Media Challenge Race #5

I was raised in a desert state, so East Coast Augusts are not my habitat. Even the natives don't love the summer running, though many don't seem much slowed by it. But me, I'm slowed.

Once again, last night about 250 media elites lined up in Central Park to prove that our industry, which has been slowly dying for the last 554 years, still has pluck and spunk. Last year's race series awarded bragging rights and an outsize loving cup to NewsCorp, lighting up a good-natured rivalry that lasted all this year. McGraw-Hill/Standard & Poors, with whom I run, has been at the top of most of this year's races. But there were two close contenders, so Race #5 would determine who kept the giant tchotchke on their desk.

As the horn sounded I realized I had lined up a little too far back and had to weave to get some room. When I finally caught up to teammate B. I was feeling good, but noticed I was running slower than usual. I focused on form, using a "proprioceptive cue" I read about somewhere, in which you concentrate on pulling the world back as if it were a giant treadmill. This helps with pre-activation of the leg muscles, and provides a mild distraction from the excruciating pain lancing through your respiratory and neuro-muscular systems.

The course takes two loops around the bottom of the park. On loop one I ran at my own pace, which was still a little slower than last time. On the second loop B. pulled ahead and kept me honest for the rest of the race, since the still-humid air was trying to convince me to breathe less. Lately when I suffer during a race I've had this image of feeding meat to a tiger, or sometimes a lion. The meat comes in bloody chunks from my legs.

So to summarize, I'm on a giant treadmill, feeding parts of my body to a hungry feline.

B. had instructed me where to start that last kick, and unlike my last Media Race, I knew where the finish line was. I picked it up and passed one competitor near the finish, to come in 8th overall. (At first I misread my card to think I was #5. No, that's Race #5. Good thing I didn't make the same mistake in Race #1. That would have been a big letdown.)

Our team came in 2nd for the race, but we got 1st place for the 2009 series. Our victory was secured largely by runners over 40, prompting team blogger G. to change our team motto to "Like a fine wine. . .".

It was a decent race for me, especially considering the humidity. But it was my slowest of the series, and the humidity was actually lower than #4, where I ran about 30 seconds faster. I'm training hard now for the marathon, which probably is making me a little more tired. My run in the NYC Half was slower than my winter halfs, before I had done any training. I frankly wish my progress were more, er, progressive.

Still, my main race is in November (or taking the long view, November 2016), and before then I'll peak and taper. The weather will be nice and cool, and hopefully dryer. Till then I'm having the most fun the humidity, giant treadmills, and hungry tigers will allow.

2009 NYC Half Marathon

My goal for the NYC Half was basically to "feel strong" the whole course. It wasn't a peak race. I'm training for the NYC full marathon. And, well, it's August in NYC, yo.

On the other hand, I trained, tapered, I bought a nice shirt. Who doesn't want a PR?

I figured that despite the heat I could match my winter half-marathon times, since I'd been training. That would be enough for me.

In the end I got neither a racer's time nor a kick-ass workout, but The City was a circus and I was happy to be there.

Start time was crazy early, but it was already deep in the 70s by 5:30am. There was a soft purple caste to the bridges at dawn as I crossed the East River. Buildings dimly shimmered. I did a short warm-up run on the bridle path, stretched, watched the pro runners do the same, and tried to visit the john enough times.

The 7-mile loop in Central Park was a sunny, verdant blur, but in slow motion. I hit hills that, for once, seemed to hit me back. Nothing was enough to pull speed out of those legs. I had a strategy - start slow, build up. But endless miles oozed by and I found myself slowing.

The race finally spilled into the mirrored channel of Seventh Ave., down through Times Square. No cars, no bike messengers, the road almost to myself. It was like Hancock, but directed by Terry Gilliam, featuring a bunch of "American Idol" hopefuls, and written by a coked-up gazelle.

In Times Square there hovered a suspicious cloud of bacon smell, accompanied by a soul band called "Crispus Attucks". I felt unexpectedly hungry. At least until I nearly stepped on the traditional squished rat in the middle of the street. Moving on.

The cheering was awesome. One woman hollered "Go FDNY!" at a large, handsome guy wearing his FRNY team shirt (Front Runners of New York is the local gay and lesbian track club). There were lots of cowbells. "More cowbell," I yelled back. My speed had slowed to my training pace, but I was waving too much to feel bad about it. I love a parade.

Then, 4 miles straight down the West Side Highway, with the Financial District towering like a mirage at the end of the course. Having been stuck in traffic on this stretch on countless holiday weekends, I can tell you it was a thrill to be moving fast and running red lights.

I had hit a hard training pace by now, though certainly not a race pace, when suddenly, at the 20k point, I heard someone shout my name. There, on a traffic barrier from which he was watching the race, was teammate Gregg, hollering encouragements. This totally jazzed me. I hooted and waved and took off. I finally put together a decent race pace, gradually accelerating and passing people for the last kilometer.

I full-on sprinted the last 100 meters, and really enjoyed the finish.

Volunteers were handing out iced towels and apples. That was the best apple anyone's ever tasted.

I picked up my finisher's medal and rested on a bench on the Battery, looking out at the Statue of Liberty and drinking a bottle of water. Had the heat slowed me down? Should I have started faster? Did I try hard enough? Whatever. I was distracted from my post-race analysis to watch a bunch of bees exploiting a lovely patch of echinacea in the park.

But I wasn't done. I needed to pick myself back up and run the 4-1/2 miles home to get my full training mileage for the day. As I approached the Brooklyn Bridge a biker saw my race number and yelled, "Haven't you had enough?"

Enough?

My denoument for the day was an afternoon playing with the baby in Prospect Park while my wife ran. I hadn't really achieved my goals. But it was a good day for nothing to be enough in NYC.

Lazy, hazy, crazy

The internets tell me the humidity was only 71% this morning, at 77 degrees - both lower numbers than at my last race. But somehow this morning's uphill intervals totally kicked my ass. I did one less than planned, ran about 20sec slower, and came home dripping. Dripping, I tell you.

I didn't want to push it, since I have the NYC Half this weekend. Also I take lower-intensity weeks about every 3 or 4 weeks, to avoid over-training or injury.

In fact, I really should be taking it fairly easy this year, just feeling out a rookie training schedule, seeing how my body does. I mean I'm kind of doing that - I'm only running 2 or 3 times a week now - but I'm also staying up close to what I think my limits are.

In any case I've learned more about my body this year than I have since I learned to drink. For example, I can sweat profusely without smelling bad. Who knew?

Media Challenge Race #4

Suddenly summer, huh?

Our evening race was somewhere around 80 degrees, and plenty humid. I discovered how hard 3.5 miles can be when you've got real competition. The big races I run as a free agent let me pretty much run against my own standards. Last night I was trying to crush the competition.

Short courses start to dig into systems that I'm still just developing. The start for this race is on a downhill, and by the time I get to the bottom my mouth is dry as dirt. A little farther there waits a terrible smell which is either my breath or the accumulated horse shit of countless tourist carriage rides. Then there's a long stretch of pain and despair. Then you come to the start line again to begin the whole thing one more time. I do not find any of this motivating.

Teammate B. had recently been advising me on my finishing kick. He had definitively outkicked me at the last Media race, and I was eager to learn from the master. As I rounded the bend on that final stretch, my legs full of lactate, I had been following two guys in blue singlets. One of them started to fall back, but I couldn't catch the other one. I started to look for the point B. told me to start my last sprint. I couldn't find it. Finally I saw the finish line coming up, so I just prayed and sped up. I was going fast, but as we passed the finish line I couldn't quite catch up to Blue Singlet.

Except that wasn't the finish line. It was one more crosswalk away. I was already at a sprint, and there was no point in slowing down. Blue couldn't seem to speed up. Accidentally, then, I snatched sixth place.

This would be inconsequential, and in fact was witnessed by no one, but our team won by just one point. So there's my race strategy for Media Race #4 - total disorientation.

Perpetuum mobile

Running 20 miles in circles does not have any obvious relation to human achievement, but it sure is fun.

Marathon Training Run #2 in Central Park yesterday. The park was replete with water stations, beautiful weather, and fabulous scenery. I ran slowly enough to take it all in. My long run base pace is 80% of my marathon pace, so I stayed with the 8:30 group.

I felt pretty good the whole way, and was really just watching for signs of injury. In fact my legs felt great afterward. I'm think I'm happier about that than the actual mileage. I'm running a lot less this cycle than I did in the spring, when injury prevented me from running the Brooklyn Half.

Running with a group doesn't let you get into a flow the way a solo run would. The pacers help eliminate some of the decision-making, but constantly re-establishing a place in the pack keeps you well out of nirvana.

Still, the day was perfect and the company was good. At Mile 19 our pacer started shouting, "Sprint, sprint, sprint if you got it!". What the hell, I ran the last mile about a minute faster. As I neared the 20-mile marker I heard someone coming up behind me. I accelerated. He drew up past me and accelerated too. I started a full sprint. He was in a full sprint. We were both laughing, because a 50-yard sprint after 20 slow miles is hardly the Olympics. He beat me, but it was a total rush.

. . . any club that would accept me as a member: CPTC

I usually run alone, for want of someone running with me. My thoughts are nothing but the patch of road or dirt in front of me, or else the feeling in my lower legs.

Sometimes in races I'm propelled by the simple desire to get away from everyone else.

But I know I run better with others, and in fact I like a little company. There are a lot of track clubs in New York, each with its own specialness. Betimes, I have thought of joining one.

To feel out which club might best suit me, and I them, I'm occasionally showing up at club trainings.

First up was Central Park Track Club. I tagged along with some teammates from my work running team, one drizzly misty night, to the East River track.

I got there too early, so I got specially soaked. But I like to run in the rain, and it gave me a few minutes to talk to other earlycomers.

CPTC is sponsored by Nike, has a sharp website, and has a lot of runners throughout the year in NYRR races. They're a pretty fast club, so I was expecting a lot from the training. And I got it.

Coach Tony had planned 8 x 600m repeats w/200m recovery. He gave an animated, meandering peptalk beforehand, exhorting the very mixed crowd to get ready for the upcoming team championships. Coach Tony definitely gives you a sense of purpose.

We were grouping ourselves by pace. One group went out before I was quite sure what was going on. The next group to go included teammate B., who had beat me at the last race, so I figured I'd better try to catch up. This group turned out to be real damn fast. The first two intervals were painful, as the first two should be, but I was glad I hadn't gone out with that first group, because they were already lapping us.

By the third repeat I was pretty sure I couldn't keep this up, but I was curious to see when I would tap out. Fourth, fifth. OK, just one more. Sixth, seventh. Well, just one more. Eight! We did between 2:06 and 2:08 per, with negative splits - much faster than I could have managed on my own.

It took me a good lap of jogging to recover, I expect the pace was a little faster than it should have been for my training curve. On the other hand it was a great challenge, one my brain was sure my body wasn't up to. Screw you, brain, so pink and soft.

Note to self: speed training is about suffering, as opposed to pain, also as opposed to comfort.

Note to Parks Dept: there's probably no need to turn the sprinklers on during monsoon season.

First impressions: CPTC is hardcore athletic, with a results-oriented work ethic. The group was friendly and mixed (ages, sexes, ethnicities), and welcoming. It was a good, hard workout, and I could certainly have run with the next-slower group for an efficient training. But what would be the fun in that?

Media Challenge Race #3

I had been unaccountably anxious going in to this race. Maybe it was nerves, or an allergy, but there were oddball dreams. One was about finding my father's dentures in the basement, and then another about a woman whose daughter was kidnapped and never seen again, except many years later, in a blurry video image. I got to Central Park last night fairly early, thinking I was probably late. Start time was at 7, and I wanted to leave time to warm up, find other people on my team, and figure out what to do - since I had no idea how or where this race went, and had never met my teammates. Also, I had never in my life run in the evening. Or with a team.

I went to the benches specified in the email I got from my team captain, and found a runner already sitting there. I thought he looked just like L., a lanky Parisian I had known in college who had studied math and philosophy. Over our long and intermittent friendship I methodically annoyed him with my interest in sleeping with his girlfriends (in another era I would have died like Lermontov, except L. was a fencer, so my death would have been messier). After graduation he studied massage therapy, then got a PhD in something mystical, maybe biology or computer science, and then business, and I lost track of him a few years ago. He might be in India running some kind of startup, or managing someone's money.

So I struck up a conversation with the man with L.'s face, whose real name turned out to be the same as mine. Naturally he was there for the same race as me. We chatted, and waited for something to happen. It was a beautiful evening, the air slightly cooling, the sky clear. The Sheep Meadow was full of people on blankets writing breakup emails, or talking about their operations, or plotting crimes while plucking absently at the grass. When our polite conversation had run out of steam I wandered a few steps away to stretch until other runners began to show up.

The Media Challenge is a series of 3.5-milers, in the spirit of friendly competition between New York media companies. Many of the people gravitating toward our bench wore t-shirts from NewsCorp, New York Times, ABC News, McGraw-Hill, etc. There are cordial rivalries and minor scores to settle I suppose. Myself, I found the prospect of running with coworkers exciting and it also made me tense. Racing has always floated blissfully free of my daily life, but this race would seep somehow into the highly-charged circus of my office. And whose office isn't a little intense this year?

Three and a half miles is a short distance, and therefore a painful one. Once the starting horn went off I spent the first mile leapfrogging other racers and casual joggers to get some room. This was an informal event, meaning racers had to flow through the slow metabolism of the Central Park evening crowd. I dislike crowds, so I ran the first mile at about 5:45, probably too fast. My chest quickly began to hollow out, my breath was strangely dry and irritated my throat. I settled in alongside a man wearing compression socks and a woman who seemed to be running with him. They pulled a little ahead of me and I just stayed a few feet back so they could make all the decisions about how to dodge the joggers. I found myself thinking about a Canadian woman I had met through L. several years after college. He was with her when I bumped into them by chance at a gallery in Tribeca. The Canadian and I were together for 6 months or a year. She was a sculptor and heiress from Montreal and we fought about everything. Her work was concentrated and wonderful. That year the Knicks were in the playoffs (such a very long time ago), and when I cheered at Larry Johnson's three-pointer from behind the line, she said, "I wish you were that excited about anything I did". I had to admit she had a point, and while I did get that excited about her sometimes, we only lasted a few months more. I saw her about a year afterward. She had dyed her hair blonde and was discovering hallucinogens.

I started to feel a stitch in my side. I looked at my watch - we were running around 6:20 or 6:15.

Gradually a runner in a green singlet pulled up to our group and began to pass us. This was too much for me, so I finally ditched the cute couple and drafted behind him. I had just repeatedly played the video of Usain Bolt finishing the 200m in Lausanne in less than 20 seconds, so I imagined myself following the green man and then out-kicking him at the finish with crazy long Bolt strides. At this point my heart was grotesquely engorged and my spine creaked like wicker. The green man and I were running 6-minute miles. By the time the finish finally came into view I had lost the desire or the capacity to beat him, but when I heard someone else breathing hard behind me I put together a kick and held on to my 7th place finish.

Immediately after the race I felt my body finally begin to loosen. I chatted with other finishers, including Brenn, the guy in the green Edinburgh singlet, who in fact was on my team. I was relieved I hadn't wasted energy trying to beat him. I met teammates Sue, Gregg, and Richard, and would have loved to go for pizza with them afterward, but wanted to get home for dinner with the missus. Our team did very well, taking top rank, and in a good position to win the series of five races. I had even met one of my personal goals.

The evening was still calm and lovely. As I walked to the subway I stopped and stared at the polished obelisk of the Time Warner Center. I was sure that I had not escaped whatever I had been fleeing during the race. But now the subway, now my house, now my wife and daughter, and a good night's dreamless sleep.

Achilles Hope & Possibility

hope
Originally uploaded by niznoz

My favorite races are the ones without the money prizes. Less competitiveness, more celebration. Today's Achilles Hope & Possibility doesn't even count as a marathon qualifier, so everyone was there because they wanted to run THIS race.

I had planned to run a mile before the start, but I found myself drawn to the start of the hand-cycle race, about 20 minutes before the foot start. At the front of the crowd of recumbent contraptions was a group of young veterans, most missing one or both legs. They wore khaki t-shirts that said on the back, "We were just doing our job." I was struck by how young they were, you know, half my age. I was moved and misty-eyed for them. They had gone to war, and lost body parts. I felt sad, but filled with admiration that they were racing.

I had a great time running, cheering on the cycle and wheelchair racers, watching the cheering crowds. All the racers seemed to be in a good mood. On the last stretch my speed was frankly falling off, I got passed by a guy, then a woman. As the next guy was passing me he leaned in conspiratorially, pointed to the next runner, and said, "I'm gonna catch her".

Today was my long run day, so after I finished I took another loop around the course, to take advantage of water stations. Now I started noticing other racers. There was a boy, no older than six, running on a prosthetic right lower leg. His dad would lift him every so often, but then he wanted to be put down and ran joyfully, like all children run. There was a girl in braids, maybe 8 or 9, on a prosthetic blade, also running just like every kid in the world.

I found myself filled with happiness, and I realized I had made a mistake at the handcycle start. I had felt a kind of sadness or pity for those soldiers, for what they'd lost, whatever they'd been through, for whatever feelings they might be having. But that was my hangup. Everyone seemed to be having an awesome time. The kids I might have felt bad for were doing kid things in a happy kid way. They were complete.

Every race is a celebration. Sometimes its theme is mourning or memorial, sometimes commemoration. But whether or not it's a race "for" a cause, essentially everyone races like kids. Kids run and are happy. It's enough.


Happy child
From New York Road Runners

Running Krap Tcepsorp

dilo_carmirror
Happy Birthday niznoz!

During my Tuesday run I noticed for the first time just how crowned the Prospect Park loop road is. Since I always run the same way (I dislike all the tiny negotiations that running against traffic causes) one leg has to reach down farther than the other almost the entire way. Essentially, my regular route makes me run as if my left leg were 2 inches shorter than my right. In a strange coincidence, my left leg is having problems.

So today I ran the opposite direction, clockwise around the loop rather than counter-clockwise. The park is completely different in that direction. The lake, for example, is shown from a much more advantageous angle and takes a different shape. The trees, obnoxiously lush from the insistent rains, now create unfamiliar blind corners. The park is always changing, from any angle, but in its mirror state it's a parallel universe.

My college film teacher once made a short film called "The Wonder Ring," recording New York's 3rd Ave. El just before it was to be demolished. Joseph Cornell then cut together the outtakes from this film and showed them sort of reversed and upside down, calling his film "Gnir Rednow". The original is musical and lovely, a record of form and light. But I remember thinking Cornell's mirrored version was transformative, showing hidden aspects and a sort of animist spirit in the condemned trestles. Cornell always preferred time that flowed backwards, or at least turbulently.

I had a good run, with some quick, gentle intervals. When I got back home my watch had stopped.

BFF!!!

tree heart
Originally uploaded by niznoz

Dear, sweet Running,

Do you have any idea how much I missed you? Six weeks ago you told me, I think we need to take a break. You said, It's not you, it's me. You said, I just need some time to think this through. And then you were gone. I was sure I'd die right there.

It was hard to be apart.

And then you came back. Last Sunday in the park with you, it felt just like before. It was so good to be back together again. Like the day we first met. That morning the leaves were greener than they've ever been, the sky bluer, the ground softer. The trails rose up to embrace our every step. Little children yelped with joy as we passed. Dogs looked up from whatever they were gnawing on to watch us in wonder. Old men on benches bowed their heads in nostalgic reverie.

Last Sunday I knew as soon as I saw you again that we can make this work. And I think you knew it too. But a few things have changed.

Running, let's sit down.

Well, here goes. I've been seeing other workouts. Let me explain. While we were on our "break", I was so lonely. Long story short, there was Yoga and, um, I don't know, it just happened. Don't look at me like that. Nobody planned it. It's just that Yoga was there and you weren't and I desperately needed someone. I don't think it's a forever thing. And anyway, between you and me, Yoga's really high-maintenance. It could never be like you and me, Running. I need you to know that.

And don't be angry, but I've also been thinking of trying something a little unusual. Yes, a bike. Because here's the deal, and I have to be totally honest with you: you and I were so intense, seeing each other every day, I think that's what caused our problems. I wanted more of you all the time, it was like a craving, and eventually it got unhealthy. So I think it's best for me - best for us, Running - if we keep it to three or four times a week. At least at first. Yes, I might hang with Core Workout or Bike on other days. But you know you're the one I love. Core Workout makes me feel good, but it's never the same as when I wake up to find you there.

Are you OK, Running? Good.

A bond as deep as ours won't suffer just because we explore other things. In fact, that is what makes us stronger! And no, it's not you, you're awesome. It's just how I'm built. I thought I wanted just one workout all the time, every day, but I need to be free to discover life. Frankly I'm not getting any younger. And you're not getting any older.

I'm so glad you're OK with all this. I was sure you would be. You’re so best. In November, when we're together for the Marathon, it'll be just golden. Nothing can ever take that away from us.

Right, Running? Right?

Love,
Daniel