Getting to the Line - Part I

Our friends began to arrive at the house one-by-one, couple-by-couple on New Years Eve.  They swung race bags from their wrists and donned layers of past race shirts, warmup pants, winter hats, and gloves, things that would soon be shed at the start.  I greeted them all and tried my hardest not to look stung by the concerned look that broke across their faces when they saw me.  I traded my race day garb -- those same hats and gloves, the rituals, the nerves -- for a pair of jeans and a sweater.  It was not the New Years Eve I’d envisioned.  It was certainly not the 2010 send off, or the kickoff to my Boston Training Plan I’d imagined.  I was injured.  And I was lost.

* * *

When the “marathon regret” began to seep in after signing up for the 2004 Philadelphia Marathon, I sought advice from anyone and everyone who’d completed the 26.2 miles.  But it was a friend’s dad who said to me, “The hardest part about a marathon is getting to the starting line.”

Toeing the line that cloudy and cold November morning, I realize now that I had taken those words for granted.

Though my blog is called “On the Bus Running...,” the metaphor I often choose to associate with my training is one of a ship sailing.  Each race is a new port of call.  And the waters between each destination can be smooth.   Some days my skiff elides over the glassy surface as I catch a current or a strong breeze that pulls me along with little effort, and we fly.  Others come with white caps or deep swells, where I can only lash myself down and ride out the peaks and troughs, hoping to come out unscathed when it’s all over.

When I crossed the line at the 2010 Boston Marathon, I vowed to return in 364 days: stronger, smarter, ready to sail the course that humbled me.  And I enjoyed a summer of sunny days and calm waters.   All the summer miles.  The endless loops around the track.  The dark, humid morning miles.  The thick afternoons on the heels of a thunderstorm. The strides at the end of workouts when I already looked as though I’d jumped into the pool.  I stayed at sea through those humid Virginia months, waiting to pick my spot to dock.  The first breakthrough came in October when I lowered my 5K PR by 63 seconds.  Two weeks later, I returned to the roads and went sub-60 minutes at the Army Ten Miler.

Emboldened by my success, I raced weekend after weekend.  Fall runs, Turkey Trots, Jingle all the Ways, I signed up for all of them.  I thought I was invincible.  But my times started to reflect my mortality.  Clouds began to gather on the horizon and darken the sky.  The storm moved toward me and brought a chilling wind to let me know that the weather had turned for good.

The winter brought rough seas and a torrent of unending storms, dark days, and darker nights.  

I rested for days at a time.  I consulted my Uncle and dad for coaching advice.  Could I put together a training plan in 14 weeks? In 12 weeks? In 10 weeks?

I went to the doctor who told me nothing was wrong, only overuse.  So I’d try and run, but instead I suffered through two miles at a time on the treadmill.  All the while, Boston hung in the air.  I watched with dread as the weeks wasted away on my training calendar.  ”0s” where “10s” and “12s” should have been in my training log. ”2s” where “16s” should go on the weekends.  

I caught one week where I experienced that brief moment in the Perfect Storm where the eye passes over the lost boat, the clouds part and the sun pours through the opening for one brief, hope shedding second...before getting swallowed up again.  I kicked my training into full gear, going from 10 miles a week to 41 miles a week...only to be hobbled a week later and back in the doctor’s office.  “Why did you think you could do 41 miles?” he asked.

“Because I’m stupid?” I replied.  He smirked, manipulating my knee.  

“I have to tell you,” he said, his voice reassuring, “There’s nothing structurally wrong.  Let’s work on a plan to get you to the line.”

“Get me to the line.”  Those magic words, once so simple, now seemed to hang in the ether.  I laid awake at night thinking about canceling my plane reservations to Boston.  I thought about not being able to slide my arms through a 2011 Boston jacket at the finish line when the medal clangs proudly against my chest.  Will I ever even be able to run pain free again?  With each run, I could only think about the injury:  Was that it? Did I tweak something? Can I continue?  So many questions.  Not many answers.

It used to be so simple: go run the miles, check off the box on your program for 16 weeks, and show up to run.  Not this time.  

So, under doctor’s orders, I ran easy every other day, then started upping the mileage on the weekends.  There’ve been weights, and bands, and stretching, and lots and lots of ice.  

There’ve been sleepless nights after setbacks and ginger steps in the morning, waiting for the pain to come.  

Then one morning, the pain suddenly wasn’t there.  I trotted away from my house without a second thought about it coming back.  It’s as though the sun melted away and the clouds and left a clean palette of blue sky.  

Somehow I knew it had gone for good.  And just as the days began getting longer and the bite left the air, so too did I begin to emerge from that cold storm and set sail for smoother seas.

Race Week OCD

One week to Boston. More broadly, one week to any big race. The work has been done. “The hay’s in the barn,” as they say. A few short runs remain on the calendar with some strides for good measure to keep the legs sharp. But the most stressful part of race week, I find, is not the race itself...it’s not getting sick.

Doorknobs are suspicious. Every sneeze warrants a head-tilt: where did it come from? Who was it? Did we share a drink? Come within five feet of one another? Are they coughing?

Two weeks ago, one of my co-workers came by my office, and in our every day morning exchange, she happened to slip in, “I just woke up with a little sore throat.”

(Cue the horror movie music)

I fought to keep a straight face as one does when they see someone kick a puppy or have just taken a strong pull on some brown liquor. I tried not to let the alarm, the utter terror, come through in my eyes. “Oh? Umm. Oh. Ok, well, have a good morning.” Be cool. Be cool. I thought as I took a mental inventory of our medicine cabinet. Maintain…and go get some Cold-eeze at lunch.

Later that day I needed to borrow a pencil from one of my friends (I know, who uses pencils, anymore?). “I don’t have one,” my friend said. “But I bet she does,” nodding to my co-worker’s cubicle. I lowered my voice.

“She’s sick.” But I didn’t lower it enough.

“Hey! I heard that!” she called.

“Sorry!” I said. “It’s just, you know, Boston is so close and…”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said.

(nervous laughter) “Ok.”

I popped a Cold-eeze and lathered my hands in Purell.

Everything seemed to be going fine. Her plague cold came and went. Later in the week, I passed up a seat on the metro because of a stray Kleenex nearby. Then, this past Friday, Mrs. Onthebusrunning and I were meeting some people out at restaurant. It required meeting new people. No big deal. Except that that meant shaking a lot of new hands. Jesus, I sound like Felix Unger.

When I woke up Saturday morning, I felt it. A slight abnormality in my throat. I summoned up some spit and swallowed hard. Yep, no doubt about it: there’s a sore spot.

I didn’t say anything to my wife. Not right away. I went right for the hot beverage. No luck. I popped a Cold-eeze and the rationalizing began: Ok, it’s Saturday. I’m usually sick for, what, a week? I’m better by next Saturday and that’s two days to get ready for the race.

“Why are you taking that?” she asked.

“I have a tickle in my throat.”

“I bet you’re fine.”

Later that day while out running errands, she suggested we get some pho for lunch. Good, good, I thought. That’ll be good on my throat. And not only did it feel ok, but I also got my sodium content for the next week so no worries about hyponatremia while hydrating for the race.

Then it came back.

We went to bed that night and I knew that the morning would be the tell-tale sign. If I woke up and it was worse, I was definitely sick. If it stayed the same or got better, maybe it was just allergies or a miracle.

I slept through the night and woke up at 8:00 to do what I didn’t get to do before Cherry Blossom. That’s when I remembered. I took a hard swallow, the only true test. Nothing. No pain. Just a regular swallow. I was so excited, relieved, thankful that I woke myself up completely and couldn’t get back to sleep.

I took to the trails yesterday afternoon with renewed hope and got to thinking about it again. I remembered being at the restaurant Friday night and thinking how tasty the chicken sandwich I’d ordered was, how crunchy the grilled bread was, but how you paid the price for eating it as…the…Gatorade hit a cut…in…my…mouth. The bread! The stupid bread probably cut the back of my throat. I’ll be damned, I thought.

I rested easy last night. Seven days to race and…who sneezed?

Cherry Blossom 10 Miler Redux

The porta-potty line went on.  And on. And on.  I glanced at my watch.  Only 20 minutes to the start.  This was not looking good.  Mrs. Onthebusrunning and I were impatiently waiting, shivering even, with two of our friends (getting ready to take on their first 10 mile race) in the never ending and never moving porta-potty line.  

The National Anthem went up behind us.  The wheelchair race start came and went.  7:35.  Five minutes to race start. One, two, 10, 12, 17 people still ahead of me.  I looked at my watch one last time, then back at our friends.  "I'm out.  Good luck, guys."

And with that, I trotted off toward the starting line of my first Cherry Blossom 10 miler.  The last "major" D.C. race left to tick off my resume.

Months ago, when we entered the lottery for Cherry Blossom, I had no expectations of getting in.  I figured we could enter and if we got in, great, and if not, well, Boston was only two weeks away...somehow I'd survive.  But of course we got in.  And that sent a shockwave through the "Holzwart Distance Project" coaching staff.  Unbeknownst to me, my dad and Uncle were having behind-the-scenes conversations about my racing so much so close to Boston.

The Cherry Blossom Gang

Following my tuneup half marathon just eight days prior to Cherry Blossom, I too began to draw on their angst.  After several phone calls, I decided to take two days rest, get an easy run in, then take work off on Friday to get a 16-miler in (my last long run before Boston) and use the Cherry Blossom to push the pace and mimic the last 10 miles of the marathon.

I got through the 16 on a hilly out and back that had me questioning just what the hell was I thinking running 10 miles on Sunday.  

So, I trotted up that short hill to the starting line, short warmup, no dynamic stretching, and simply hoping for the best.  

The book on Cherry Blossom is that it's a flat, fast course that -- as the name suggests -- features the Cherry Blossom-lined D.C. streets.  At worst, I thought, it was a chance to take in the pink-petaled trees without the hassle of fighting the tourist invasion and enjoy a nice Sunday run.  Best laid plans...

At the gun, I got swept up in the opening surge and did my best to work my way to the perimeter of the crowd.  As the adrenaline began to wear off from everyone else, I was starting to find my stride about a half mile in and became increasingly frustrated with those who hadn't.  At one mile, I finally had some breathing room and set out comfortably across the Memorial Bridge.  I took a quick glance at my watch to gauge pace: 6:35.  So much for easy.

Coming across the bridge, the elite men were already working their way back across the river.  I searched for my running partner Rohan who had other ideas in mind beyond a leisurely Sunday stroll.  He sought the elusive sub-60 10 miler time.  I hoped not to see Rohan up with the elites, blowing up from the start, and was relieved when he was no where to be seen.

Back in the city, the groove continued as we made our way out and back along the Potomac river, the Kennedy Center to our left.  It was here that I saw Rohan and we exchanged a quick point of acknowledgement and knowing glance.  He looked strong.

What I found frustrating about Cherry Blossom was that for the first 5 miles, the course doubles back on itself quite a bit with three out and backs.  I felt myself counting down to mile 6 where we'd take on the dreaded Haine's Point loop that Marine Corps Marathoners known as no man's land.  

At mile 5, I was still waiting for the fatigue from last week's effort and Friday's long run to kick in, but instead I felt myself surging.  It was also here that my bladder surged and I remembered that I still hadn't used the bathroom before the race.  Do I pull off and go?  I thought.  Do I just go while running?  Then we came to a water station and I thought,  Ooooh, gatorade.  And then I was fine.  

Just beyond mile 5 with the Jefferson Memorial to our right, a pack of tourists decided they had to cross the street at that moment and, like a panicked squirrel, stop in the middle of the road.  Even in a road race you can't escape the tourists during the spring.

I rounded Haine's Point and saw the Washington Monument poking above the skyline in the distance.  Ok, that's where we're going, I told myself.  At mile 8, the fatigue settled in.  This is where it got me in the Army Ten Miler in the fall and I remember going to the well at mile 9 to get my own sub-60...but this was a different race.  

When mile 9 came up, I locked onto a runner ahead of me and let him pull me to the finish.  The Monument rose higher and higher as the crowds came back.  One final hill to go, I pushed repeating, Strong legs, strong legs, strong legs, with each stride.  I crested the hill and saw the finish.  "Let's get this over with," I muttered and unleashed whatever kick I had left.  Click!  I brought my hands to my head for a moment before glancing at my watch: 63:30.  

Rohan joins the sub-60 club.

Then I came upon Rohan.  "Did you do it?" I asked.

"I did it," he said.  "59:50.  I wanted to retire from running for good at mile 8...but I did it."

We cheered on the rest of our friends after that and relished the sun beating down on our cooling bodies.

With a few days to reflect on the race, the only word that comes to mind is: unremarkable.  I found myself largely ignoring the Cherry Blossoms and was working inside my head too much to even appreciate the course.  I'm glad that I ran it and can check it off my list, but given the choice between the Army Ten Miler and Cherry Blossom, I'd "choose [Army] any day of the week and twice on Tuesdays," as Lt. Weinberg said in A Few Good Men.

And once I grabbed my bottle of water, I finally got to use the bathroom.  There wasn't even a line.

The Boston Outfit

In my small world of racing (and large world of idiosyncrasies), I’ve come to rely on and embrace several superstitions, one of the primary ones being: the race day outfit.

Several factors weigh in on the race day outfit:

• How new are the shorts/shirt?
• What’s the weather going to be on race day?
• Does the outfit have past racing experience…and if so, what were the results? Varsity effort? JV effort?
• Has the outfit performed well in training runs, speed workouts, long runs?
• And of course, how does it look?

For Boston, I’ve experimented with many combinations. I’m not ready to retire other items. It’s hard to argue the success of my black and green Nike singlet and red racing shorts. We’ve been through my first Boston together, a half marathon PR that qualified me for the NY marathon, and my first sub-60 10-miler.

* dramatic pause for reflection *

No, it’s not time to say good bye, just make room for the up-and-comers.

It’s led to adventures in short-shorts (enjoy those legs, ladies) as well as transported me back in time – more than 30 years – to my dad’s University of Florida racing singlet.

The jersey comes from a different running era. In the days before wicking fabrics, power gels, fuel belts, and thick-cushioned shoes, my dad and Uncle (the Onthebusrunning Distance Project coaching staff), just ran. Cotton shorts, no shirts, popping into gas stations for water and pissing off the attendant. In the Florida heat no less!

The jersey is mesh and yellowed from the years, the miles, and the sweat. Barring snow, I’ll pull it on in the morning and wring out any last magic miles he might have left in there to get me from Hopkinton to Boylston Street.

National Half Marathon Redux

“It’s not last year,” I kept telling myself. I pulled tights back out of the closet since the weather called for a brisk 32 degrees at start time. So much for testing my Boston outfit in a race. I continued my pre-race routine and pinned my number on the shirt I’d wear in the morning, laid out my oatmeal packet and bowl, and packed up my backup. All the while, I repeated, “It’s not last year,” because last year was different.


Last year, I ran 1:21:48 at the National Half Marathon, shattering my PR by seven minutes and feeling supremely confident about toeing the line in Boston. I had a number of 18+ mile long runs under my belt and a stockpile of fartleks and hill repeats. This year was different. This year was about getting in the miles. This year was just about getting to the line.

I told myself I’d be happy somewhere around 90 minutes, but not to force it. If the pace came, I’d go with it…if it felt crappy, I’d pull back and just use it as a recovery run. After all, my last five weeks of weekend mileage looked like this: 9.2, 14, 16, 18, 17. A step back weekend wouldn’t be the worst thing.

The next morning, I felt lethargic getting out of bed with the alarm, and as I groped my way down the stairs in the dark, I thought, “Why do I need to do this?” But the more I walked around, got some food in me, and talked to my wife and father-in-law, the more life returned.

When we arrived, parking on a sidestreet near RFK, my initial inclination was, I need to find a tree. So, I did my best impression of a calf stretch against a tree and completely bypassed the porta-potty lines. Meanwhile, my wife and father-in-law walked off to the start to go meet our friend Sarah who was running her first half marathon. A good luck kiss for Mrs. Onthebusrunning, and a handshake for my father-in-law.

I went through my dynamic warmup in the solitude of this D.C. side street. Families were still asleep, warm and tucked in, while I tried to coax my muscles to life. Satisfied, I trotted off toward the start, threw in a couple pickups, and smiled at the bounciness in my step. I tried to contain my excitement because I’d felt this before and it led to good things.

I ducked into the number 1 corral and bounced eagerly while the announcer shouted final directions. “It’s not last year,” I repeated. I looked around and noticed the other members of my corral in their racing flats and trainers and then down at my clunky 2160s. “I’ve got to start training to race in flats,” I thought. And then the gun.

Being up front, I didn’t have to weave too much, but still made my way to the periphery of the horde for some breathing room. The pace came easy, though I tempered expectations because the race opens with a long, gradual climb up North Carolina Avenue. It’s not enough to burn the quads, but enough to steal some of your breath.

A smattering of D.C. residents stepped out of their Capitol Hill row homes to cheer on the runners. It was enough to distract me from the task at hand because before I knew it, the hill had plateaued and my watch beeped the first mile. I looked down expecting to see 7:10, 7:15….6:25 it said. “Huh,” I let out audibly. “Shit.”

The Capitol dome rose in front of us and as we rounded the bend, I felt like I had pulled the pace back, not wanting to blow up. My watch beeped again. “Ok,” I thought. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” again expecting to see 7:00, 7:10….6:18. “Oops.”

The course continued beyond the normal turn following two miles, a last minute reroute. I decided from there not to look at my watch again, rather to just run by feel and see where it took me.

We wound around the course and out to Union Station. I knew we’d end up on Constitution eventually. With one final turn, the course dumped us out at the Modern Art Museum. “Ack,” I thought, “That’s it?” expecting to be farther down the Avenue. While the miles down Constitution are always beautiful, the Mall to your left, the sun coming up behind the Capitol, the White House to your right, it doubles back on itself, which I can’t stand in races. However, the new route mercifully eliminated the turnaround and instead took us straight onto Virginia Ave…where the real work begins.

For me, the National Marathon always starts at mile 4. It’s here that you enter the Dupont Circle area and the Dupont Hills. For five miles, the route rises and falls, testing your quads, and lungs. But what the course takes away in uphills, it gives back in downhills. I know if I can make it to mile 9, I’ll be treated to a one mile downhill stretch that ends just beyond mile 10. The mantra today was “nice and smooth” and the freshness I felt on my warm-up carried through these challenging miles.

When my watched beeped 10 miles, I ducked under an overpass and caught a glimpse at my split, 63:00. From above I heard, “Don’t look at that watch! You look good. Keep going, keep going.” I tilted my head up and tossed a wave, smiled to myself, and steeled my will for the final 5K.

With only four turns left, I pushed the final two hills, one in mile 11 and the last on 13th street before you make the turn onto North Carolina and see RFK rise up against the hill. It’s here that the marathon leaders make their second pass UP North Carolina, and it serves to give me a little jolt to the finish.

I hit the half/full split and barreled toward the finish. “Let’s wrap this up,” I thought, accelerating around the final turn to the finish.

After I crossed, I looked down at my watch: 1:23:38, and laughed. I ran the final 3.1 mi with consistent 6:11 splits. I couldn’t account for it. As I stretched and pulled my warm-ups back on, I called my dad and recounted the race to him. We pieced together just how this might have happened…and couldn’t come up with much.

Whatever the case, sometimes it’s best not to ask those sorts of questions, or perhaps have answers to them. In the end, I’ll take the time and not change a thing about my training between now and Boston (less than three weeks away), and hope some of that spring is still there in Hopkinton. It's not last year...and that's ok.