tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84679983903843876702024-02-18T20:33:03.735-06:00BaristingUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger691125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-61204061968110666162020-04-09T08:19:00.000-05:002020-04-09T09:00:11.678-05:00Efficient CauseThere are no sports to watch right now, which has placed baseball somewhat more prominently in my mind. By way of explanation: it's the best sport to follow, and to think about. But to watch? Probably not.<br />
<br />
There are various reasons for this, depending on who you ask. Schools of various vintage can be blamed, and not without reason. Blame, though, is perhaps the wrong word.<br />
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A team is supposed to win; to win you need to score runs; we basically know now that the best way to score runs is to avoid outs (to walk) and hit home runs, where BABIP is eternally 1.000. Which is not to say a high batting average on balls in play is without value, or fails to indicate a useful player: Ty Cobb has the highest ever, and he was pretty good. It's just that Brooks Robinson never threw out a batter who had just watched ball four, and with very few exceptions, balls hit over the fence are never caught.<br />
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The problem here, rather evidently, is that the efficient manner of play dispenses with defense and (mostly) baserunning, dynamic components of the game that people like to watch. We are left with the "three true outcomes"--a walk, strikeout, or home run--but little in the way of on-field dynamism.<br />
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There are exceptions, though they are mostly not well known players. The last true star in that vintage was probably Ichiro, one of the most prolific singles hitters of all time. Even that sentence is either praise or criticism, depending on your perspective. It has to be said, he didn't walk much, or hit for extra bases often. But if that must be said, then it must also be felt that he was remarkable to watch, and one might ask whether this is because--not in spite of--his relative inefficiency.<br />
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It is often said of baseball that the drama comes from the focused battle between the hitter and pitcher. And this is... well, it's not untrue. But it also wasn't the original intent. Way back when, the notion was simply that the pitcher threw something for the batter to put in play; the baserunning speed and acumen of the batter versus the fielders, then, took center stage. A walk or a strikeout was essentially a punitive measure put in place to keep things moving; they were never intended as desirable outcomes--certainly not 2/3 of the "true" outcomes.<br />
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As an aside, I think it's tremendously lucky for football--both kinds--that analytically optimal strategy just so happens to align with what people mostly like to watch. (No one really wants to watch Mahomes hand the ball off 45 times a game.) Baseball and basketball, then, were not only unlucky, but certainly that in some respects.<br />
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There isn't a coherent thesis here, more like an iffy observation: Sometimes less efficient things are more beautiful, and we like them better.<br />
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A more learned person than me could relate that back to Aquinas and others, and note that beauty is an absolute good--that is, good in and of itself, not good for something. And so to be truly beautiful, a thing cannot be instrumentalized. And perhaps, one might say, to make something good for something is to make it less beautiful, and less good.<br />
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This, maybe, is part of why jogging exceedingly long distances appeals. It's silly, good for nothing. And so, good. Beautiful, even.<br />
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(See? I brought it around.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-85132590315704130932020-04-06T13:33:00.001-05:002020-04-06T13:33:45.728-05:00I think I ran over 90 miles last week, and also played catch (with a baseball) for about 30 minutes yesterday. My shoulder is sore; my legs are not.<br />
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Back when anyone at all could go to gyms, I often did; so it's not that I needed to be reminded that my niche athleticism is precisely that. But whether needed, I got the reminder.<br />
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Not as a compensatory mechanism, but rather due to a lack of races, I've been thinking of soloing a 50K. Ideally about 3:45. If I do that, and it goes well, I'd like to try Psycho Psummer again in July. If anyone is racing in July. And if anyone is racing in the Fall, there is Heartland, again, maybe--or for the first time, the whole way.<br />
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We'll see. It's easy to say "Well, I was going to do *insert ambitious thing here*, but the world went crazy, and so I didn't." But there are cool local races that I'd like to do. Both parts of that are important.<br />
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A thing about pandemics that prevent travel is they invite folks to reflect on place, what it means to them and maybe what it ought to mean. Maybe we shouldn't travel so much for races. Maybe Western States shouldn't be ultrarunning's Boston or Kona; maybe Boston and Kona shouldn't be Boston and Kona, either.<br />
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That, I should note, is relatively easy to say when I am not qualified for 2/3 of those. (I can't comfortably swim one length of a pool. So.)<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-9304398774221642442020-03-24T09:15:00.000-05:002020-03-24T10:07:49.696-05:00Unbreakable is free on YouTube; I watched some of it last night and will watch the entire thing this weekend. Maybe--probably--by coincidence, iRunfar published a "where are they now" on Nick Clark, and Treeline talked about an Anton comeback.<br />
<br />
It felt like sitting several desks ago, a couple positions back, listening to podcasts and reading blogs. These are things one can still do, of course, though there are fewer blogs and probably more podcasts (the hosts of which mostly trade one another as guests, so far as I can tell).<br />
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Both Nick and Anton's blogs were some of the most trafficked--owing to the detail with which they described their training, and probably no little projection. That is, if I could only train that much, in those environs, maybe I could... well, the mind can only wander so far into fantasy. But "so far", often enough, is pretty far. Far enough to get you out the door, down the street, a mile or so from the trailhead, at which point you're liable to keep going, and maybe even enjoy yourself--or if not that, at least derive some satisfaction from the rocks passing underfoot, the trees going back, the roots feeding deeply as you imagine, maybe, increased capillary density is doing the same in your legs.<br />
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Well.<br />
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In Unbreakable, you get to see both of them running. There are shoes that no longer exist, a company that no longer makes running gear altogether (RIPPI, maybe?), and Ian Sharman, briefly, wearing too much black and a funny hat. (There still is Ian, of course. And Kilian, who I did not remember ever looking so young.)<br />
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There was also Geoff Roes, making pasta, and winning. He also had a very good blog. I couldn't remember the name, but when I started to type "Geoff Roes b-", Google autofilled "burnout" first, and then "blog".<br />
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That is, one might say, what it is. And that was, after a fashion, the angle on both of the aforementioned articles: Does Nick still run? And does Anton still train? (And, if so, what will he do with it?)<br />
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The latter--and the article frames the questions as such--is a meme, at this point. Or rather, is still a meme, and has been for years. I have run ultras, do so in flimsy shoes, and have long hair. And though I would argue the former are simply stupidity and preference intertwined, and the latter a result of really liking Ride the Lighting in 6th grade, we're all imperfect self-evaluators. So maybe I'm a part of that; maybe this is a part of that; I don't know.<br />
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Maybe putting three semi-colons in once sentence is an indicator of something, or many things, related to all of this or none of it or some fraction in between. <br />
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But. About Nick, I'd heard very little. It does seem he's good, which is good. He used to be really fast--maybe the best top-end resume at Western States to never win it--and now he's not, but that doesn't seem to matter to him, or bother anyone else.<br />
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Which, also, is good.<br />
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It is trite to point out that good things are always good, maybe especially when other things are not--though other things are always not good, if we're being honest. Still, running. It's good to want other people to have what they want, and to pursue what we want in the meanwhile. Maybe there will be races soon, or something that approximates soon. I'd like to do a specific 50k, but who knows, and maybe big fall thing, but it all feels silly to plan, and even sillier to point it out.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-79935439242992669962019-10-28T15:54:00.001-05:002019-10-28T15:55:05.846-05:00There is a slight twinge in the area between my shin and calf, which I have and will run on.<br />
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There is a gravity to longer races, like larger things. They hold you close and squeeze your vision and then, when circumstances and effort shift you away and your trajectory alters, the delta changes as well, and you're flung into the space between the stars, an unlight of experiential lack.<br />
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This is the not remembering, the propulsive browsing, the fearing the fear of missing out.<br />
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Which is to say, of course, that I'm back to running and eager to train for something, anything, though I don't know what.<br />
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---<br />
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This is an experience I've had before, and likely, if you're reading this--and you are--one you have as well. And so it is perhaps not worth saying, except that I suspect the only reason anyone writes anything at all is the drive to share universals in a unique way, so we can all gesture and say yes, yes, it is like that, we are not alone here or in our experiences.<br />
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I could tell you that a marathon is long and hard in the same way I could tell you that <i>Anna Karenina</i> and <i>Middlemarch</i> are long and great and the Mississippi wide and the bronze burning sunset crowning it beautiful.<br />
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Books particularly strike me as similar experiences to significant races, in that one spends a great deal of time and emotional energy invested in a world that is not precisely shared by most people we interact with and so you look up and around and talk and it takes you a while to orient yourself that this is here, and not there, and in fact people don't know the contents of your mind, nor you theirs.<br />
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This, I suppose, is why book clubs have always worked, and why races are useful.<br />
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It probably also why there are a lot of books about running, and probably soon a Nobel prize winning author with one. (Admittedly, I've DNF'd races and <i>IQ84</i>.)<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-86008383113941552142019-10-23T14:37:00.002-05:002019-10-23T14:42:55.940-05:00The Des Moines marathon has, if you're interested, a lot to recommend it. Good volunteers who hold cups correctly, a few more hills than you might like, and a bit longer--but they're all early. If you're smarter than me the second half could be run very fast; it's a course calling out for a negative split. I listened but did not, as teachers sometimes told me in grade school, listen. There was a Motley Crue cover band at mile 25, but they hadn't started playing yet when I passed, so I guess that's a negative. (Or maybe they were primarily for the half marathon, and were done already? I don't know and won't research the matter further.)<br />
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I started the race too fast, in a pack, justifying the act to myself by drafting and social pressure and the idea that if they could do it, so could I. Many of the runners were college--or just graduated--young men, and they really liked the sign one spectator was holding about how you should "find a cute butt and follow it". </div>
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They all pulled away between 3-6 miles. About half would come back, Icarus-style, much later.</div>
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I persisted, knowing I'd gone too fast, but wanting not to overcompensate and now go too slow. I got passed and did a little passing, but mostly ran a solo tempo until mile 12, at which point I entered the Drake track, and make a loop of the blue surface. This felt rather exceptional. There were people, one of whom was my dad, and I knew now I'd essentially made it half way and was on time. </div>
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There was another long stretch of straight and solo running then, and a park around mile 18, which I knew would continue until mile 24. There was a dirt trail, and I briefly entertained the notion of darting that way, of doing a little dirt jogging and rock hopping, and just abandoning this whole thing. It hurt, then. I threw an empty water cup into a trash can, and the volunteers cheered, and that helped. I tried to do another behind my back, and didn't succeed, but they cheered that too. </div>
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I got passed by a hard charging man by a lake at mile 22. He told me to come with him, and I said that I couldn't. I then caught one of the aforementioned college guys, and then another. The second stayed with me for a bit, and a friend of his darted along the course, yelling encouragement, alternating between insisting that said friend beat me or work with me--he apologized when the former command was issued. </div>
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We trudged on together. There was briefly the notion of a Motley Crue cover band--but then, as we've established, there was no such band. A bridge, then, and a couple turns. The announcer said I looked pumped; and indeed, the photos I'm not going to buy and thus will not post show a large smile. </div>
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I finished at 2:55:30, drank half a bottle of water, grabbed another, and waited for my girlfriend to come across the line. She had wanted to break 3 hours, but didn't. She will, though. We had some pretty good cookies--I always erroneously assume I'll just make do with whatever food is around, whenever I stumble on it. </div>
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It's Wednesday now, and that happened Sunday. I'm pretty happy with it all, though I believe I can get much fitter, and execute better. So, I believe I can go faster. But who doesn't? </div>
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It has also occurred to me that I now have a PR I don't hate at every distance but 100 miles, because I haven't finished 100 miles. People I know are tired of me talking about that, so I probably need to do it. Granted, post sign up, I'll probably talk about it to an insufferable degree. We'll see.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-53875246578551093062019-10-21T08:12:00.000-05:002019-10-21T08:12:01.817-05:00Des Moines Marathon2:55:30<br />
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For the best, probably, that this time represents a happy enough medium between "I won't be embarrassed to say it if asked in a social setting" and "what I think is possible if I get fitter and get everything right on the day itself".<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-33715692003452917032019-10-15T10:29:00.000-05:002019-10-15T10:29:08.579-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sneakernews.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/nike-zoom-vaporfly-eliud-kipchoge-chicago-marathon-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="800" height="224" src="https://sneakernews.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/nike-zoom-vaporfly-eliud-kipchoge-chicago-marathon-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I wonder if anyone at Newton is grinding teeth over Nike taking the forefoot lugs idea, injecting fancy foam and carbon plates, and maybe subsequently breaking the marathon with the idea.<br />
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I do also wonder how the whole thing works. A stiff plate makes your calves and ankles work harder--so Nike curved theirs, eliminating the problem. Do the forefoot pods mitigate the drop of the shoe, thus reengaging the calves while still taking advantage of the sloped plate to mitigate fatigue? That is, is this a shoe that combines the benefits of lower and higher drop shoe geometry--track spikes and conventional marathon flats, say--while decreasing the drawbacks of each? I kinda think so.<br />
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Of course, I also wonder whether anyone will be able to buy these--and for how much.<br />
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Anyway, I'm going to run the Des Moines marathon this weekend, in Altras, because I hate my calves and am one of "those" people.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-82189272866449556782019-07-24T14:54:00.004-05:002019-07-24T14:58:01.667-05:00Psycho Psummer 50K <div>
4:35:35</div>
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3rd overall</div>
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Big hills, lots of rocks, hot as hell except Dante actually said hell was cold. Maybe that was poetic licence. </div>
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Everyone used to blog about their running and now fewer people do. This is one of the agreed upon truisms in trail and ultrarunning, but I remember well enough to attest to it.<br />
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I'm 31, which is as old as I've ever been and as young as I'll ever be, and I've been in and around this weird jogging subculture for nearly a decade. To many, that won't seem very long at all. To some, it will be an impossible eternity. I realize that's saying nothing, but it's important to establish, even while I write self-indulgently, that there's nothing really unique or special about my perspective. But it's mine, and it's what I have. </div>
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I was part of what I must, somewhat irritatingly but honestly, call the<i> Born to Run</i> generation. Whether we read the book or not--I did eventually, but it was actually <i>Racing the Antelope</i> that functioned as my gateway--there was a wave that crested. People took off their shoes or wore flimsy ones and checked <i>Riding the Wind </i>every week and dreamed of 200 mile weeks and to hell with everything that wasn't volume, the knife with which you'd carve a version of yourself who only cared about forward and vertical bipedal propulsion. </div>
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That wave broke, some years ago. That, also, is an agreed upon truism. </div>
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Ultras used to be populated by the weirdos and then came the hipster weirdos and then the crossfit/OCR crowd and the marathon instagrammers and the really really fast people and now we are where we are, and if this sounds like I'm complaining I should be clear that I have no more right to a space than anyone else and everyone has been very nice to me and I hope I have been nice to them and it's all good, really. </div>
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When I told my girlfriend I wanted to do Psycho Psummer, I said it was because I needed to go home. I hope that conveys the amount of affection here accurately. </div>
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I told her, at the end of our last tempo-adjacent 15-miler, that I'd been waiting 8 years to be in the kind of shape I presently felt. Of course I was wrong about that. I had been training--not waiting--for that amount of time. I've gotten a little better several times, and that adds up. This has been a good year. Not much racing, and I haven't won anything, but: I ran my fastest Pi Day half marathon; I finally got (one second below) 17 minutes in a 5K; I trained a lot and harder than ever; and then, this race.</div>
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I was told by a very fast person once that he thought maybe, given years of hard work and some affinity for the sport, I could be a regional class ultrarunner. It was an unprompted compliment that was really just an appraisal. I remember it because I haven't really come close. I've had some success at shorter distances, and won one 50-miler, but in general I've been pretty bad at ultras. </div>
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I think Psycho Psummer is a regional class race. There was an Olympic trials marathoner there, as well as Omaha and Kansas City's best trail ultra guys. </div>
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The Omaha guy smoked me, and everyone. He finished in 4:04. </div>
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The Kansas City guy blew up once. I tried to drop him but that haymaker put me off balance, and his counterpunch put me on the mat. He beat me by ten minutes. </div>
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The trials guy walked it in, twenty minutes after me. I beat him only insofar as a vulture beats a gazelle. And it probably helped that I have a lot more practice running 9-minute miles. </div>
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I got a lot wrong, if I'm being honest. It was 100 degrees and the humidity supposedly made it feel like 115. Yet, I had no mechanism to carry ice and I outright skipped some aid stations. I ought to have run faster, but I don't think it would have altered my place any. But I think I can get in better shape next time, and the time after that, on and on and on, and then execute better. And who knows?</div>
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The thing about good races is they make you think you can have better races.</div>
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So I'd like to try. Maybe some strong local--dare I say regional?--50K fields or try for 2:45 or maybe a 100, finally, because people are tired of me wondering out loud. </div>
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I don't know; but it's good to be around and to think, as the wave goes out to sea, that I've been washed up on a pretty nice shore. And I still have my flimsy, flat shoes. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-37632014407635592262018-03-10T21:35:00.002-06:002018-03-11T15:27:23.045-05:00In which I make two references to pad the length of this post, because I don't have much to sayWe'll start with the first, because there's not much to say: <i>A Dream of Spring</i> is the book after the book that George Martin hasn't released yet in his <i>Song of Ice and Fire</i>. I haven't read it; no one has. Maybe, no one will.<br />
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Which would make the title a bit appropriate, wouldn't it? Dreams, after all, are not real. And so if it's a spring that never comes, because <i>WINTER MOTIF</i>, then... well, that still wouldn't be very satisfying. But it would be something.<br />
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I mention that because the Pi Day Half Marathon has been my "spring is nearly here" race for about seven years now. The last five, I've won it. That counts today. I felt bad, ran my slowest time of the five, but had my biggest margin. That's something, and I'm not unhappy.<br />
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There are races I race for time--on roads, with fast fields--but this isn't one. It's on a trail, it's basically 14 miles, and winning races put on by the club that's responsible for my being a runner at all carries outsized sentimental importance, admittedly.<br />
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Which brings me to my next reference, which is less of stretch.<br />
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<i>Scorn Defeat</i> is a 1993 black metal album by Sigh, a Japanese band. Maybe you've clicked play by now, and yeah, the vocals are supposed to sound like that. People who like this sort of thing like this thing in particular; you'll just have to trust me that it's considered a classic.</div>
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Anyway, my tendency is to say I don't care about winning this race or others like it--or at least, to state unequivocally that I shouldn't. To the latter point... I mean, I don't know. I tend to think caring too much about trivial things is the only respite from the irrelevance of the nominally important things in our lives. So I do care. Or rather, I care independent of whether I ought to. And I didn't want to not win. So. I have another pie plate. I don't bake. The end. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-24970856260321689062018-03-06T07:00:00.001-06:002018-03-06T08:45:31.582-06:00OrdinarilyWriter of things, Malcolm Gladwell, wrote <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/news/postscript/the-ordinary-greatness-of-roger-bannister">a thing</a> about Roger Bannister. It's a good piece, suitably quick, and makes the point that Bannister's most famous accomplishment is, well, relatively ordinary. That was the extraordinary thing about it, of course. People can understand running because, for the most part, they've done it. Probably not as well, or as fast--except fleetingly. No, 15 mph is not "that fast", except when one does it for four laps. Gladwell, being a serious runner and--the more rare breed these days--a serious running fan knows this, and appreciates it.<br />
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We can extrapolate this principle, of course. If 15 mph is not that fast, then Kipchoge's not-WR marathon pace of (let's round it) 13.1 mph is really, really not that fast. Perhaps this is what makes running such a great participatory draw, but something less than must-see television for most people--many of whom consider their own running to be a significant part of their lives.<br />
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I have never once laced a pair of ice skates, and yet I know figure skating is hard, because the immediate aesthetic impression conveys as much. More than that, it conveys it quickly, kinetically, and artistically. Put another way: It looks cool, and you can fit the coolest looking parts in a GIF, or a tweeted video. You can say the same thing for soccer, basketball, and football; hell, the NFL combine produces more "viral content" than many sports, and it's just guys working out. Not that that isn't quality content too. Spend a little time on Instagram, and it becomes clear, quickly, how Crossfit athletes and bodybuilders are able to take advantage of the visual medium.<br />
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There are runners too, of course, and I've watched my share of rhythmic, sinewy striding. But I'm a geek about this shit, and also drawn to the projectable aspect. I'm a not-awful runner, though my knees point a bit, sometimes my left hip drops and the ankle below tilts; but what if my arms tightened, my elbows drove back, and my feet struck the ground with perfect, glancing grace? It's impossible, but... not. At least, not in the realm of imagination.<br />
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If Gladwell's hypothetical fit person might consider Bannister's 15 mph and note that they can reach it, that same person might watch one of the myriad ultrarunning videos and note that, for the length of time any elite is on camera, they probably can do what is being documented. Seven minute pace, let's say, is just not that fast; and it never really gets fast, except in the extreme.<br />
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Which is the weird thing--well, a weird thing--about ultras, and marathons too, because if we dismiss naming conventions, marathons are kinda ultras, physiologically/psychologically, for most people. They are easy to grasp in some ways, which makes them more impossible in others. Everything about them is easy, until it becomes impossible. And there is, as I mentioned in my Rocky pace report, no knowing except knowing; but even that fails. Frank Shorter talked about this, about how you have to forget every marathon to run another, and the "I'm never running again!" proclamations, after a first 100, are famous--until they sign up for another. Maybe it's appropriate that the whole endeavor defies complete cognitive embrace, because it is, y'know, dumb as hell.<br />
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I don't have a thesis, obviously, or a conclusion. I remember thinking I could run 50 miles at nine-minute pace, because that was slow, until I tried it... and tried it... and then did it. Maybe that's the most relatable thing about Bannister, then--not the 15 mph, but the ability to project one's self forward, and the capacity to believe in something stupid. But that begins to sound like a thesis, or a conclusion, or like I have, as everyone on the internet does, "thoughts" in the worst way. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-24340659433910523642018-02-09T14:44:00.000-06:002018-02-09T14:54:20.408-06:00Rocky Raccoon Pace ReportShort version: My cousin ran 23:12:48 in her first 100, second ultra, and I'm very glad to have been there. <br />
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Maybe that's enough? It's not my race, after all, and so--in many respects--not my story. But I'll indulge a little, because everyone gets a platform, and this is mine.<br />
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The long version could start in a truck, a couple medium-long trail runs she and I shared a few months ago, or maybe a few years back, in the breakfast area of a Colby, KS Holiday Inn, after I'd returned from splitting a headwind--both ways, I swear--for three hours. This is a way of saying I might be one of--though not the most prominent--the reasons she runs in the first place, and maybe it's important to establish that, because people always begin with the why.<br />
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I mean, Billy Yang just posted a movie talking about it, named after that phenomenon, and people were talking about it all around the race. Hundreds are dumb, but people do them--about twice as many try and fail, including me--and so that impetus becomes a curiosity, not just to those who "Don't even like to drive that far!" but to those who get it themselves.<br />
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This is what people mean when they talk about starting stories at the beginning. It goes beyond simple chronological comfort, and is more about the instigating action. That is, why this book, this movie, this race, right now? You could have written about anything, or spent your weekend either running normal distances or doing something decidedly less extremely bipedal.<br />
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So. I don't know. It would make a better story if I somehow caused all of this, and then paced the last 50. People like stories that bring things back around, as it were. But I already said this isn't my story, not really, and so I can't write it a certain way, and I don't know why she signed up for the race, or ran the volume she did in training.<br />
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But then, I also kind of do, and you probably do as well, if you've chanced upon this. The world is big and beyond our control, but some sliver of it does belong to us, and so every day--or nearly so--we make ourselves do this thing, a statement of control where we otherwise lack so much. Sometimes, we seek the limits of that power, whether in terms of speed, distance, or at the confluence of the two.<br />
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This is to say: It's not something she could explain to me, nor could I foist an explanation on her, but we were understood. I think that matters. I would say "mattered" except the pacing was not the thing, so much as a manifestation of it. The thing is the mileage and the race and everyone standing around and pissing in the woods and bleeding and cursing and dying and living. The thing is understanding and home, honesty and pain, honesty <i>in</i> pain.<br />
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But I mean, I was just there. Living it, in part, and breathing it in. Getting it. But I haven't been on the other side of 50, myself, and now she has. Maybe you know what it's like, and so she and you could nod at one another and know, while also knowing that you no longer know, because the experience is the moment, and memory fleeting fictions.<br />
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So, yeah. I was there. I jogged in the woods and we got it done and I've said a lot but only circuitously. The thing is the thing in the middle around which words circle but cannot encompass. The thing is what happened. Near as I can tell, this is how it went.<br />
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Miles 1-25 passed in the faint drizzle, the kind of omni-directional wet that can hardly be called raining. She ran it all, not because she thought it was wise to do so, but because she knew she would. If that seems circular, well, it wasn't a looped course, so I can't even make that metaphor. Still, she had trained to run, and run a lot, and so she wanted to run. 25 miles was not far and it passed in 4:33:09. Easy.<br />
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Miles 26-50 were a different kind of wet, the kind with both direction--down--and intent. Standing at an aid station, I watched the runners come, checking the bottoms of their shoes for mud, the backs of their calves for splatter. There was some of each, then more. I cursed too much. Still, she ran the whole thing again, this time in 5:00:32. The mud had slowed her a little, and now she was willing to walk a little, too. It might be tempting to say this pacing was a mistake, but it was not done in error. She knew she couldn't run the whole way. She still wanted to run the first half. She knew people would tell her that was a bad idea. Still, her race, she did what she wanted, always mindful of what the consequences might be.<br />
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Miles 51-75 were slower, 6:25:13. We walked a bit, mostly where the dirt road sections, which--frustratingly--would have been easy running otherwise, were sloppy and slippery. For the first half, we talked a lot. For the second half, we were almost silent. The next to last aid station--Damnation, it was called--preceded a long and lonely out and back, at the far end of which you had to check in. It got dark, and it would be tempting, here, to extrapolate from that and suggest her spirits fell correspondingly. That wasn't it, though. It was a bonk. Mundane as can be. The check in point had only gels and Tailwind, both of which her stomach had rejected earlier in the day, and she wasn't willing to try them again. She also hadn't brought much food from Damnation, and I hadn't insisted, not knowing what the next not-quite aid station was like. I was, as you'd expect, not thrilled with myself. Nine miles on the wrong end of a 100, without calories, will put you in a ditch. Damnation was Salvation, though. Potatoes and any concentrated carb she could chew and we were slopping back towards a stretch of relatively dry and runnable trail. I was curious to see if she would recover--physically and otherwise--well enough to run, because that would go a long way in deciding what this race would be. She got better, and quickly. We ran a lot of the last eight or so miles.<br />
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Miles 76-100 took 7:13:54, owing to more and slower walking, much of it careful. The challenge, of course, was determining how much pushing was wise, given that a finish was essentially a given--barring injury--and sub-24 didn't exactly require hammering. I spent most of this loop a few yards in front of her, keyed in on the sound of footsteps. I'd jog when she did; I'd walk when she walked. Some pacers, I know, take more of an impetus, but I thought this the right course for this race at this time. Every aid station communicated the--relative!--ease with which she'd dip under 24, and it didn't strike me as the usual "You got this!" platitudes. It was math. If we were moving, and ran at all, it would happen. And she did run, what felt like more miles to me than the time suggests. Maybe I was getting tired, I'm not sure, though I certainly never felt it. There's a kind of focus you get when racing, and different--but no less acute--kind you get when someone else's race somewhat depends on you. I was, thus, pretty goddamn hyper, and intent to make sure the previous loop's bonk wasn't repeated. It wasn't. Damnation passed for the last time, and there was only the matter of running to the last aid station, where her dad and brother were waiting. They told me after that the time between runners was astonishing, more so even than I'd warned them it would be. (They were both surprised how much of the--to them--crazy phenomenon I'd predicted. Predictably, I was not surprised, and wasn't surprised about my lack of surprise. There's no knowing until you know.) Still, once there, we didn't take long. We had 1:45 or so to cover four miles, so it was--for all practical purposes--done. Or it seemed that way to me. She hurt, and pain demands present attention, so we weren't going to be done until we were done. We ran most of the way. She asked if this was smart: "What if I roll an ankle and have to crawl to the finish?" I just said that nothing about a 100 was smart, and we should do whatever felt good. Noting my poor word choice, she said nothing felt good, so it might as well get done faster. In any case, if she had to crawl, she'd do that. She didn't have to, though.<br />
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Done in 23:12:48<br />
<br />
-----<br />
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We ran a mile Monday morning, and apart from some swollen ankles, she felt fine. Happy with her performance and execution, and what it had done to her. Too much running early? Maybe, but her eyes were open. Trouble with engineered nutrition and the bulk of solid food needed to manage 100 miles? Yeah, but she'd seen that coming as well. These were things to improve without additional fitness, which makes them attractive, maybe even easy (or at least simple). Even while talking about how she'd do better, she said she wasn't eager to try another. Still, there was enthusiasm in her speculation, and the only way to know is to know. She has a Western States ticket now, at least, and it will go in the lottery. If her 2% manifests, that speculation will no longer be idle, and I'll get to see the last half of a pretty famous course.<br />
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Regardless, this was one of the more satisfying things I've ever been a part of. And no matter what happens, she's done a 100, and done it in less than 24-hours. That isn't going away. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-73202485337239968202017-12-16T12:54:00.003-06:002017-12-16T12:54:48.312-06:0012/16/17<a href="https://t.co/IOClSkelYw">This is worth your time. </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-9476623902635626632017-12-08T13:23:00.002-06:002017-12-08T20:21:19.292-06:0012/8/17I have declined to write here for a while, both because I lack a keyboard at home and because Real Life made writing mostly about hobby running seem more trivial than it already does. I won't say more about the latter, not for now, because addressing it at all would seem flippant in a way even this dismissal does not.<br />
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About the running: I have done it. This will be the first year since I adopted this hobby in which I haven't completed a marathon or ultra--you might phrase that as "failed to complete", though I don't think of it that way. I've had a lot of good runs, some with several people much faster than me. That's good. Hurting for a couple days after an "easy ten" probably implies a degree of fitness has been earned; but also, it tells you where you are in the world. Not that I don't know; but there is knowing and then there is knowing. Calves that feel like gas station beef jerky looks hold a special wisdom, I think.<br />
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I raced on a track for the first time in my life, at 29 years old. I did so for five minutes, which was a second or five longer than I'd wanted to spend, as much as the novelty appealed. Road races are spread horizontally, and trail races are often lonely. The track was claustrophobic, the centrifugal force of the oval creating a permanent tension. Of course, mile pace also feels like shit. I liked it though--or rather, I liked training for it. I only came to running at 23, after spending my college years focused on aesthetics driven weight lifting, with the elliptical for "cardio". So it makes sense that I would still enjoy short bursts of intense effort, with a minute or two between. Weight lifting helps with this stuff too; though in truth I've kept at that anyway, and I'm really terrible at it.<br />
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I got third in the Thanksgiving Day 5K, beating a couple guys I don't beat. Passing them was strange, insofar as passing at all is a statement of intent. "I'm going to beat you," essentially. And as I said, I don't beat these guys. But they blew up badly, so I did. 17:10 was enough to do the job, which it wouldn't have been in any other year that I can remember--but this line of thinking tends towards an irritating degree of self effacing digression. I was happy with the time. I was happier still with this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhto664A6_aQhO0ysUxQ_O16eg0BI25zkL1bIKNAiM_GkYSjV4Gfv_4JEBEHAHrKplTVh4cW81AjIY1Wuw8469YcqAco5Gkei-NioKBWT2rgmWf73RS0Dpt6aeajg5gfGwSL5WhJnjcus/s1600/37720217165_35b15cd625_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhto664A6_aQhO0ysUxQ_O16eg0BI25zkL1bIKNAiM_GkYSjV4Gfv_4JEBEHAHrKplTVh4cW81AjIY1Wuw8469YcqAco5Gkei-NioKBWT2rgmWf73RS0Dpt6aeajg5gfGwSL5WhJnjcus/s400/37720217165_35b15cd625_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My hair looks stupid; I’m “in the bucket”; my q angle is terrible; and I didn't catch second, but I nearly did. I'd be happier if I had, of course; but I didn't expect to, not at the time. So I'm happy because I tried anyway, and it nearly worked. I don't kick well, I've always said; but I closed a few yards rather quickly here. And once again, the important thing is in the choosing. It's easy to run slower--or at least, to not run faster. That's sort of how this racing thing is decided. There is fitness, of course; but as important is the fitness you're willing to access and expend. People ran faster--that guy among them--and certainly many, many people can run faster; but I fucked myself up, and that's satisfying.<br />
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Running is weird, that way. In most sports, you hurt the other person. Maybe I should say I dislike those things, but that wouldn't be honest. Concerns about barbarity and concussions and rampant financial malpractice--I could go on--aside, I like watching football, boxing, etc. On Saturday, for the first time ever, two Olympic Gold Medalist boxers will fight as professionals. I'm excited to watch, although the only way to guarantee victory is for one man to inflict severe brain damage on the other person, such that they're unresponsive for at least a count of ten. Running doesn't ask you to do that to others, or to yourself. Certainly there is pressure when someone near you begins to speed up; but you can just abstain from following. If you fail, no one hurts you. In fact you have to choose the hurting yourself in order to increase your chances of success.<br />
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It's easy to take this too far, I know. God knows the hyperbole devoted to violent sports, and to running as well. I flailed at the finish, and it doesn't matter, ultimately, not in the way that real things do. But there is significance to be found within that apparent nihilism. That is, if a thing doesn't matter, then choosing it anyway might. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-58327412469106652822017-05-08T10:01:00.002-05:002017-05-08T10:44:26.529-05:00<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "elizabethserif" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://deadspin.com/nikes-two-hour-long-eliud-kipchoge-documentary-was-beau-1794984200">It was the Kipchoge show. The commentators blathered endlessly about Nike science, but that all went out the window the minute the camera focused on Kipchoge. Nike’s gimmickry did little for the other two unfortunates, which was driven home like a knife with every velvet step Kipchoge took. Flying on after 30K, faster than any human had ever run, it was increasingly clear that this part, going over the wall where the strain on mind and body must have been excruciating, this was about one extraordinary athlete. The shoes, all that, had fallen away, useless, silly. What was happening was not Nike-made, and had very little retail potential. It cannot be reproduced on others. Though no doubt unintended, Nike produced a two-hour opus by Kipchoge, on Kipchoge.</a></span><br />
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I like this article, mostly. But man, there is immense retail potential in everything on display there. If you don't think tons of "I need to break X:XX:XX" marathoners will drop $250 for those shoes... well, I'd say I have something to sell you, but sadly, I don't. In any case, it's not gear vs narrative. Generating "good feelings" among potential customers has value, beyond "these shoes will make you faster." In any other sport, would highlighting the greatness of a sponsored athlete, to near universal acclaim, be considered bad for the brand?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-60181948499256587972017-04-05T12:21:00.001-05:002017-04-05T13:33:07.406-05:00In case you don't check sports illustrated for running news<a href="https://www.si.com/edge/2017/04/05/joyciline-jepkosgei-half-marathon-world-record-training-coach-nicholas-koech">Inside look: Joyciline Jepkosgei’s training ahead of half marathon world record finish</a><br />
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Nothing, I suspect, that will surprise you too much. A <a href="https://twitter.com/adharanand/status/849672659470352384">twitter thread</a> by a couple people who would know say this is pretty much what everyone does in Iten. The difference, it is suggested, between it and "western training" is using the long run as a harder session, rather than accumulating extended time on feet for its own sake, and keeping in touch with faster stuff--even track work--while training for longer races. To be fair, I think that idea has infiltrated training thought on this continent to a significant degree. Even mainstream online calculators suggest a long run pace that's a little faster than your easy pace, these days, regardless of target distance, and significant work at marathon or half pace is par for many courses.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-71341818567338313932017-03-21T13:56:00.003-05:002017-03-21T13:57:09.062-05:00<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #14171a; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>There are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the true method.</i></span></span></blockquote>
So begins Chapter 82 of Moby Dick, a slog of a book about an ultimately futile pursuit, chronicled with spectacularly granular detail, yet with a scale and reverence bordering on religious. <br />
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(Sound like anything else?)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-8325446592992460962017-03-17T21:13:00.002-05:002017-03-17T21:13:34.567-05:005:10 road mile. Not what I wanted, the two climbs, the wind, yada yada. There are always reasons not to have run faster. Anyway, some things.<br />
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Swimming teaches this well, but so does fast running: faster ain't harder, faster is faster. Tense and flail and you're not going to have a good time.<br />
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A guy ran 4:20, who was close to sub-4 at KU, a couple years ago. That looks really fast, up "close".<br />
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I talked to a lot of people. I never need reminded that this is a great running community, but I like to be all the same.<br />
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So, it was fun. I'm enjoying running and racing right now. That's a boring sentence, but it's true.<br />
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Oh, also: my ankle feels fine. Weirdly, only volume seems to agitate it. I can run for over an hour at any pace, no problem. Close to 90 minutes, though...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-81328287275833315962017-03-13T07:14:00.002-05:002017-03-13T10:56:33.294-05:002017 Pi Day HalfSo I did win, after all. Sometimes you wake up feeling good, and it's all pretty easy. Those are good days, and I'm growing increasingly comfortable with my relative inability to predict them--much less conjure them. Still, Winter in March, a cold wind ripping through the trees, snow falling during the last mile... I'll take all of that, whenever I can get it. In general, I really do just love this race. It's very, very local; virtually the entire field is Lawrence, not even "greater Kansas City", but there's something to be said for intimate, family-reunion type races.<br />
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Some things:<br />
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My workouts have been road/track exclusive for the past few months, and it will never not be shocking how much slower real trail running actually is. 1:28:35, 6:46 pace, is still conversational--and yet the legs have to navigate banked trail, 180-degree turns, and of course, hills. The course was designed for mountain bike racing, so it really is the turns that stand out. There are a lot of them, and many are quite acute. So, my hips and ankles feel it.<br />
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I wore the Nike Zoom Streak XC, which didn't help in the "keep the legs feeling fresh" department. Too little shoe for a half, and I don't really know what I was thinking, since I've never gone past 10K in them. They did allow for this cool picture, though.<br />
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Anyway I've got a road mile on Friday, which has only one turn, but it's 180-degrees, right in the middle, which should be horrible but fun in a masochistic sort of way. There will be very fast people who will pull impossibly far away, given the distance, and it will not be conversational. I'll probably find something to say after the fact, though.<br />
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Training--more or less--for that and racing this half, I'm still in a place where I can imagine a perfectly fulfilled running life racing only within those margins. I'd expected some lingering disappointment at not having finished my attempt at a 100, but there's nothing. I still don't care what my road marathon PR is, either. But I do care that I can pop my ankle like most people pop their knuckles, right where I sprained it last fall. It gets sore, too, every so often, and I'm beginning to suspect it'll just be one of this "things" most runners eventually get--lingering not-quite injuries that nag perpetually. That anxiety--granted, of course one can get hurt training for and racing shorter distances--combined with my present fondness for harder running means that, while I have nothing like a goal moving forward, I know roughly what I'm going to be doing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-20113519338687682022017-03-09T12:59:00.002-06:002017-03-09T22:36:13.739-06:00Pi is not endless--though we cannot articulate the border after which the stream of numbers dries up, such a point must exist. Namely, Pi is between 3.1 and 3.2, and there is a point where 3.2 becomes 3.2; so, anything that was something else before that must cease, in order to bring about the immutable reality of 3.2. Perpetuity is not, in this case, possible, though the post-decimal notation is so long as to <i>seem </i>infinite.<br />
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Half marathons, though, are a determined distance, and the time it takes one to traverse that mileage is equally measurable. So too is it possible to grant numbers and even values to the order in which one accomplishes this.<br />
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So, there is a Pi Day Half Marathon this weekend, and I'm running it for the 5th time, hopefully faster than ever before, and faster than anyone else for the 4th consecutive year. I've run with the guy most likely to threaten this outcome once a week for about 6 years, which is a lot of miles, a lot of time, though I don't count either habitually.<br />
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The distance and the terrain are at a(n un)comfortable intersection of our abilities. Me: 5'10, 145 lbs, with a 30 inch inseam and tendency, lately, for short, fast, and hard work. I've really targeted a road mile, which is in another week. Him: 5'11, 125 lbs, with a 34 inch inseam and a tendency to tempo everything everyday. He probably has a couple marathons a month for the next few years, though I don't know for certain. I'd intended that as hyperbole when I typed it, but I have to say it might not be. Taken together: If it were a shorter race, I'd win; if it were longer, he would.<br />
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It's gonna be a race, though, and it's going to hurt quite a bit, which is not an easily quantifiable thing.<br />
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Other things:<br />
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--I've tried to read less training things. Fiction makes for better mental health, which tends to positively impact training anyway. I'm probably going to violate this condition regardless, since I always do.<br />
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--I swam 1000 meters last night. I've done this a few times recently. I don't have any interest in doing a triathlon. (Really.) It simply struck me that I'm not very good at it, that I probably couldn't manage a mile if I had to, and that bothered me. Admittedly, this is a bit stupid, but total incompetence in any physical capacity bothers me. I try to maintain a five rep max on the bench of at least my bodyweight, and a (also five-rep) deadlift of 1.5 times it. Neither mark is impressive in any conventional sense, but it feels vaguely and arbitrarily enough. Taken all together, this post could sound very Crossfit-inclined. I'm not, though, promise. I just figure I'm not a good enough runner to justify being awful at everything else. If it sounds like I'm a somewhat unfocused exerciser who mostly focuses on running but is not as dedicated to being a <i>runner </i>as he could be, well, that's probably true, and also ok.<br />
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--I was a barista for a long time--this was a reasonably well trafficked coffee blog, years ago, hence the name--and so qualify as a coffee snob by most metrics. For cheap office coffee, though, Dunkin' Donuts and 8 o'clock are perfectly adequate. I'm drinking a lot of cheap office coffee, lately.<br />
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--I tried to see if I could make a top 10 list of my favorite albums of 2016. I made it to 35. I don't know how anyone pares it down to such a fine edge. I've basically indulged in old black and death metal since.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-10678510001778339082017-01-09T14:29:00.001-06:002017-01-09T14:50:45.810-06:00I have intended, at various times, to write about what I have done, am doing, might do--and I have of course done none of those things, for various reasons.<br />
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I do have some thoughts, though, which are not terribly organized, but I will share now, because I'm bored at work, and have done enough to feel this is not a terrible dereliction of duty. <br />
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--My ankle is fine now. It would be cool to isolate a variable here, and say "This is the fix." I've done several things, however. 1) Barefoot single-leg balancing, every morning and every night. I'm awful at it, but less awful than I was. That's probably something. 2) Keeping easy runs no longer than 10 miles, and usually only 40-60 minutes. I've a tendency to gravitate towards everything being medium long, medium effort, when left to my own devices. (Yes, the classic recreational runner problem. We are all unique in the same ways.) That's not great, except, maybe, for what some folks might call base building.<br />
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--I'd argue, however, that it's probably not optimal for that either. (Once you can tolerate frequent, steady running, at least.) Or rather, I wouldn't argue it, because people get fanatical about such things. But it strikes me that--especially for those runners who, like me, don't have a real athletic background to draw on--all paces are "basic"--or, to borrow from Canova, fundamental.<br />
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--To that end, my volume is a bit lower, though I don't ever count it. Probably 55 or 60 miles a week, instead of 70-80. But, I'm doing bits of mile, 5-10K, half-full marathon pace work every week, plus some strides and true sprints. My long run is only 90-120 minutes. Perhaps that sounds like more of a sharpening phase, but I'm only really dabbling in all of it. It's all a little hard--but only a little--I'm not tasting copper twice a week. This is, again, perhaps a bit Canova-by-way-of-Magness, in the "never leave anything behind" sense. There is no race in which it's better to be weak and slow, so I'm trying to improve all those things, at least a little. I'm willing to be patient.<br />
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--Speaking of patience: I don't think I could race a good marathon or ultra off of this, so I'm not going to try. I'd like to get stronger, faster, etc., before trying again. Maybe that will be this fall, maybe it will be never. I'm honestly not concerned. I've completed 14 marathons/ultras, (I think, although can't recall, which should tell you something) so I'm not interested in limping across another finish line. For everything but the 100, that's done. I'd like to go a bit faster, in the meantime. If I can't race it, I'm not interested.<br />
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--I should say, also, that I'm enjoying this quite a bit. I'm not fast enough for people that make socks to give me free things, so this is really all that matters.<br />
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--I've done a few harder runs which make me thing this is all working pretty well.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-63327292919107422382016-12-14T14:55:00.002-06:002016-12-14T14:55:50.625-06:00On debate judging, subjective performance, w/ autobiographical digressionsI believe I've mentioned this before, but if not: I didn't (really) play any sports in high school. I did try, a little, freshman and sophomore years, but to basically no effect. I was only about 5'11, 170 lbs, and I ran the third slowest mile in gym of all the ~60 guys in my graduating class. I think it was around 14 minutes, which... isn't actually running, at all, because I couldn't do more than jog for about thirty seconds without getting winded. All of this is to say, I wasn't big, fast, and had no demonstrable endurance. I also couldn't hit a baseball, or, y'know... do anything athletic with any real proficiency.<br />
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But I could talk a lot, reasonably well, and there was a competitive outlet for that: Debate. Suddenly, I was good at something. It was odd, but I think, in hindsight, quite necessary. There's a place for hard-learned lessons--but a little confidence isn't the worst thing in the world, either. So I went from the guy who would basically hide during practice, to someone who expected to win everything, all the time. I went from being afraid to compete, to embracing it. Senior year, my partner and I were undefeated when negative (the negative duo is tasked with arguing against the stated plan, which the affirmative proposes and then attempts to support), placed in every tournament I entered, then finished third at state.<br />
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I've judged quite a few tournaments since then, including national qualifiers this past weekend. If I'm being honest, this has less to do with whatever success I might have had as a speaker, and more to do with the fact that I'm a living, breathing adult, willing to show up. Turns out, not many are willing to give up Saturdays to hear teenagers shout about Chinese missile proliferation at 100 mph.<br />
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I am, though, less because it's fun--though it... sort of is--than because I value the experience. It mattered a great deal to me, and so I want to help get it right.<br />
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Of course that does raise the perpetual question: What the hell is "right" in a purely subjective competitive endeavor? The team that wins is the team that convinced you they won, essentially; but that's logic so circular as to be functionally useless. There are various paradigms that take aim at some slice of objectivity; a judge might state their preference towards pretending to be a policy maker, or focusing on stock issues, etc. Or maybe they just go with who sounds the best. It really does vary, and with very few exceptions, the judges don't share these preferences before the round. So the debaters are left to compete without really knowing how score is going to be kept. If that sounds anxiety inducing... it really, really is. And yet, the better teams tend to perform consistently, which suggests the whole thing isn't as arbitrary as it sounds.<br />
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Still, it seems incredibly strange when compared to my present competitive focus--running, which I am generally less awful at now than I was during my teenage years. Debaters can--and basically always do--feel aggrieved when handed a loss; but the time you run is the time you run, and there can be very little argument about it. Racing is, perhaps, the most honest thing there is. Debate is... well, not. You don't lie--at least not often, or blatantly--but you spend a great deal of time arguing things you don't believe, using evidence you know damn well to be biased, cherry-picked, etc.<br />
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I'm really only interested in noting the difference between the two things, and not issuing judgment on their respective qualities. Both have benefits, and I enjoy both for what they are. Not the hottest of takes, but that's probably ok.<br />
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A note on my running, speaking of: I'm not injured! That's really the best part. I have some tentative race plans, and perhaps a rather audacious goal. I'd rather not write it out yet, though, lest I look like an idiot. (I am still, after all, not quite so confident in my running. Near the beginning of every race, some part of me is convinced my body will just revert to 16, and I'll face-plant 800 meters in. A slightly less extreme version of this anxiety manifests after basically every poor training run, also. So if it seems I'm cynical and/or negative about my running sometimes, well, it's because I am.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-82702167762011593572016-11-24T16:00:00.002-06:002016-11-24T16:00:49.104-06:00I ran 18 flat, and I suspect tweaked whatever is happening with my foot a little more. Trying to run a 5K without landing on the outside of your forefoot is weird, turns out.<br />
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Anyway, a cool thing happened. I suspect you'll recognize <a href="https://results.chronotrack.com/m/ctlive/#22764/race/55706">first and third overall.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-75948741604355650222016-11-22T00:56:00.001-06:002016-11-22T07:42:27.319-06:00I'm typing this on my phone, so please excuse any poor penmanship. I wrote something needlessly verbose this morning, but then deleted it. It was pretty terrible, so that's a good thing.<br />
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Which is, sort of, what I was getting at. Maybe. A little. Some things are good and some things are bad and there is great beauty and horror and love and pain and, well, you know.<br />
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My sprained ankle recovered, and I raced well for a bit, which is good. Now there's a pretty large and tender bruise on the outside of my left foot*, though, which is bad. I will tell myself it's not really bad, of course, because I'm stubborn and frankly unwilling to confront the reality that I seem to get hurt quite a bit, and I don't know why. Three stress fractures and two sprained ankles in the last four years is a bad record by any objective standard, though, I do know that. But it's a thing I consciously ignore despite that knowledge, because I don't have enough other hobbies, maybe, and I do genuinely like this jogging thing. Also, bikes are expensive and racing them looks like a literal pain in the ass.<br />
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Anyway I'm 28 years old and maybe have the tendon integrity and bone density of someone thrice my age, I don't know. But I'm a bit grouchy about it at the moment, of that I'm certain.<br />
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But all runners are hurt all the time, and most don't ever get a fist bump from Billy Mills after a 10K run on the college cross country course named for him, a genuinely grassy, hilly affair, which snaked around Haskell Indian Nations University, the college in Lawrence you perhaps haven't heard of. This was a lovely race, and he said something nice, that I ran well or something, and I felt that I did okay after all, 38 minutes and thirteen seconds on a real course, but still soundly thrashed by three guys, all of whom would have been dusted by Mills himself, who was--on one day at the very least--the fastest man in the world at that distance. This is to say, we all accepted our awards gratefully, if a bit sheepishly.<br />
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Anyway. That was a good day.<br />
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Of course, good and bad in running is relative, because the real world has real problems and really profound moments of hope in that choking miasma. You know this already, though. And of course, though emotional energy is finite, we can care about several things. I can be mad at my foot, and also at literal goddamn Nazis delighting in their ascendancy in 2016 America, a Native protestor losing her arm on a night when her compatriots were hosed with water, the very subsatance Flint still doesn't have. To say etc would seem flippant--and I know even the remarks I did make are cursory, lacking detail--but of course I could go on forever. It has always been tbus, though. Which is not a cry for complacency--Sisyphus pushes the boulder, even though he must never make progress. So too, I would suggest, ought progress towards an equitable and just society be pursued, because it's right, not because it's promised to work. What does that goal look like? And what is needed to get there? I won't presume to tell you that--which is not to say I know myself. But I know, while we're talking about Sisyphus, that Camus ultimately concluded he must be happy. At least he never had any stress fractures.<br />
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*Morning update: I'm pretty certain the foot actually is ok. Good thing I wrote about it anyway, though.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-43742329259891414212016-10-18T10:12:00.001-05:002016-10-18T10:12:43.637-05:00Some interesting studies to bother you<h2 style="background-color: white; clear: both; font-family: Arial, Verdana, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 7px; padding: 0px;">
<a href="http://journals.lww.com/acsm-msse/Fulltext/2016/11000/The_Effect_of_Different_High_Intensity.12.aspx">The Effect of Different High-Intensity Periodization Models on Endurance Adaptations</a></h2>
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<a href="http://journals.lww.com/acsm-msse/Abstract/2016/11000/Altered_Running_Economy_Directly_Translates_to.13.aspx">Altered Running Economy Directly Translates to Altered Distance-Running Performance</a></h2>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8467998390384387670.post-69715099473806059492016-10-11T12:36:00.004-05:002016-10-11T13:17:56.724-05:00<a href="https://www.solereview.com/nike-air-zoom-pegasus-33-review/">A very useful review of a shoe I own</a>. I'd add that I find the heel counter a bit high and a bit abrasive, and the upper is warmer than I'd like. But otherwise I'm pleased with it. People who like this sort of thing will find this the sort of thing they like.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0