Fairfax Four Miler Redux

In the waning hours of 2012, my good friend Bill and I alternated doing strides on a blocked off side street in Old Town Fairfax. Christmas lights still glowed from town hall and other racers began to reluctantly make their way toward the cold and windy starting line. Bill and I slipped in among those in the first few rows and exchanged a nervous fist bump.

I love the Fairfax Four Miler because the gun goes off just six hours from the New Year. It seems the perfect punctuation mark to the closing of yet another training log, and also the perfect prelude to some New Year’s indulgence later.

As we stood on that line bouncing from foot to foot in the adrenaline-charged air, I thought about the 364.5 days prior and reflected on where 2012’s miles had taken me. I notched, not just the first win of my racing-life, but two more to follow, including taking top prize at the Backyard Burn Trail Series. I bettered my 10K PR and agonizingly improved my marathon PR. I sort of, accidentally, how did this happen, set a new PR for the Half Marathon as well. I covered Cape Cod on foot and in a van with 11 other crazy beavers in the Ragnar Relay. I ran with the sunrise in the Badlands and tackled one of the Shenandoah’s most challenging trails twice in one, err, sitting. I became a run coach with Lifetime Fitness and a Ragnar Relay ambassador to give back to the community that has given so much to me.

It seemed only fitting then that I would end what had become a year of PRs with one final raising of the bar. But the Fairfax Four has been somewhat of a kryptonite race for me. The last two runnings saw me hampered by injury, while the third brought me just two seconds away from achieving my goal of running sub-24.

This year seemed as though the stars may not be aligned once again. I recently suffered a nasty sinus infection and a nagging flare up of an IT band injury that both set back not just my running but my training for Boston as well.

So, it was with lowered expectations that I lurched forward when the gun went off, hoping simply to slide through the darkness with a good rhythm and a fair effort.

The course, a lollipop shape that circles the George Mason University Campus, rose and fell along the stick. The pace felt light and easy as the wind snapped at my face. I easily reeled in the too-aggressive starters by my steady pace alone and settled in with a pack of four. We came through the first mile in 5:46 and I would have given a slight smile except that my face felt like I’d had a Novocain injection.

After a quick out and back down a side street from the circle, I overlapped with Bill as we gave a short acknowledgement to one another. The course pitched fiercely and I fought to keep my legs under me while I thundered down and around the curve. “I’m going to pay for this later, I bet,” I thought.

Sure enough, as the two mile marker appeared, the rode began to rise steadily and so did my heart rate. I hoped the 5:36 second mile was enough time in the bank to ride out the uphill mile I’d have to pay back.

Fluffs of spit shot from mouth and my nose leaked while I took gasping breaths. The road mercifully bent to the left marking the end of the circle where the road leveled off. I turned in a 6:04 and concentrated on keeping my form neat and riding out the return trip to the finish.

Townhall’s spire shone in the distance and a series of stop lights guided me to the line. With one more hill to climb, I surged to hold off the ragged breathing I heard behind me and shot down the backside to the finish in a whirlwind of churning legs and pumping arms. I clicked my watch and took a deep cleansing breath. The time read 23:23.

An exclamation point to send 2012 out on.

Tread Lightly

If the show “Big Love” was based in running shoes rather than wives, I would be the star.

When I stumble down the stairs in the morning, I resist turning the lights on in the hall as long as I can. The dog will wait at the top of the landing in full anticipation, tail and butt wagging before committing to the trek down. I slip into my coat, take one heavy sigh, then turn the knob. If I’m lucky, nothing will tumble out of the closet. If I’m even luckier, my “dog walking shoes” will be right on top of the pile. I’m rarely that lucky. So I get down on my knees and start rooting through shoe after shoe, chucking them aside like socks, just trying to find a match. Worst case, I give up and flood the room with light, killing any notion that I might still be asleep.

Finally, ah-ha, a match. I pull them on, listen for the machine gun rattle of the dog’s collar as she shakes out and bolts headfirst down the stairs to go outside.

The point is: I have too many running shoes.

Yet, I’m happy to introduce you to the newest members of my running shoe family: the ASICS 2160s (Storm) and the ASICS 2150s (Lightning).

You see, since joining runnerdom, the gift list has never been hard to make. I normally answer the question, “What do you want for [insert holiday here]?” with: new shoes.

My father-in-law has my size and brand saved on Road Runner Sports and my parents just let me send them the link with color choice.

Who doesn’t love new kicks? I’m still getting over the aversion to new “things” going on your feet. For 17 years playing hockey, breaking in new skates usually required a package or four of moleskin and weeks of blister therapy. But when you find a pair of running you shoes you love, the break-in period is minimal.

So, over Christmas, the family and I got to talking about “just how many running shoes do you have?”

“Well, let me think,” I said, readying my fingers to tick them off. “There’s the pair I got for my birthday two years ago, the pair I qualified for Boston in, the pair I ran Boston in, the ones I got for Christmas last year, the ones I got for my birthday this year, the ones you just got me, the ones Rachel’s dad just got me, and of course my magic shoes. So…eight pairs.”

Naturally, they’re all in different states of use. And I love them all for various reasons. Some have no tread, others have holes in the upper. Some are caked in mud, others are pristine. The hard core ones have a few blood stains. Some are relegated to dog walking, others for the gym. Some are ok to run in but only come out for special occasions, such as the snow or muddy trails. Others only come out for speed workouts and races. Does this sound right to anyone?

There’s that great scene in Pulp Fiction right after John Travolta asks Harvey Keitel to say “please” and Harvey Keitel pretty much tells him what he can do with that. John Travolta walks past Samuel L. Jackson, puts a hand up and just says, “I can feel your look.”

In this scene, my wife would be Samuel L. Jackson because I could feel the look. And it was telling me, get rid of some of those shoes.

To aid this process, I left a pair at my parents’ house for my dad to drop off at their local running store. We shared a tender moment before I walked out of the room…out of each other’s lives forever.

On Friday, when we go to pick up packets for the Fairfax Four Mile, I’ll bring a bag of shoes with me to donate to the local Pacers store that I believe go to Shoe4Africa. It’ll be a sad goodbye. I can already picture myself cross-legged on the floor in front of the closet, clutching each pair to my chest and recounting the “trials of miles, miles of trials” in each shoe. The PRs, the disappointments, the new trails, the old favorites. There may be pictures coming to a blog near you…for posterity sake.

Am I alone? How many spouses shoes do you have?

16 Weeks to Boston & Needing Every One

One more cup of tea. One more knee-ice pack session. One more day staring (and longing) at my running shoes. It’s been a most unceremonious start to my Boston training program. Hampered by a sinus infection and a nagging knee injury (thank you floor hockey) that I just can’t seem to shake, my Boston training can be summed up in one word: thud!

I hoped just two weeks ago that some good old R&R would leave me fresh to embrace the 16 weeks ahead with renewed vigor. Tortuously, I paged through my summer and Army 10-miler training – which ultimately was geared toward getting stronger and faster for Boston – and admired the neat, colorful peaks that rose and fell depending on distance and workout. The only breaks in the range came on scheduled rest days.

Then I compared it to the last month, even six weeks, and shuddered at the gaps, the low weekly mileage, and the monthly totals that don’t even come close to scraping 100.

I feel heavy. I feel dull (i.e. the opposite of racing sharp). I feel unfit. I feel like crying out, “Do you know who I used to be?”

I long for those satisfying evenings when the first mile sheds the weight of work day toil, then you settle in for the night to enjoy that physical exhaustion that wraps like a blanket.

My friend Sarah (who has a fabulous blog called Sarah Finding Fit) and I recently discussed the notion of muscle memory: the theory that your muscles can recall the fitness level that they once performed at. I’m hoping that my muscles don’t forget what it’s like to turn 75 second quarters 16 times over with ease, fly through the woods on a late afternoon tempo run, and accelerate through the final miles of a long run.

I had a previous experience with this, an epiphany if you will, that’s made me a believer, or perhaps heightened my faith. I spent most of summer 2009 nursing an IT band injury. The calendar days flipped by and the Army Ten Miler got closer and closer. I channeled that pent up energy by going to the gym and *gasp* swimming. Since I didn’t drown, I resumed training by hitting the trails and building up distance slowly.

After being at it for two weeks, I took an ambitious seven miler on the road. I suffered. The IT band was fine, but the pace felt terrible, my body felt out-of-whack, and I had to fight for every step. I’d taken the “downhill” version of this loop and fought back frustration that arose because I couldn’t even run downhill efficiently.

But nearing the halfway mark, I ran out of the last major downhill and made a sharp turn onto the main road. On it for only a quarter mile, something started to change. Picture Forrest Gump being chased by the kids on the bike, braking free of his leg braces, and suddenly finding his stride (Yes, the infamous "Run Forrest Run" scene that has probably been screamed at us by a passing car at one point or another). I turned onto the trail from the main road and darted through the trees.

The malaise had lifted. I shrugged off any lingering injury doubts and just flew.

From there, training went well and I experienced similar days to that one. But I’d been waiting for that one switch to flip.

While I haven’t gone out yet (stupid sinus infection, stupid knee), I’m on the mend and tapping the gas to get the bus started and point it toward Boston.

I have a race scheduled for New Years Eve, the Fairfax Four Miler. However, PR’ing is on the shelf for this as well, keeping with my “run to run” theme. I knew going into this that resting was going to be hard, that times were going to suffer, and frustration would most likely reign.

I’m just waiting for that switch.