2011 Army Ten Miler Redux

The halfway mark came and went unceremoniously. I didn’t even bother to glance down at my watch. The test coming was not on my wrist but in my legs. Independence Avenue began to pitch down after 14th Street. I could see the cones on the other side of the road that would mark the exit from DC. But there was work to be done.


The 1600m the make up miles 5 and 6 of the Army Ten Miler are, in my opinion, the potentially fastest mile of the 10. The road is a straight shot down Independence Avenue. It’s the next 1600m that can challenge your will because after the U-turn around the Native American Museum, you must retrace your steps up Independence Avenue.

Do I roll or do I hold back and steel myself for the uphill? I wrestled as the leaders went by on the other side of the road. Now, I did glance down at my watch: 5:53. I smirked. I can run faster than this, I thought. And took off down the hill.

For the past year, the 2010 Army Ten Miler has been the race I’ve gone back to to find my confidence. I ran a quad-busting 59:41 that had me convinced I was invincible. During my 400 mile base-building phase, when I could push the thick summer air, I went back to that race and tried to conjure any lingering magic that might still be in my legs or lungs. It had become my gold standard.

All summer I had to remind myself when the splits weren’t what they were a year ago, “This is a different time. A different goal.”

So, when I laced up Sunday morning, I did so with tempered expectations. The circled race on my calendar isn’t the Army Ten Miler as it was last year, but the New York Marathon, exactly four weeks away. This was my tune up, my fitness check. I’d barely hit interval runs that started with a 5-something pace, so I certainly didn’t expect to string 10 miles of them together.

After a stirring start that featured homage to the fallen, the wounded, and those currently serving, the cannon fired. And we were off. I fought to shoot through gaps and get outside of a choked first mile to establish any type of rhythm. It was like trying to merge onto the beltway at rush hour. I had to stop short, constantly check over my shoulder to see if I could switch lanes, and even laced together strings of swearing that I managed to keep in my head.

I looked down at my watch expecting to see 7:30-7:45 and instead glimpsed 6:40. Huh, I thought. This feels pretty good for 6:40. When the first mile marker came up and the race crossed out of Virginia via the Memorial Bridge and into the Nation’s capital, I was happy to see a 6:10.

The crowd began to string out and I found a flow and rode it down Constitution Avenue. We turned off onto Virginia Ave for a quick climb that I used to accelerate past a few more runners, knowing that my effort would be rewarded with a long downhill before we ran under the Kennedy Center. I was locked into 5:45 pace, until I was locked up.

Finally having some space to maneuver, I hemmed myself in with a pack of six runners. Two dudes recognized one another and as the conversation continued, the pace slowed and I started nipping at the heels of the one in front of me. I cursed myself for the tactical error then dropped back a couple steps before accelerating around them and surging toward the backside of the Lincoln Memorial.

The four mile marker came and went and the first flash of optimism began to seep in. Could it be a day for a sub-60? I asked, smiling to myself. But I wasn't even halfway through the race, so I quickly buried the notion. Right on cue my breathing got heavier as the new MLK monument flashed by on the right. After all, I still had 6-7 to contend with and…the bridge.

At the 6-mile water station, I switched from water to Gatorade. My eyes lit up as the sugar coursed through me. Picture Popeye after he downs the spinach.

As this training cycle has progressed, I’ve been amazed at how well I can own my pace. I feel like I can dictate my race rather than letting the race dictate me. If I want to speed up, I can summon the energy to do it. In the past, I might need to drop the pace but simply didn't have the gas to do it.

Rising back up Independence, a younger runner cut in front of me as I began catching up to him. We played cat and mouse for about 200m before I watched his shoulders creep up around his neck. The hill and pace seemed to be taking their toll on him. I made a slight adjustment to get on his left side then powered by him. So focused on our game, I was already half way up Independence and still accelerating. I took mile 7 in 5:43.

The 14th street bridge is interminable. The very mention of it to veterans of the Army Ten Miler or Marine Corps Marathon is enough to send quivers up their quads. Its rolls are numerous and it bends ever so slightly to the right so that you can never quite see where it ends.

The crowd had opened up at this point. I closed my eyes for a moment to steady myself. You’ve got the legs. You’ve got the lungs, I said. Keep it neat. I opened my eyes and let my stride just flow. I fought the urge to look at my watch and ran by feel, catching glimpses of the Pentagon instead.

When I came upon the 9 mile marker, I did some quick math and realized I could drop a 6:45 and still come in under an hour. Instead of backing off, I let the pace drop naturally. The spectators began to thicken along the course as we rounded the Pentagon. I saw the finish line banner and let a smile break across my face. I squinted to see the clock: Does that say 58?! I thought. I pumped my arms harder, heard the snapping of the cameras and made sure I was completely over the sensor before clicking my watch. I looked down at the 56 second PR staring back at me: 58:45.

I let the moment sink in while I waited for my wife and father-in-law to come across the line. We toasted our accomplishments later in the afternoon and feasted on steak. When the alarm went off this morning, a trace of that euphoria was still there. But there’s more work to do.

Wrapped Up in Races

"Did it come?" I asked my wife last night.  

30 squares of memories

"Maaaaybe." She smirked, while packing up her lunch for the next day.

It was nearly 11:30 p.m.  I'd just gotten home from the Caps game and could think of little else but a shower and sleep...that and how quickly the alarm was going to come to go to the gym.

"It's upstairs, isn't it?" I asked with anticipation.  "I'll meet you up there."

"No!  Wait, wait.  I'm coming too."

We ran upstairs like two kids bee-lining it for the Christmas tree.  I got up to our bedroom, the dog following close behind, feeding off our eagerness.   There it was spread out over our bed: 30 race t-shirts stitched together.  Six years of marathons, 5Ks, Turkey Trots, Goblin Gallops, Jingle All the Ways, Ten Milers, t-shirts to cure diseases, t-shirts to raise money, t-shirts in memory of....

In the middle of December, when holiday shopping had reached its peak, Mrs. Onthebusrunning and I were in our bedroom (apparently a theme of this post), and I was crouched over my bureau, shoving, cramming, folding, forcing the bottom drawer closed.  Inevitably, one sleeve or hunk would be sticking out, and I'd have to say, "The hell with it," and walk away, "Good enough."  Sure I could have thrown them away, washed the car with them, donated them to charity...but these were hard earned, no matter how ugly or unattractive some of them were.  I mean, my God, the Marine Corps Marathon shirts are hideous (mustard yellow...really?), but I wear it like a badge of honor.  I earned the right to wear this ugly shirt.  Sometimes I throw my Army Ten Miler shirt on -- from when I went sub-60 last year -- and just soak in the confidence and speed from it.  My Ragnar shirt makes me yearn for sleep just from looking at it.  My Vermont shirt brings a smile because it's where I first qualified for Boston.

The point is, each shirt is more than a cheap run off from some local printer. It carries memories.  It carries good and bad juju depending on when you first don it (before completing the race=big no no).  So I couldn't give them away.  But I also couldn't shut my drawers.  

My thoughtful (and awesome!) wife decided to get me the Campus Quilt kit for Christmas.  Two weeks ago, we pulled all those race shirts out in our guest room, put them in a thoughtful order, and shipped them out.

Yesterday, it arrived. 

She spread it across our bed and we marveled at it.  Overcome with excitement (and exhaustion), I laid down on the bed and wrapped myself in it.  Now, whenever I need some inspiration, to relive a race, or just because I'm cold, I can wrap myself up in those past races.

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.

The "Once a Runner" Workout

If you've read John Parker's Once a Runner, you are most likely familiar with the chapter simply titled "The Interval Workout."  For those who haven't read it, consider picking up the book now that it's out in wide publication to really get the context of this chapter and workout.  Love it or hate it, this book is often considered the gospel of the sport.

I still remember my first reading of this book (I've returned to it many times since).  My dad, a runner for the University of Florida back in the mid-late 70s, crossed paths with the author during his time there.  He brought up the book's name a few months before Christmas 2008, said he'd been trying to get it but simply couldn't find it.  I thought I'd do a little digging of my own.  It was elusive.  

I exhausted all resources.  Amazon, Borders, Barnes and Noble, used bookstores, all to no avail.  Finally, I found several copies on eBay...for well over $100 a copy.  People were serious about this book.  What was so mythical about it?

Apparently when Parker first self-published it, he used to enter local road races wearing a sign on his back that said something to the effect of, "If you beat me, I'll give you a free book."  He didn't give away many, but those he did came out of his car's trunk.

My Mom and I decided to go in on the book together, knowing how much it would mean to him (which it did; there were tears).  I eventually won it for a cool $150.  For a book! 

The book came in October.  With three months to go until Christmas, I couldn't just let it sit around.  I mean, I had to find out what all the hype was about...so I dove into it...and finished it the next morning.  The name of this blog is actually from a throw away one liner that stuck with me while reading the sequel, Again to Carthage.  

I ended up winning my own copy of the book months later.  The woman I won it from (on eBay once again -- only $90 this time...it was the deal of the century) turned out to be the mother of a high school cross country runner.  She bought the book for him and now that he and she had read it, wanted to pass it along to another runner.  We exchanged a couple e-mails about it.  It seemed as though everyone had a story about this book, their reasons for pursuing it and the way it affected them as different as the reasons they chose to run in the first place.   This became one of those books where you could refer to characters as if you're on a first name basis, guys you'd go to the bar to drink with, or meet up with for a morning run.  Parker builds such a connection....

Anyhow, I digress.  The culmination of the book, in my mind, comes when Cassidy is asked to put himself through the interval workout that begins with 20x400m with a 100m jog between each rep.  This is the setup.  It takes off from there.

For myself, I'm nearing the eighth and final week of my self-proclaimed speed development program.  After grinding through the hellish 5K two weeks ago, I decided to forgo signing up for another 5K to round out the program, only to battle the heat all over again, and be disappointed by a non-PR.  Instead, I'm waiting for the fall to come to take my new legs for a ride.  Monday, August 16, I'll make the transition to my Army 10-miler program.

But there must be something, right?  Some payoff?  Some mark that everything you've done has worked, has made you a better runner, was worth the sacrifice, the early mornings, the interminable laps around the track, the double dips, the achy quads, the quivering hamstrings...etc.

My defining mark will be this workout.  I embarked on the speed plan after reading about Ryan Hall's summer plans to get back to basics and develop his raw speed for 10 weeks before going full on into training for Chicago (apparently it paid off because he won the U.S. 7-mile Championship at Bix two weeks ago).  This was one of his workouts.  And funny enough, last month's Running Times including a McMillan column talking about speed workouts for runners that included, of all things, 20x400m.  The universe is clearly calling me toward this.

When I think about this workout, I go back to the summer of 2008 when I started all this speed training, qualifying for Boston business, and a 12x400m workout with a 400m recovery between each was a drain.  I've come along way in two years.  This far?  We'll see.

As the chapter says, "It's one thing to write down 20 quarters with a 110 jog, and quite another to carry out those instructions." Monday night, I'll lace 'em up and head out to the track for one last workout.  There are moments that I'll want to stop, gasp in exhaustion and clutch my knees, but I'll have to dig deep to push through it and think back to all those other workouts that I've filed away and persevered through.  That's how you find out.