at least a mile or so of moderate comfort. I grew despondent, almost sure I was going to have to cut the run short. If I could describe the physical feeling (I wouldn’t call it “pain”)…pretend you were at the gym last night and you did about 250 calf raises for no good reason…maybe insecurity. With a ton of weight on your shoulders of course. You’re wearing an Affliction t-shirt and board shorts because you want people to know that while you don’t fight professionally, you like watching those who do and you may have picked up some of their moves from watching lots of youtube clips and recent UFC, so they should approach you with caution and fear. You might also have shaved legs. Now picture yourself today, and the strain you feel when you do a standard calf stretch…perhaps while showering in the bathroom of your studio apartment. That feeling in your calf is what I was feeling during each step on my left leg. I told myself that I’d go until it cramped, at which point I’d turn around and head back. Eat pretzels for 3-4 hours until everyone returned.

For the next 3 and a half hours though, my calf stayed at that exact spot. It never cramped. It just stretched. It was one of the most exhausting runs, mentally, I’d ever done. For the first half, all I thought about was my calf. Every step. I tried to land at the most comfortable spot of my foot every step. I watched for roots or any uneven terrain every step, and forced my senses to focus on almost nothing but what my foot felt when it landed so as best to adjust if the calf whined. I dutifully took an s-cap every 30 minutes, some gel-form calories every 45. It was not a carefree jaunt on some beautiful trails. It was a regimented and disciplined march…on yes, some beautiful trails. On a beautiful day. But I was so distracted by not becoming injured that I couldn’t really enjoy it the way many of the others could and most definitely were. On the zig zag up the final climb to Suntop, where Scott’s van and Nuun tablets lived, I momentarily glanced up from my lifeguard duties and Mt. Rainier up & punched me in the face. I can say this as someone who isn’t moved very easily, but it actually pulled the words “holy fuck” out of my mouth. For a few seconds I actually forgot how god-awful this climb is after that cock tease of a false summit.

A short while later I headed down the mountain road with Adam & Patrick for the final 6ish miles. My calf was weary but holding on, and I was rejoicing that, thanks to no recent ankle twists or sprains, I could actually comfortably run down the mountain. I can’t say the same for Adam or Patrick…who were subjected to me sans shirt for the duration of our time together. They were polite about it all the way down though. Except for the multiple times Patrick ridiculed the quantity of my body hair and likened me to a silverback gorilla.

Two free Thai Globespun Gourmet burritos and a couple tales of 100 mile excellence later (both thanks to the awesomely inspirational Adam Hewey) and I was ready to call it a summer, training-wise. There’s not much left to do but spoil the shit out of this calf and bribe him for a workday’s worth of strength in about 12 days.

Only 14 more miles and I would have achieved what I thought impossible a few years ago: triple digits. It still seems daunting. Those last 14 miles would be the hardest (not unlike the 26th 6:52 in an attempt to break 3 in the marathon), but then I think back to that first marathon I did in 2005 and how I think I only topped 50 miles in a week a couple times, and those rare times only barely. My prior record was 78 miles, though 50 of those miles came in one go (White River 2009). This time the crux of the miles came on Sunday (17 miles), Tuesday (18 mile double day) and Saturday (30 miles at Cougar Mtn). That’s 65 miles already right there, and out of curiosity I looked up my mileage dating back to late 2007 to see how many times I’d even topped 60 miles in a full 7 day week. This latest week was only my 17th time in about 2.75 years. Or about 135 weeks. Maybe in another 5 years I’ll look at 85 weekly miles the way I now look at 50 weekly miles, with a snort of disdain and contempt. Considering I’ll be a 35 year-old with the body of a 63 year-old, I sorta doubt it.

The 30 mile run was obviously the big one, and I’m fairly satisfied with how it went. I formulated the plan earlier in the week, wanting to end the week on Saturday with over 25 trail miles that were respectably hilly, but with family in town I wanted to keep the preparation/commuting to a minimum, so I kept it near home (~25 minutes away) and on trails I already somewhat know (the Cougar Mtn 14 mile loop, which I’d do twice). Greg Crowther supplied me with his and Uli Steidl’s painfully detailed description of the loop, which included the sad information this was actually only a 13.6 mile loop. All week I’d been burning “28″ into my head. Now it was suddenly a precipitous plummet to 27.2. I figured if I simply *had to*, I could add 4/5ths of a mile afterward somehow.

As it was that was not necessary. Despite Greg’s handiwork, I found myself twice absentmindedly getting off the loop, adding 23:11 to my total time. Ignoring those detours, my loops were 2:08:44 and 2:10:17. I have no idea what I covered in those 23:11 but since it was all mostly flat, I just gave myself 2.8 miles so I could have the nice round 30. Sue me.*

*Please don’t sue me. I have no money, honest.

How the week broke down:

Day  Miles   Cmltv
Sun   17.0    17.0
Mon    6.5    23.5
Tue   18.0    41.5
Wed    8.6    50.1
Thu    6.0    56.1
Fri    off    56.1
Sat   30.0    86.1

The Wednesday run was a PM track workout (4 x 6:00 at ~5:35-5:40 mile pace), but Monday and Thursday were very easy 6ish milers and Friday was a whole lotta me splayed on the couch, so maybe there’s room there for 14 more miles. Check back in five years. 86 miles, for many ultra guys, is packing peanuts. But considering I seem to always get injured when getting into the 70-75 range, I’m both happy with the milestone and terrified about what lies in the weeks ahead.

Tomorrow I leave for a long weekend in Dallas (wedding), skipping out on Seattle as it *finally* starts to behave like summer. I’d pass it off as “heat training” but I think it’s actually going to be hotter here, at least Thursday & Friday. Looking forward to tanning my chest hair though.

For the first time in my storied running career, I faced the downside of the low-rent, bare-bones trail ultramarathon scene when I “raced” the Sun Mtn 50k yesterday in Winthrop Washington. I technically finished 4th overall in 4:33 or so, though in my head I will consider it no worse than 2nd place in maybe 4:20-4:23. I spent almost all of the 1st half of the race running with the eventual winner, and I admit I felt good. I had no intention of leading the race or making any sort of move until maybe after mile 20ish, but his pace felt good for my pace and we covered the nice trails mostly together.

Then around the 10 mile mark we took a wrong turn. In our defense, there was no marker. We guessed going to the right…which was wrong. Went down a quarter mile only to figure we probably had to go back (after jogging in place for a bit, looking for a flag or sign of some sort), where we were reunited with what I figured were the 3rd and 4th place guys, approaching the very spot where we took the wrong turn. “Oh well,” I glumly thought to myself, sort of annoyed that we lost all that time we put on them but thems the breaks. Through the next couple miles we’d slowly resume putting time on 3rd and 4th again, only to have to stop a couple times to uncurl the lightweight paper signs that had warped and curled up in the rain in order to see which way to go. Each stop got them back with us. Then, roughly a tenth of a mile after the mile 14ish aid station, we come to the most stereotypical of forks in the road, like midway up the letter “Y”…with no sign pointing left or right. And…here’s the 3rd place guy back with us. He has a map but it’s not as helpful as we hope. He wisely yelled back at the aid station “WHICH WAY DO WE GO?!” Not surprisingly, they didn’t know. So we guessed going left. Luckily, we eventually find out we guessed correctly, but the minutes leading up to that revelation weren’t great fun.

My spirits were a little down but picked up slightly as we went through some admittedly very nice single track trails, the occasional nice view distracting me from other, less-than-optimistic thoughts.

Around mile 16 or 17 or hell I don’t know, we started a decent little climb up to Sun Mountain Lodge, towards the end of which I was surprised at how much we’d put on 3rd place. We got to the top though with about 20 options on directions to go and absolutely zero clues on which direction was the correct one. No signs, no flags, just two teenage girls who had no idea where we should go or why we were running up that trail to begin with. While we stood around with our fingers in our noses, trying to formulate yet another educated guess, here comes 3rd place again with his map, once again tied for the lead. The map proved not all that helpful, so we put it away and just jumped onto a trail that was going in the general direction the map seemed to be pointing. Around here I went into “eff this, long-training run from here on out” mode, mentally. Who the hell knew if we were on the right trail and if not, who was choosing the right trail and getting in front of us? Though it was sort of amusing to wonder just what *would* happen to all those behind us…and the many directions they could all choose to go. I pictured Patrick turning 13 shaes of purple at each direction-less fork in the road and laughed, whimsically.

We continued on for another couple miles, glancing at trails breaking off for any evidence we’re on the right track, eventually finding something promising that soon lead to the actual trail we were supposed to be on. At this point I had no idea if we’d cut the course or we’d added miles, and I was afraid of eating because my water bottle was getting low and I had no idea when the next aid station was coming. First place and I put some more distance on #3 and I was asked to take the lead for awhile. I agreed, but soon felt the early signs of bonking coming on. No longer feeling very competitive, I told him this and relinquished the lead, so he started to slowly pull away. I gave in and quickly ate a 3rd Gu and some Gu blocks while sucking down the rest of my fluid, crossing my fingers that the aid station was nearby. I quickly felt a little better and just tried to keep him in my sightline.

A mile or so later, I finally see the 3rd aid station and I spend more time than usual refilling and eating. As I’m leaving I see #3 arriving, probably 60 secs or so back. I start the ~5 mile loop up/around Patterson Mtn about the same distance back from #1. Soon though, within 1/4 mile, I see two guys I recognized from much earlier in the race apparently already finishing the loop! I hear one of them remark about me as they pass, “that guy was in 2nd place…”

If I hadn’t already given up by that point, I gave up here. Who knew how many more men/women were already on that loop? I was now in no better than 4th and possibly as worse as what…10th? 15th? Were those two the leaders? How did they get 30+ minutes ahead of us?! Did I add miles or did they cut? Or both? I tried to keep a cool head but mile-23-at-the-base-of-a-good-climb was among the absolute worst parts of the race to be facing these frustrating thoughts. I could see #1 in front of me for awhile, eventually seeing him with another runner, adding to my certitude that there were many people now in front of me. There was another arrowless fork in the road (I mindlessly went the way that went downhill over uphill) and soon I was on the descent back to the aid station, maybe on the right trail, maybe not, whatever. The guy who was in 3rd for most of the race (as far as I knew) passed me a couple miles later as we approached the aid station (mile 27) and I let him go.

I stubbornly decided to take a mini-vacation at that aid station. Brian Morrison was there with his bloody nipples, Patrick was there, oddly calm about all the missing arrows on the course, Katie was coming into the aid station during her first ultra. I grabbed some delicious jelly beans and casually got back on the course, ordering myself to simply enjoy the final 4ish miles for what it was: a nice jog on a nice day on some nice trails. A good 31-32 mile training run for White River was almost complete and soon I could sit in my decrepit car on the four hour drive back to Seattle.

After what feels about an hour later, I approach the finish line, once more not sure which way to go. I decide to head towards the overweight guy in the chair holding a clipboard. When in doubt, go to the clipboard. The packed house cheers mightily but I can’t muster much of a finish. Almost immediately I find myself ambling up to the guy I ran most of the race with. Turns out he won. I’m incredulous and ask how he caught those guys were had half an hour on us after the 3rd aid station.

“They accidentally cut the course,” he states. “Cut a LOT of it.”

Ahh…by the way, what place did I get?

“You got 4th,” he says.

Turns out the guy I saw in 4th way back at our very first detour around mile 10 came in 3rd overall. I don’t remember him passing us, so either we went long or he went short, or both. I’m quickly reminded how little I care about the details and start a new quest that hopefully ends with pizza & soda in my stomach.

All in all, it was what it was. I stayed in a pretty swanky cabin for two nights and hung with some cool people (and Patrick)…driving my car is never a barrel of laughs, especially not for 8 total hours, but the scenery was pretty spectacular at times, and a 31-32 mile run on the trails is rarely a bad thing. Sure, I came unglued a bit on the course when the “racing” part of the race seemed to be less than ideal, but, again, thems the breaks. In my head I’m confident that had the course been sufficiently marked, I would have been able to go head-to-head with the eventual winner and it would have come down to the final couple miles. I’ve definitely had worse weekends. And those jelly beans *were* mighty tasty.

A few more pics:

In Winthrop the day before, saturated fat and sugar-loading.

My friends are such tools.

Staying dry before the race, morning of.

Ditching the 2nd water bottle at the last second.

And the crowd goes wild!

White River’s only 19 miles longer, Patrick!

Recovering from hard runs/races is always tricky when in the midst of training. Coming off a tough race that is NOT the goal race (like Ski to Sea for me, probably the furthest thing from a “goal race” on my calendar yet simultaneously one of the most demanding physically…and psychologically), you want to resume a normal schedule somewhat quickly after crossing the finish line, but you also have to be conscious of giving your legs enough time to recover. It’d be ideal if I could take Ski to Sea as nothing more than a hard 8 mile insane speed workout and, Monday or Tuesday, just keep the training ball rolling en route to the Sun Mtn 50k (June 20) and White River (July 31). But all that would do is render me motionless on the bed, legs elevated, cursing the fact that no race I’ve come across, including Sun Mtn or White River, give refunds in the occurrence of injury.

A week after a race like a marathon, or something ridiculous like Ski to Sea, the soreness tends to be gone and you sorta feel your age again. You feel able to ratchet the training back up to normal levels, which begins the tricky part. Because though you *feel* able, you probably still aren’t. Unless you’re Michael Wardian or something.

A couple days ago I headed up to Cougar Mtn for the 7.5 mile race (more like 7.75), #2 in the 4 race series, in all honesty just thankful to be back in the “win or lose, at least only it only affects ME” mode of thinking I’d taken for granted up to Ski to Sea. It was a very refreshing feeling, a tiny amount of euphoria washing over me anytime I remembered to remind myself of that. Though it had been nearly two weeks since that sprint down the mountain, I’ve learned the hard way in years past (Hood to Coast the weekend before the SJ&J half marathon a couple years back being a nice recent example), to not expect to feel fresh. During the warmup w/Dutch, not only did I not feel fresh, I had a very tight feeling in my left calf, like it was wanting to cramp but holding off out of learned politeness. I already figured I would not be painting a Monet out there on the course this day, but now I was hoping I could simply race without injuring myself. Though I did not feel cocksure, on the starting line I tried to maintain excellent posture, on the event someone may have been looking at me, trying to determine if, umm…I was in fact cocksure. Oh you better believe it, JACK!

The race started, its now-typical loop around the grassy field causing the obligatory separation before the single track began. A minute or two later I climbed into the single track, surprisingly in first place and noticing how odd and uncomfortable that felt. So uncomfortable, I didn’t mind at all when Michael Smith (3rd at the last race, one spot in front of me), took the lead soon thereafter. Immediately I felt better, chasing him, though he didn’t remain in my sight line for very long. A high school cross country coach, he employed the tactic all cross country coaches teach their kids…when you pass someone, PASS THEM. Don’t give me the option of going with you. Michael did this. He went past me hard, got about 50 yards in front of me, then backed off. On the back and forth switchbacks of Cougar Mtn, 50 yards is plenty, as I could only occasionally see him and soon found myself more worried about myself than him.

About 50 minutes later I crossed the finish line in 2nd place, final time being 57:56. Michael’s lead steadily grew to a final difference of 1:53, and 3rd place finished about the same distance behind me, so in essence I was, once again, completely alone for 97% of the race.

The course was probably the muddiest I’ve seen it outside of random Cougar runs in the pouring rain, though the actual weather at the moment was bordering on hot (damn near 70 degrees). I was fortunate I decided to go ahead and wear the new shoes I’d just gotten on Thursday and “broken in” with an easy 5ish miles the evening before. One two occasions I very nearly slipped while steepling a log, and may have eaten mud or worse had I been wearing anything with less than the large amount of tread my new shoes had. This, the isolation, and the “I’m not cramping but I want you to know I’m not happy about doing this race” calf are probably what amounted to what was an almost 4-minute drop in performance over last year’s race, where I was pretty fresh, I ran the 2nd half with the Swede, and on nice hard-packed trails.

Minutes after finishing I could feel my calf definitely cramping up so I tried to do a sort of cooldown which only delayed the inevitable, that being my limping around the rest of the day. Sunday I just biked for ~90 minutes and watched a bunch of meatheads play baseball near my house in between sets of icing and massage, and Monday evening I was able to do an easy 45 without any issue. Tonight I did an effortless 8.8 at 7:00 pace.

Only a steady diet of icing and massaging will allow me to keep the training ball rolling as Sun Mountain arrives in a mere 5 days.

Issaquah Press story on the race

(Moments before I iced a couple of my bros, the Cougar Mtn mascot)

If the Ski to Sea 8 mile running leg was a band, it’d be Marilyn Manson. The pavement can be the drums, the relentless downhill the guitars, and Marilyn’s screaming mimicked by every fiber of your body below the waist. This is not a dance around the maypole. I knew this going in, but not quite the extent, which led to self-imposed apprehension.

I like to have an idea of what to expect going into normal solo races, let alone team relay races where more than just my cat and I are counting on my not failing. Let alone where all but one of those counting on me are for the most part strangers, and probably better at their sport than I am at mine. And I’m not as fast as the guy they had last year. And their team is pretty competitive, hoping for a top 10 finish. And I’m feeling a little under the weather. Etc. This all bundled itself up into a nice package of fear in my head. I honestly cannot remember a race I’ve run where I was more nervous in the days leading up to it, not even way back in high school, when I was afraid of everything and almost threw up before a couple big xc races. I warned my team’s captain during the job interview a month back that I was not as fast as the guy they had the year before, but I also provided a prediction I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hit since past experiences have told me I’m not what you’d call “any good” at downhill running. I predicted between 41-42 minutes, which works out to a 5:08-5:15 pace. I knew this was all downhill, but just thinking of that pace for anything more than a mile terrified me, especially since I’m not in optimum 5k-10k shape at the moment.

After a pleasant 1-1.5 hours of non-REM sleep Saturday night, I woke up groggy, stuffy and coughy. This didn’t really concern me. My less-than-100% lungs were not going to slow me down in this particular race…it was all up to my legs, and they were both relatively fresh. I ate and drank per my normal routine and sat mostly silently on the drive up to the top of Mt. Baker, save for the occasional hack into my sleeve. I also tried to add to my poor sleep totals from the night before, unsuccessfully.

Upon getting to the top, where both the xc skier (1st leg) and downhill skier (2nd leg) would perform before handing off to me, I quickly found a bathroom and afterward found myself locked out of the car wearing only my short shorts and the tech shirt in which I would race. Perhaps due to nervous energy, I did not feel particularly cold. Or maybe it was simply the least of my worries. It *was* cold up there, but I found it refreshing, and the energy of the starting area was contagious. This race is a very popular tradition in the area, dating back to the early 1970s, and the starting line was buzzing as we approached 8am. What sounded like a cannon let the xc skiers off into the wilderness, the Swede no doubt among the front pack. I did a warmup jog with Greg Crowther (it’s my website and I’ll name drop if I want to) and when we arrived back to the handoff area to wait for our teams with all the other elite-looking runners, I bounced around nervously, trying not to spill bile on the snow.

I heard my team’s number called, letting me know our skier was about 30 seconds from arriving, and bounded out to the edge of the snow next to Crowther and another fellow. Their teams’ downhill skiers came in about 10-15 seconds before mine. “Big Mike” came flying in, slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop about 6 inches from my legs, handing me our timing device before falling over. I spent about 1.2 seconds worrying if I’d botched the handoff, causing him to fall, and immediately started down the hill.

This picture makes me look like I’m 4′10. And dead.

Though I had no way of knowing what pace I was hitting right away, I sensed my initial pace was “about right” as far as turnover went…meaning basically I wasn’t going to be able to go any faster without tumbling end over end, cartoon-style. This was a total shot in the dark though. I also didn’t know if there were mile markers on the course. I figured at the very least I could use the highway mile markers to get an idea of the pace I was hitting mile to mile. Soon enough I came across a handwritten sign stating “mile 2″ on the right side of the road. “That seemed to pass quickly!” I excitedly thought as I hadn’t looked at my watch yet. I glanced down. 8:03. Sigh. You would think a race as legit as Ski to Sea would have accurate mile markers but apparently that magical ability has escaped their grasp as well. It was around this time a young guy whizzed by me, looking incredibly fast and determined. I closed my eyes for seconds at a time (pictured) and just tried to feel light going down the mountain. I awaited the barrage of runners behind me, Marilyn starting to scream at me from my legs.

Soon enough I saw my first highway mile marker and took note of my total time. By the time I hit the next one, I was relieved to see only about 5:10 had passed. This type of running is so foreign to me, I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by anything between 4:30 and 5:30. And I felt I could trust the highway to have accurate mile markers. Around mile 4 I noticed that a guy I had been fruitlessly chasing as he slowly grew smaller had just passed a gray-shirt guy. I honed my focus on that gray shirt and, when I could see him, tried to reel him in myself. I was definitely gaining on him…but slowly. I then spent the next 3 miles closing the gap and finally caught him around mile 7. In between these two events I continued to take note of the highway mile markers…on one mile I clocked a excitement-inducing 4:58…on another one I apparently clocked a 6:28. Sigh.

At mile 7.75 or so, the descent ended and I was now on flat road, running what felt like a 12 minute pace, weighing what felt about 450 lbs. I was insistent that the guy I had just passed would pass me back, but he didn’t, and I miraculously handed off to our cyclist without having lost our place in the race. I started with us in 7th, I handed off in 7th. My final time, by my watch, was about 41:26, give or take a few seconds. The relief of the weight now being off my shoulders was incredible. And not only that, I did more or less exactly what I said I’d do. You couldn’t say shit to me…at least for a couple minutes after I’d finished. I later found out I finished 24th overall.

Our team finished 9th overall. Top 10 was achieved. My fears were not. Even if they dumped me and somehow picked up the best runner in the country, they weren’t going to finish better than 9th. Eight place was over 12 minutes in front. Tenth place finished about 2:45 behind, 11th place about 3:45 behind. This team was going to finish 9th pretty much no matter what I did. If I had known that, I might have gotten a bit more than 70 minutes of sleep the night before. I might not have been stressed all week, and maybe wouldn’t have gotten sick. I might have been a better guest the night before, a bit less reclusive, less in my own head. I might not have wanted to throw up at the starting line. But I probably wouldn’t have felt as good and proud afterward.

*******

A potentially relevant question today is “was it worth it?” And not simply from a stress/relief standpoint. I’d heard from more than one person after the run that the recovery would seem as bad/long as, if not worse than, the typical marathon recovery time. It’s probably a little early to tell, but I *was* still somewhat limping around today at work, all thanks to the quads. I put in another 41:26 run Monday evening (only 5 miles though) to shake things out, took yesterday off and did about 65 minutes tonight. All easy aside from a couple (up)hill charges. Everything was manageable. I won’t be doing mile repeats anytime soon, but at least I think I’ll be able to tackle the Cougar Mtn 7 miler next Saturday.

There was also the risk of injury, but as of now I believe I have escaped unscathed. My shins, that which worried me the most heading in, have actually been mostly silent and pain-free. I barely believe it. I can feel a little tightness when I do some shin stretches, but that’s it really.

Yes, I think it was worth it. I’m sure I won’t be asked back on the team, and that’s fine. Even if I was asked, I’m not sure I would accept. I wouldn’t be as terrified next time, meaning I wouldn’t be as proud when I finished, yet the risk of injury would remain the same. When it comes to my legs, now that I’m out of my 20s, I like to quit while I’m ahead. That’s what 30 year olds do. They quit.

For now I think it’s safe to finally and officially sign up for the White River 50. Then break 8 hours. Then quit. In the meantime I’m more than happy to turn off the Marilyn Manson and put Boards of Canada back on.

The preferred television in the household these days is a British comedy called “Doc Martin” that plays on KCTS. The doctor, played by Martin Clunes, is one of the most likable characters I have ever come across in television. If I lived in Portwenn, I’d have to hold back the urge to try and be this man’s best friend, to avoid the inevitable rejection and ridicule. But I’d definitely admire from afar. Some random highlights. A small part of me, and possibly a small part of you, wishes you could behave this way towards many of the people you come across in the day. If anything I know Clint Wattenberg would also enjoy him.

*****

A couple weeks ago it was announced Apple had bought out lala.com, the best site I’ve found to stream full albums on the ‘net. On May 31, 2010, lala will be no more and any/all “credits” you have will be transferred to your iTunes account or whatever. Makes sense from a business perspective for Apple, but a dick move is a dick move. They basically bought something with, as far as I can tell, the sole intention of simply taking it away from us. I do not think lala should be lumped in with the other methods of getting “free” music. The model was more along the lines of a preview site. You could listen to each song/album one time, after which you could only hear 30 second previews. So if a new album came out, you could basically preview it once through on lala before determining whether it deserved your money. It allowed you to easily and quickly get a taste of music you’d otherwise never think to purchase or waste time/disk space downloading.

May 31 is 11 days away, or passed 11 days ago depending on when you read this, and I will try to savor these final 11 days. As I may have stated here earlier, I prefer listening to full albums than randomly choosing singles or suffering through whatever set a particular DJ thinks I should listen to on the radio, especially while at work. So lala was a godsend in that respect. I will miss it…until July when the next streaming music site pops up. A friend recommended grooveshark.com but its interface, while copying lala.com in many ways, is very clunky and its library not nearly as extensive. It took me a few hours to figure out how to even get to full album listings, and when you do, chances are fair that the user that uploaded the tracks either omitted the track numbers or put them in incorrectly, negating the whole point to the “full album” experience. Also, the fact that users are able to upload tracks gives me the feeling this site will be shut down in due time. Lala had a sense of legitimacy to it. Now even moreso, I suppose. Thanks Apple!

*****

I love being on Wordpress over that old setup I had before. The work and pain and misery of the transfer may all have been worth it only for the clear reduction in spam. Every time I visited my site back in the day it seemed there was someone selling “sexytim furnirture viaggra vicodin” or some similar product and I’d have to manually remove each one. And don’t get me wrong, they still come. But now when YOU visit my site every other hour day week, you don’t have to see them. Nor does your wife girlfriend friend mom nevermind forget I said anything. And if you *are* a legitimate person with something coherent to offer in the form of a comment, or you’re Patrick, Wordpress seems to recognize you and allow you in! Which means I have to log in less in order to moderate the comments. Which means I post less. (cough)

*****

Yesterday I had a running day off, so I rode my bike to work for the first time in 2010. It’s a not-entirely pleasant 9ish mile ride through, at times, some real shitty barely-paved roads and unappealing traffic. But it took only about 40 minutes to get to work, a mere 5-10 more minutes than it’s taken recently to drive. Obviously while I’m “in shape”, I’m definitely not in “bike shape” so I was huffing and puffing up the final hill climb to the office, and my butt felt really uncomfortable in the seat as I continually adjusted with little success. Eight hours later I was climbing onto the bike to head home and was horrified by how sore I was, most noticeably where the seat holds me up. The uncomfortable ride home was made more so by a steady rain and a bruising feeling on my butt that made every goddamn pothole on Jackson St. and E. Marginal Way utter torture. Instead of 40 minutes, the ride home took 56.

This is all a leadup to tell you I’ve spent the past 24 hours walking around looking for excuses to make the “it’s ok, over the years my ass has taken a pounding” joke, sadly to no avail. So, I’m posting it here.

(Anyone?)

*****

XBL gamertag “jayaresea”. Come get some. Just so you know though I only play Tecmo Bowl: Throwback, The Misadventures of P.B. Winterbottom, and Sea Life Safari. That having been said…come get some.

aka “Racing by the Numbers”. Yeesh. As I look back at the Cougar Mtn Series 5 miler, all I can muster up is “well, in hindsight that’s pretty much EXACTLY what I should have expected.” Although I had no proof, I had no reason to not think that I was a bit slower than last year. The past few months I’ve been focusing more on going longer, and my speed work has been scaled back in terms of intensity while increasing in duration. After all, the important race this season in the big ol’ 50 miler in late July, not the quick 5 miler in mid May. The thing was, I didn’t know how much slower I was. And with there being no mile markers on this course outside of Scott McCoubrey under-selling how much further you have to go when you see him around mile 3, I wouldn’t know how much slower I was until I crossed the finish line.

At the starting line, I stood with Chris Bender as we scanned for The Swede. Chris had never met him and I described him as “…uhh…he looks Swedish…and he’s got a big bushel of hair.” We ran into his friend Debbie and I inquired about Martin’s whereabouts. We were told solemnly that he actually hadn’t arrived to the states yet, his flight grounded by the volcanic debacle in Iceland. “Well THAT fucking sucks,” I thought to myself, selfishly, as usual. Chris and I slowly made our way near the front of the start. While McCoubrey described the course, I realized I’d been standing around for a good 5-7 minutes and decided to get in a stride or two at the last second, and on my way to an open patch of land, there was the Swede. “Does Debbie know you’re here? She told us your flight never made it.” “Debbie gave me a ride today!” I’d been had, as usual.

About 20 seconds after my one and only stride, the race began with the same loop as the year before. Martin and I were around 5th or so getting onto the fire road, and quickly Martin took the lead, a younger, late-high school/early-college looking student dutifully following him, myself in 3rd. About a week ago, Martin had let me know that the ski season in Sweden had only just ended and, his hometown still covered in snow, he’d only gotten in about a week’s worth of actual running. Ya know, with shoes and everything, only one of which was a “speed” workout. Nevertheless, he looked good today.

We got onto the single track and, like last year’s 7.5 miler, he and his follower started slowly pulling away from me. We started climbing the first hill and I quickly realized hill climbing is not one of my strengths at the moment. Which, as I thought about it between agonizing breaths, made sense since I hadn’t been doing the kind of short & hard hill charges I’d been doing last year. I was passed about halfway up the hill by a guy in one of those repugnant Club NW jerseys. As he got smaller I seemed to forget my long term racing goals and regretted NOT training for fast 5 mile races.

I reached the lone water station, around mile 3, still in 4th and not hearing anybody behind me. McCoubrey was there with his impeccably-behaved 5(?) year old kid, who stood cheerfully and silently, holding out a cup of water. Weird to say, he lightened my mood a bit, as I declined the water as politely as I could muster (not very). McCoubrey announced “a little up, then the rest is flat or down, about 2 miles!” I’ve learned from past experiences at these races to always add about a half mile to whatever distance Scott announces is left, and I finished the final climb, secretly listening behind me for Scott’s voice encouraging whoever was in 5th. I didn’t hear anything.

After cresting the 2nd climb I finally started to feel good. Sure it was on the gradual downhill of the final 2 miles, but I really felt like I was hitting it good and quickly lost all worry of losing 4th. The final brief up & down of the last half mile was soon upon me and I crossed in 33:41, not at all surprisingly, 10 seconds slower than last year.

I immediately asked the timekeeper who won. He pointed towards the food tent. “That goofy looking guy in the red shorts,” he announced, obviously referring to The Swede. He might not have said “goofy”, I forget. I asked the margin of victory. “Umm, pretty good. About 40 seconds?” he replied. His final time was 32:00, 10 seconds faster than last year’s winner.

We were both wearing our Polar watches, and we found out my avg HR was 181 with a max of 189, while his was 180/186. Last year I hit only 179/184. I…don’t know what any of that means, but I’m guessing it boils down to Martin being in better shape than I. Some things never change.

Me

Him