Shots to Miles

A one-to-one ratio of espresso to miles provided not as interesting of a day as you might expect, proof enough that even the most staunch of advocates sometimes misses the high, yet still chases.

Sometimes, you taste more shots because the first two were shit. Sometimes, you drink more because that sushi left you in a coma, and it's 11:30. And then, what's another two? These actually taste good, after all. And then another two for the road, of course, all the better to prepare for the miles to come.

And then those miles. You here about this supposed runner's high, a thing you've perhaps experienced, but more likely, missed. People tell me that often, suggesting that they must be doing it wrong. I don't think that's the case. I simply think that sometimes things aren't fun. The people we love sometimes agitate us, and the things we love sometimes fail to give us the elation we seek.

Sometimes, the miles suck. Your legs never loosen, and those knots in both your calves only tighten. The concrete hurts more than usual, and someone yells something vaguely insulting, probably, but you couldn't really hear for sure, from their car.

But you go on. You click off the miles, one at a time, because the miles don't care about what hurts, or about your various anxieties or neurosis. The miles are a great cosmic apathy, immune to the desires of the petty humans who would measure themselves thusly. They are a cold, infinite mountain, the faces of which people will eternally scale, no summit to seek.

The miles don't care, but you do, and so you go on. You finish, eat, and write about it. You go to bed and dream of the shots and miles to come, the shots and miles that as of yet can all be perfect, profound.  You chase the horizon, and in that pursuit, there is meaning.

Pi Day Half Marathon

Shortest race report ever: I ran well and got second, through a light mist, bare trees, and budding green everywhere. It felt like a fairy tale laced with the copper tang of lactic acid. I finished and felt like this.

The Forge

I have raced again, for the first time in a while, and the lucidity that only maximal exertion can get you made clear to me several things.

First, this: I am neither as strong nor as fast as I want to be. And this will always be the case.

Then, this: There is a sense in which I love running, the specific act. But more wholly and honestly, I love training. I love having a rock of purpose at the center of my life, and breaking myself over it, to be remade stronger, better, faster. Running is the fire; training is the forge in which we purposefully recast ourselves.

Training means doing things that you don't want to do. It means lung searing and muscle aching. It means waking up and feeling stiffness and soreness in places and ways young men of supposedly good health and fitness should not. It means not stopping when stopping seems like the greatest thing in the entire world, when no one would know but you. But you would know. And you do know that these are the sorts of things you have to do in order to be the kind of runner - the kind of soul crushing RACER - that you want to be.

Finally, this: My foot is healthy now, and my motivation is too. Thus it is time to resuming training in earnest. It is time to submerge myself in oxygen debt and swim in lactic acid, to run laps around the deepest circles of hell.

I cannot tell you how happy it makes me just to type this. I am giddy. Elated. Ecstatic. Anticipatory. There are words for things like this, but none sufficient. You just have to know.

Psyco Wyco 10 Mile Trail Race Report

I am standing at the start, quite cold, looking to my left. There is the man who will win the race, I think, based on everything I know about him and the field. I try to gauge how he looks and can only discern: cold as well. I look for others who have an aesthetic of speed, trying to gauge who might go hard, and with whom I will have to reckon.

I am twitching and bounding and skipping and doing things that might be called a warm up, but really, are just an expression of nervous energy. I have not really raced in months, spending that time half training, half recovering from injury. I am healthy now but not terribly fit. My training has been decent, in terms of recreational volume, but has lacked anything resembling intensity. I have taken only a handful of trips to anaerobic hell, content to cross train and leisurely run hills instead. And so I am nervous, because a race well run requires a degree of pain I have not calloused myself to.

I look across the field and know that there are ten miles and several thousand feet of ascent/descent there, thick with mud, and I don't quite know what I'm going to do about it. It's a silly thing to wonder, of course, because there is only one thing to do: Run like hell. Whatever fitness I've got is what I've got, so let's fucking see where it gets me.

3... 2... 1

I am bounding near the front, conscious of the fact that only 200 yards in, I'm huffing. I let the leader go, and several follow. Two more surge past me and I think that they are racing far too early. This is the first hill of the course, and quite small comparatively. Surging here is either inexperience or hubris. I count my steps, keep my head down, and try to ignore the competitive voice in my head that's screaming to keep the leaders in sight.

I am successful and hit the first aid station in 5th place. I tell myself that this is a good thing, that this is where I should be right now. I tell myself that I will reel in 4th, then 3rd, then see what happens.

4th is wearing blue Adidas shorts that I own but am not wearing today, and blue Kinvaras. They are caked with mud and his cadence is slowing. He asks me how far we've gone, and is obviously dejected when I say that it's not yet been 3 miles. Moments later he steps to the side and lets me pass. I surge just a bit, trying to dissuade him from making any effort to chase. The switchbacks make for comical cutting, and I grab at trees for stability.

3rd is wearing black and has a bottle on his waist. He is 20 yards ahead of me, and appears to be comfortable. I am breathing hard and could not answer clearly if you asked what my name was, but I will not let him get further away. When possible I run on the fringe of the trail, hoping to find some purchase and keep my turnover respectable. When the hills appear, there is nothing to do but spin, and so I do, trying to drive my heels down and engage the posterior chain.

Having gained nothing, we descend a series of steep switchbacks. I fall and a tree branch goes up my shorts. This is very nearly a disaster but I only take mud away from the exchange. There is a clearing next, and the race's longest climb; half is on grass and half is on pavement. By the top of the hill he is looking back, and I am there, right there; I could talk to him comfortably if my breathing would allow.

I think that I have him then, that he has gone out too fast and that I have reeled him in. I am quickly disabused of that notion when the singletrack begins again. He sprints down the hill, so narrow and slick as to resemble a luge, with speed and agility I have neither the skill nor the heart for. I am vaguely aware that there are rocks underneath me and think that I would rather not die here today.

He is gone. I am running still, pulling myself up hills with bungee cords and maintaining decent pace on the flats. I am either gaining confidence on the downhill portions or simply losing whatever shit I was giving previously. But I can no longer see 3rd. Neither, however, can 5th see me. I don't know who occupies that spot now, but am glad for that fact; I don't want to know until the race is over.

I am resigned to my place with 2.5 miles to go, though still churning up hills and through mud with enough urgency to, I hope, keep the gap between myself and the man I had chased respectable. I am trying to decide whether I am happy with 4th or not, then scold myself for worrying about things like that. This is not the Olympic Trials; that shit doesn't matter. I tell myself that I ran like hell and that my shoes look pretty badass muddy; this is a good day. The cold breeze now feels good and so I agree.

The final hills are a cruel joke, but still funny, and so I smile and laugh my way up them. There is the characteristic lactic acid buildup in my legs, which feels as if I've somehow absorbed the mud via osmosis. But I go on, and am pleased to find that my hips will still open up and allow for good pace on the runnable stretches that remain. The finish is one such stretch, a slight downhill grade that allows for a perfectly photogenic finishing kick, chasing no one.

Self Determination, a Statement on a Lack of Statements

When asked if I'm a runner, I always look away for a moment, and mutter a mild confirmation. We are our actions, and to that extent, I am one. I run, of course; but beyond that, I read blogs and magazines devoted to the sport, from its stars to its shoes. I know the heel/toe drop of most shoes currently on the market, who Killian Jornet and Geoffrey Mutai are, and how to pronounce quinoa. That is to say nothing of my race results, which are a documented reality.

And yet, when asked, I don't say "yes" emphatically. I don't meet the eyes and declare that I am what I am; I don't advertise or proudly endorse this thing that is nonetheless a large part of my life. Customers ask me if I'm racing, and I tell them. If they ask how far, I share that too. When they later ask how I did, I try to talk around my time and place, opting instead for vague descriptors like "I felt good" or "it was a solid effort".

There are stickers now that read 26.2, or even 13.1. You see them on the back of vehicles, indicating that the owner has covered the stated distance on foot. Many of my running friends have them, or similar ultra equivalents. I certainly don't fault people who feel that measure of pride. Running is a powerful statement that you're going to take accountability for your health and fitness, that you're going to do something real and tangible, that you're going to chase the horizon. To some, that is worth sharing. And to be clear: There is nothing wrong with that.

But you will see no stickers on my car. While I do take pride in what I've done, the feeling is personal, bordering on intimate. Running a marathon or an ultra is not a stunt to garner attention or inspire awe; I don't do it to impress anyone. It is wholly about personal satisfaction, about independently doing this thing. To flaunt such a private achievement would feel vulgar.

And yet there is hypocrisy, of course. There is this blog, on which I write occasionally about running itself, and sometimes even about specific races. This is, as best I can explain, the anonymity of the internet. While this is me writing, it is not me standing right in front of you. And while these are my words, this isn't my voice.

But I can't wholly account for it. I can't balance the person who would rather not mention Heartland to people with the guy who wrote about it here, the guy who just mentioned it now. A runner? I suppose so. But human also. And both categories imply foibles that can never entirely make sense.

5 @ 7

We tend to ascribe a somewhat negative connotation to competitiveness, especially among those of us who lack the talent to post national class times. To be competitive, while running a 38-minute 10K, is seen as somewhat self indulgent folly. And so it's a difficult thing to explain to people, why you care, when there will never be medals or accolades of any significance. And it would be harder still if they knew that the medals you did have were tossed in to a pile, or left in the car, or forgotten elsewhere.

But words hide within them meaning beyond what we often see, and "compete" is no different. Compete is not, as we tend to think, merely about striving to destroy someone else, to train harder or to race faster than them. No, compete comes from the Latin competere, which means "to strive together". Competition is that group training run where the miles tick off at X:XX when you'd normally be running Y:YY, drawing on the collective energy of the group to fuel your efforts. It is beautifully feral behavior, dressed up in compression shorts and wicking fabric.

As per my usual habits, this digression is inspired by recent events. I ran last night. I ran for the first time in several weeks, which is still a couple weeks sooner than recommended. But there was snow on the ground. There was an orange sun fading behind the trees, just over the river, and a quiet gravel levee on which to run. There were houses and the lights of downtown on either side, cars and people and walls and heat and so many other things; but here there was nothing but the dirt, snow, and the possibilities that lay in propelling one's self over it.

And there was an invitation to compete. Not to run against, but with, two other runners, both of whom have considerably more talent and accolades than I. The scenery was right, but this was harder to turn down. To run with a marginally faster group and to competere is simply right. Distance training is so often a solo endeavor, but is in that way detached from our primordial running roots. If the paleoanthropologists are to be believed, we evolved our bipedal skill as a pack, running at things which we might eat, and away from things which might eat us. Simply, our strides our made to be synced.

So I ran. I ran across the gravel and the snow and the ice, three wide, chests out and legs churning in time. We talked between our breaths, through the pooling saliva and despite frozen lips. We ran in to the biting wind for 2.5 miles, then turned and let it push us back. We finished in 35 minutes, peeled off our gloves and hats, and said that it was good. We breathed deeply but not hard, shook hands and parted ways.

My foot hurts a little today. I expected as much going in, however, and so this is no surprise. You have to know when you're making an unwise decision, and the potential repercussions. But you also have to know when to make the right decision, smart or not.

Time Off or Time Missed?

I've had a lot of free time today, and will have plenty more in the coming days. One of the biggest perks of my job is that I get a week's paid time off, twice a year. It's a boon that nary a barista receives, and I'm duly grateful for it. But as I sit here, I can't help but wish I had eight hours of my day spoken for. I can't help but wish I had milk to steam, shots to pull, floors to sweep, shit to do.

My last break was spent trying to log a 100 mile week, for no reason other than to see if I could do it. In the running community, a 100 mile week is legitimately high training volume - far too high, truthfully, for someone of my talent and experience. (My usual volume is between 45-70 miles, depending on numerous factors.) But given my lack of anything else to do, it proved easy enough. 100 miles, over the course of 7 days, averages out to 14 miles a day. This might sound like a lot, but it's worth remembering that I could run 2-3 times a day, and take smaller, more frequent bites at the apple. (This is what elite runners tend to do. Keep in mind, also, that they cover miles much faster than me.) I got it done, and my legs didn't even fall off. Although I hadn't done anything truly noteworthy, there was a definite sense of accomplishment waiting at my driveway, as I loped to the imagined finish line. The week had been productive, even if no sane person would agree.

But remember that whole foot thing? You probably do, since I won't stop writing about it. Well, it still can't stomach running one mile, never mind 100. In 2-3 weeks I can "ease back in to it" (so says the doctor) - but not yet. For now, I'm (still) ellipticaling (spellcheck says this is not a word but dammit, there needs to be a verb form) and lifting (pathetically light weights).

In other words: It is Tuesday. I will not make coffee again for a week. I will not run again for several weeks.

So, I've spent most of today watching videos of other people making coffee and other people running. These are beautifully shot, featuring world class baristas/runners doing what they do. It is damn near pornographic. Watching the videos, my brain swims with ideas and inspiration. I imagine that I'm pulling those shots, or that it's me rocketing up a technical 20% grade. I go to bed and dream of tamping techniques and Killian Jornet. (But not like that. And not at the same time.)

And then I wake up and my foot hurts and it's 6 A.M. and I don't have anywhere to go and the only coffee I have to make is for myself and fuck, now what?

Deep breath.

This is a good thing. I keep telling myself that, and I even sort of believe it. There are cleaning things to do, books to read, and even cooking to experiment with. And there is still the gym, providing me with a means to elevate my heartrate and cling to (and perhaps even build) some fitness.

Those are a few of the things I have, and they are good. Really. But even those two massive things I lack are not suddenly negatives, just by their absence. I will tamp again very soon, and run again not too long after that. I will return to them with a renewed vigor and an absolute conviction that yes, these are the things I want to spend my time on.

It is a beautiful and lucky thing that I have hobbies that inspire me - and I'm even paid to do one of them. To bemoan the fact that I am deprived of both for a relatively short amount of time misses both that perspective, and of course the fact that I'm getting paid to do nothing.

So yeah, it's all good.

Triple Rosetta Therapy

Today I made the best triple rosetta of my life, but there's no picture, so you'll just have to take my word for it. I would tell you what I did, except it was the same steps as always, no better. I pulled good shots and steamed good milk and poured well and then, well, there it was. It happened and then she drank it and it was gone. No one else saw or cared, but it was beautiful, I promise.

And it felt good, for reasons beyond the usual.

I haven't run in about two weeks now, and yet the foot still hurts. Probably, standing for 7-10 hours a day isn't the best thing for recovery, but oh well. Nor have I heard the results of my x-ray, so I still don't know how long it will be before I can return. Although I'm working very hard to maintain some fitness via death by elliptical and general strength training, I have to be realistic: The longer I don't run, the more foolish running a trail 50K in early February becomes. I'm quite close to emailing the race director, and dropping to the 10 miler.

This, I think you can surmise, sucks. Running is cool and all, and so is working out for its own sake; but it's not training. Training has a purpose, and in turn, gives you one. Coming off of a third place finish at the Heartland 50 miler, I had hoped to be competitive here, despite a strong field. The area's best distance trail runner (maybe ever) is going to race, as is an Olympic trials marathoner (female, but whatever, I can't run a 2:40 marathon). Those two - and probably about ten others - will run about 4:30, maybe as fast as 4:15, and compete for the win.

This is not to say that 10 miles can't be a challenging distance, or that longer races are somehow better or more valid tests of skill. In the words of someone I read on the internet but can't remember: "A fast mile is still cooler than a slow marathon." But no matter how much I tell myself that, the challenge of racing the shorter distance is somehow just less inspiring, less omnipresently looming in the corner of my mind. In other words, for the first time in a long time, I'm not thinking about an upcoming race, every minute of every day.

And so, back to the triple, because this is still mostly about coffee, I think.

Without the looming threat of a 33ish mile trail race against some pretty accomplished runners, it's nice to have something else to fall back on. It's nice to focus on coffee, both running the shop and making the drinks. Mostly, it's nice to take pride in a skill, to know you're good at something you care about, and to know that it's there for you ever day.

Let's just hope I never break a wrist.

Requiem For an Injury

I don't know when it became normal for my roommates to talk to their TV, but it is. And I don't mean to say that either of them are talking to the programs or characters; no, they address the TV itself. They tell it hello, and then say "ON", and on it goes. I don't recall when that became what I was used to, but I do recall not having a remote control as a kid, having to get up to change the channel. I recall thinking that that was cruelly difficult, since I wasn't always sitting right there, and sometimes I was busy eating. I remember thinking that technology would rid us of the need for physical intervention, and thinking that that would be a wonderful world. I remember thinking, and thinking that thinking was all anyone should ever have to do.

I don't know when that changed, or how, but here we are. I am twisting my foot about, trying to manipulate it in a way that does not hurt, and failing. I would like very much to stop thinking about it, to get moving on it, to lose myself in the rhythmic contractions of quadriceps and hamstrings. It is nice out, the kind of nice that you want to bottle up and save for vacations, or weddings. It is the kind of nice that should be experienced, which is not the same as merely noticing it, or feeling that it is there.

Experience, I've realized, is not about knowing, or thinking. It is doing and feeling and living, and you cannot ask for these things by name, cannot call them down from the sky, cannot turn them on with a word. You cannot say "RUN" and then do it, wake up to find yourself sitting on your floor, embracing your foam roller while the brown rice cooks. Experience is the moment you are in, this step until it's the next step, downhill until it's up. You walk up stairs and your calves quiver and you smile because the rice is done and you have beets to put in it.

But I'm not going to run tonight, not going to have that experience. Instead I am going to drive to my gym and spin on an elliptical, going nowhere. I will plug in headphones and listen to shrieking and screaming vocals about vile things and I will think that I should go faster and harder so I will. I will sweat the same and breath the same and my muscles will sort of twitch in the same pattern but no, no it will not be the same. The air will be nice but the kind of nice that feels like maybe you did bottle it and then forgot about it and now it's kind of stale but you should probably use it anyway since it's bad to waste. I will walk up the stairs and not touch my foam roller and eat rice cereal because I don't feel like cooking and I will not put beets in it since that would be gross.

I will go to work in the morning and stand on my feet but not think about them. I will grab a tamper and tamp because that's what you do with a tamper. There will be microadjustments and the whole damn ritual; golden bronze espresso will trickle like syrup and I will pour milk in it in ways that people seem to enjoy and their happiness will become mine, their smile reflected on my face. I will not care about my foot which will be fine in like a month anyway, and I will experience people and there will be words between us, words that are not "ON", and I will think a lot about all of this.

Running, or Perhaps Not (With Update)

As I write this, it is 6:30 AM, and I am drinking a fairly mediocre cup of coffee (my fault, really). I am reading all of my usual internet things, one of which - the local newspaper - informs me that it is 65 degrees. Lest I am mistaken, I check the calendar, and see that it is, indeed, December. Instinctively, I'm happy, thinking how pleasant such a temperature, pre sun, will feel. I will run 7 or so miles before work, and feel so refreshed, so high, that people will think I must clearly have received chemical aid.

But there is the small matter of my right foot, somewhere around the 4th or 5th metatarsal, a small pain that becomes a big pain after attempting to run a block. This is not a new pain; it's been with me since Heartland, a race - being 50 miles and all - that might leave one with an injury or two. Still, I ran, because taking time off for minor pain is not something young people with the desire to race foolishly long distances do. And I suppose I fit that mold, having completed two 50 milers, two 50Ks, and two marathons in the last 13 months. So I ran, until it got worse, and then worse still, and then until I couldn't any more.

So if this is a metatarsal stress fracture - my amateur diagnosis - I won't feel cheated. It is a common injury among runners, with higher incidence among those who habitually go really far, and even more correlation with those who mid/forefoot strike. This is not to say I'll be pleased, of course, especially given that the weather has brought out so many more people than would normally be running this time of year. And there is also the matter, you know, of not running for weeks, or maybe even a couple months, that irks me. I don't hate cross training with ellipticals and weights, but after a while, it all feels rather pointless. Running, while fun for its own sake, feels like you're doing something, getting better and building fitness, all to cash in your earnings on race day. Gym work, as much as I might like it to, does not lend that same satisfaction.

But, life happens. And life, for one who decides to label themselves even a slightly serious runner, means getting hurt now and then. That inevitability makes this not so bad as it might be; you'd be naive to think injuries only happened to others. Still, there is some hope, which is perhaps why I'm writing this now. Perhaps I want some catharsis, hoping that some cognitive relief will trickle down to my foot.

We'll see. I've got a trip to the doctor today, to get a professional diagnosis. I'll update here with whatever information I get, because I'm going to pretend you're invested in this as well.

UPDATE

The thing about feet is that everything in there is pretty small, and so damage can be hard to see, when it exists, often due to some swelling. As this is the case with me, I didn't get a specific diagnosis, outside of confirming that nothing is completely snapped. Of course, I had figured this already, given that I can stand all day without any pain at all. So we're nowhere new, really, but I'm somewhat encouraged. Worst case? I'm out two months. Probably it's more like one month. It depends on the degree of the damage - or if there is any, really - once the doctors can get a clearer picture. In any case, I'll do my best to hold on to - and in some cases, build - my fitness in the interim.

Soy Foam at the Mountain Top

It's amazing how mundane an ultra feels, while you're doing it. It really is as simple as one step after another, an exercise in mental as much as physical endurance. And when it's done, that's it. You return to your life, and find it unchanged. The person who rings up your gas at the Kwik Shop still doesn't smile, and that customer still wants a non-soy/dairy milk. You limp a bit, but mostly hope people don't ask why, because the whole thing can be a chore to explain. "Yes, it's far. And yes, people run it. No I can't really tell you why, other than because. Sometimes you just do things."

But there is comfort in that sameness, in the routine. It helps, of course, that I rather like mine. Monday came, as it does, and Tuesday after it. People came and bought their usual drinks, and we talked about the usual things. It was, despite the sameness, not mundane; and it never really is.

I trained another person, as is happening a lot lately. The owner of my shop is opening up another, and it largely falls on me to bring the would-be-baristas up to speed.

I made, probably, my best triple rosetta. Perhaps this has to do with the above, as explaining my milk texturing and pouring has a way of focusing my efforts. No matter how good you are, you're better when you really dial things in.

And I made the best dry soy cappuccino in the history of Earth. Really. Allegedly, there are shops who will tell you this cannot be done. They are either lying, or wrong. Maybe they can't meet the challenge, or perhaps it's too daunting to attempt. But I've climbed that mountain, tasted the air, and it's real. Let me tell you, it's real. The dry soy cappuccino can happen, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

In summation, I feel more proud of my ability to stretch soy milk than my ability to traverse 50 miles somewhat quickly. Weird.

I'm Running 50 Miles Soon, So Here Is Some Mostly Unrelated Stuff

Wearing compression socks while writing is not a performance enhancer, as demonstrated by the quality of this lead sentence and the fact that I misspelled "enhancer" the first time around, only to be corrected by that handy little red line that protects whatever integrity as a legit writer I have.

But I am wearing a pair, because there is a 50-mile race on Saturday, and I'm doing it. If this doesn't seem to logically follow, let me just say that I'm not reaping any physical benefits by wearing them; I simply like to have them on, like a little kid who won't take his shoulder pads off after his first football practice.

Also, coffee things: I've been training a lot of people lately, and searching for a viable "milk" that is neither dairy nor soy.

The former is going well. Training is easy, really, to the point where I can't believe it was ever a source of anxiety. You show a little, tell even less, then let them practice. Then, when mistakes are made, make corrections (without being a dick). Repeat this for a few hours, and then a few days, and significant progress will have been made.

Perhaps I shouldn't say so, lest I threaten my job security, but it's really not terribly hard to elevate someone to competence as a barista. Of course, competence is not excellence. That requires practice on a longer timeline, and a refined feel for your machine, espresso, and milk. That can neither be taught nor rushed; it must simply be earned by putting in the hours.

The non-dairy/soy milk search is going less well. Almond milk refuses to accept any air whatsoever, getting sudsy and oh, bitter as well. Coconut milk, while a little better, still doesn't texture properly, and the flavor is far too pronounced. Rice milk is predictably thin and bland, doing little more than watering down the espresso.

There are other options, liquids made from hemp, oats, sunflower seeds, hazelnuts, etc. I've not tried them, and given the results thus far, I'm not keen to.

So, why bother? Because people ask. Not many, but enough. There are those who can't or won't drink dairy, which I understand. (Lactose intolerance is quite common, and some people would just rather be nice to cows. Legit concerns, both.) Soy avoidance confuses me slightly more, though I've heard all manner of reasons for it. Suffice it to say, people are allowed their neurosis, and if possible, I'd like to help indulge it.

But so far, I just can't. Or rather, I can't find a viable dairy/soy substitute. I can offer them a premium beverage that is gluten/soy/sugar/egg/lactose free, however: Coffee. Black coffee. It really is a miracle beverage, even enhancing endurance performance to a greater extent than compression socks.

There. I brought it around.

Hawk Marathon Race Report, and Satisfaction in Service

It was 2 am, or something like that. Truthfully, time gets lost, even during races, when it's that late/early, and you've been up since 5 am the previous day, and ran a marathon sometime in that period.

About that marathon.

I ran in fourth until just past the halfway point, showing surprising patience, not knowing where anyone else was. This was a windy, technical trail, after all, so for all I knew, there was no hope of grabbing a podium spot. (If, you know, local trail races had podiums. They don't.) But I knew I was chasing a shirtless guy wearing yellow Kinvaras, and another guy wearing Newtons, and so I kept my eyes out for them, trying to keep my pace decent despite the total lack of perspective.

And then they were ahead of me, only just, and then, as quickly, I was with them. They glanced back, and I imagined them thinking something like "Oh shit.". But there were still 8 miles to go, so I would sit and wait, let them work to try and drop me, and then kick up the final hills.

Or not. The guy in the Newtons tripped, and appeared to twist his ankle. He told me and the Kinvara guy to keep going without him, and we didn't need much convincing. In third now, I was full of adrenaline, running a trail I was familiar with, following a runner who seemed to be slowing drastically.

And so I moved, just before the final aid station, thinking that I could lengthen my gap while he refueled. Of course, doing that would require that I not stop myself, a decision that I decided was unwise with 6.5 miles still to go. So I split the difference, drank 4 ounces of Coke (crucially, I didn't fill my bottle or grab any gels), and gunned it.

For a mile, this seemed brilliant. My chaser was nowhere to be seen, and I felt great, right up until I felt like shit. The transition was immediate, the proverbial wall smashing right up against me. Thoroughly bonked and without any calories to consume, I shuffled onward, tripped, and saw that my pursuit had not just reappeared, but caught me.

But there was so little race left, depleted or not, I would give chase. And so I did, not gaining, but not losing either. I kept the yellow Kinvaras in my sight, right up until a turn - I know it well - with about 1.2 miles to go. I took the turn, I think. I must have. Although that's not what the course for the race dictated, it's the only way to explain how I ended up on the wrong trail, forced to retrace my steps, and resume passing people I hadn't seen for quite some time.

I crossed the line in sixth, missing the imaginary podium, eleven minutes behind the yellow Kinvaras. I drank a Mountain Dew, felt pretty dumb, but mostly, was still pretty stoked. It had been, probably, the most fun race I've ever run, the closest I'd ever come to the sort of Beardsley/Salazar dueling you see on the elite level.

I went home, ate about 4 cups of rice and beans, a pint of cocunut milk ice cream, and foam rolled. I sat around for a few more hours, killing time until the evening, which would turn in to the night, which gets us back to it being 2 am.

Anyway, it was dark, and sort of cool, the stars almost urgently clear. I was working an aid station at the for the 100 milers, filling the bottles of a runner with ice, and then water and HEED, respectively. I zipped around, not wanting to delay someone who was, in theory, racing, declaring that I was a food service professional, with the irony and the punch drunkenness that comes from being - and this is the medical term - wiped the fuck out.

We sent him on his way and I ate some vegetarian chile, which included mashed potatoes and Chinese takeout levels of salt - all the better to fuel endurance - and then drank some Folger's Black Silk - which tasted like Broadway's Yirgacheffe at the time - not wanting to drink another Mountain Dew.

Other runners came in, looking pretty much like you'd expect at that point, and we did what we could for them. I drank more coffee and took some allergy meds, and then drank more coffee because I took the allergy meds. I wandered towards the trees so I wouldn't sneeze on the runner taking a nap in one of the chairs, wandered back, and was asked if I could pace him the 6.5 miles to the start/finish.

I said yes, presuming that he would either drop out there, or the RDs would pull him. I wanted to be nice, but you have to be realistic about these things. We set off, walking fast, making small talk. His name was Terry, 57, from Wichita (I think). He liked yoga and steam engines.

As we talked, I couldn't help but notice his tone was optimistic. He sounded awake, energetic, and hopeful. When we talked about his race circumstances, he kept saying he'd feel even better when the sun came up, and that he still though he could finish. The math said otherwise - he would have to run his 4th loop faster than his 2nd or 3rd - but I began to believe him.

We arrived at the start/finish as the sun came up. Terry ate, and I sat on a picnic bench, watching the 100-mile winner get interviewed by a local paper; he had finished over four hours earlier. Terry told the RDs he'd like to do the final loop, whether he got it in under the 32-hour time limit or not. As someone kindly bandaged my bleeding pinky toe, I told the RDs that he could make it. We only needed to cover 25 miles in 7 hours, and he was fine, really, and I was too.

And then Terry was running, disappearing down the trail. I chased, yelling back at someone that I was fine, it was only blood, and that we'd be back in time. I imagined I'd catch up with him easily. But, whether it was the sun or not, that took two miles. Terry, who hadn't run for something like 10 hours, was now running my marathon pace, and I wondered if I was going to be any help at all.

I did catch him, of course, when he resumed walking an uphill section, saying to me that he'd better save some for later. I agreed, and pointed out that if we only ran the easiest portions of the trail at that pace, he'd finish comfortably. Math was now on our side, so far as I was concerned.

My stomach was not, however. As we reached the first aid station, I stripped off my night gear, and headed towards the nearest restroom. Terry was moving well, and I told him I'd pick him back up at the next aid station, hopefully ready to lead a charge to the finish, if need be. He said that would be nice, and that he appreciated whatever impromptu pacing he could get.

Stomach settled, I drove to the next aid station, and tried not to fall asleep in my car. I drank another Mountain Dew, felt marginally better, and then saw Terry popping out of the woods, heading up the route's biggest hill. I shuffled over to the aid station, made plans for what we'd need, what sort of pace would be required, and then ran ahead to hook back up with Terry.

We ran in to the mostly disassembled aid station, grabbed several gels, and filled our bottles. Quickly, we plunged back in to the trees, Terry still running the flat sections, and walking the hills. I was doing the math constantly, telling him how fast we were clocking our miles, and how his pace was consistently exceeding what was needed. There was no longer any doubt in my mind that he'd finish, and I told him that. Just keep doing what you're doing.

We arrived at the next - and final - aid station, and were greeted by an enthusiastic host. There was Gary - the club's Godfather, basically - who had manned that aid station for over 24 hours and made the addictive chile; Terry's wife, who thanked me, and who ushered him off with a kiss; Alan, who I had seen the previous morning during my race, and who volunteered to pace if I could go no further; Adam,  who had won the 50-miler (by 50 minutes); and others, of course, who I would recall if I hadn't been so damn tired.

The finish assured if no mistakes were made, Terry took the technical portions carefully, but still ran when prudent. We were making good time, good conversation, and came up on another two runners. One was Donnie, on his way to finishing his first 100-mile race. He was paced by Bryan, who had worked the aid station with my prior to assuming his pacing duties. Together, we decided to form a proud 4-man caboose, hiking and jogging the remaining 3 miles. Bryan and I congratulated the two soon-to-be finishers, and they continued on, spirits suitably high.

When we emerged form the woods, Bryan and I peeled off to the side, leaving the finish to Terry and Donnie. There's had been the race, and this was rightly their moment. I watched them get their buckles, take pictures, and smile. I sat on the picnic bench, happier at that moment than at any race I'd ever finished myself.

And while that sounds both overly sentimental and self aggrandizing, I promise neither are my motivation. These are simply the sorts of things that happen at trail races, and are a large reason I'm drawn to the sport of running way too fucking far on dirt and rocks.

Furthermore, I am - and at this point, it really is basically my entire identity - a barista. Anyone who sticks in the service industry for long does it because of moments like this - if a little less dramatic. We like being told that we made someone's day, if only by making their drink, or simply being nice.

So yeah, it only took me a few thousand words to bring this around to this blog's primary subject matter. Service: Do it right, and you feel awesome.

Stay for the Goats

Boulder, CO, is something of a mecca for endurance enthusiasts. Trail runners in particular know of the Flatirons, and Green Mountain. This is trail with steady vertical, technical descents, and yet water fountains at the bottom. You get all the pleasure of immersing one's self in the mountains, without worrying about packing anything.

That was what I had hoped to find, in any case. The reality was the most difficult 15 mile run I can recall, my hips and calves protesting the climbs, my quads and knees complaining on the descents. But it felt good to have done it, and I suffered no ill effects. 

Good thing, because after a day of relatively easy exercise, I attempted a somewhat aggressive ascent of Quandary Peak. Popularly considered one of Colorado's easiest 14,000 ft peaks, there was still plenty of scrambling, and 20% (and steeper) grade to slog up. I harbored an unspoken desire to summit in less than 2 hours, but the scenery distracted me too often, and there was simply too much to enjoy. It's hard to press onward when a family of mountain goats idles by, the kids glancing at you curiously, the parents not the slightest bit interested. And so, with a sweat nonetheless broken, I stood at the top in 2 hours and 5 minutes - as best I can tell, a respectable effort. 

This is the part were I would post pictures, if I had them, which I don't. No matter, because a two-dimensional image wouldn't give any real perspective on the experience. Ascending, gasping, and finally, summiting, is a collective sensation that cannot be had, and so it must be chased. That, of course, is why people do it. They go back, higher and faster, because they must. It's a high you earn with burning quads and parched lips.

(I know I said I wouldn't, but here is a picture of me with the goats. There were probably 10 more of them, and seriously, just look. They're beautiful.)

This being a coffee blog, I would be remiss if I omitted a mention of the coffee I've encountered. Although, truth be told, there hasn't been much worth noting. I've consumed too much Starbucks, simply because my hotel has it, and too little local brew. Still, I did manage to stumble upon The Laughing Goat in Boulder, a shop with a moody, almost macabre aesthetic, kombucha, quinoa bars, almond milk, and rich, cocoa laden espresso. It was dry, slightly sweet, and without that lemony acid tang that permeates so many shots. 

Still, this trip was not about the coffee. (Nor, for that matter, was it about the food. I've had a lot of vegetables, potatoes, and various takes on rice and beans. In all seriousness, I can't imagine a more pleasing menu.) I came to see some extended family, and spend more time with my parents and brother. And of course, I came for the mountains, for rocks, dirt, biting air and burning lungs. The goats, laughing and otherwise, were just a bonus. 

Inspiration and Work

I am not, and never have been, particularly fast. And yet I run, as fast as I can manage, quite often. Sometimes, but rarely, I win; but more often, I finish somewhere in the top ten, filling the gap between the lead and mid pack. And so it is that I watch these Olympics with something that might be called jealousy, but is really more like awe. From Usain Bolt uncoiling his sinew over 100 meters, to Mo Farah prancing on his forefoot over 10,000, I, like millions of others, marvel.

What they do is not fundamentally different than what I do. And yet the results are staggering, different by such a magnitude as to be incomprehensible. When I run, there is a lilt to my stride, my hips swaying and dipping, my legs spinning out at awkward angles. If they are poetry in motion, then I am chicken scratched prose. They are Beckett; I am, well, not.

This is not self deprecation. But it is not depressing either. Perhaps I, the 37 minute 10K runner, should look at Farah, and throw my shoes in the garbage. After all, no amount of aspiration or training could get me close to the B-standard for the women's qualifying race. So why bother? Why spend hours on a treadmill set to mountain-esque inclines, when you will never be Max King?

Why? Because I'm somewhat masochistic and in need of other hobbies? Probably. But also because greatness, while it intimidates, also inspires. I watch those races, to inhale the drama, and to see what is possible. I read blogs of runners faster than me, logging mileage and hammering workouts that would hobble me, and yet feel better about my efforts.

This is also why I have, since I started working in a coffee bar five years ago, searched out every latte art video I could find, read every treatise on customer service, roasting times, origin countries, and brewing methods. I've streamed competitions and read reports, subscribed to Barista Magazine and interviewed James Hoffmann.

Running is simple, and ultimately, fair. And that's what I like about it. It rewards effort, and the person who finishes first, wins. There is little room for bullshit, and you can't fake your way to success. 26.2 miles doesn't care who you are or what you think it owes you. It only demands that you put one foot in front of the other, keep working, keep moving forward.

Coffee, I've found, has a similarly egalitarian bent. (And better yet for me, it requires no athleticism.) You read about what people who are good do, watch them work, and study everything you can. But mostly, you put the work in yourself. There is no faking it. Good training helps immensely, but until you've been baptized by countless rushes, you just don't know. But, as with running, you keep working, and you keep moving forward. It doesn't always get easier; but you always get better.

Psyco Psummer 50K Race Report

Running up a soft dirt hill, my calf seized, and I fell. I felt my toes curling, and the entirety of my lower leg quivering. I found myself wondering if I had torn my achilles, and then hoping that I had. I sat on the dirt, dripping with water and sweat, utterly spent.

That's not how this story ends, thankfully. But it's not how it begins either.

We'll start at the start, because that seems appropriate. I left for the first loop, running with Carl Specking, former University of Missouri cross country runner, and certifiable fast dude. Both of us had run the February edition of this race, and knowing what lay ahead, were content to let others tackle a more ambitious pace. We talked, about shoes and future race plans, gliding through the first 7.5 miles without noticing. Nothing hurt, and although it was hot, I was icing, drinking, salting, taking gels, everything. I felt good, like whatever semblance of a plan I had was working.

Carl began to gap me a bit, when I chose to hike a massive hill that he ran. This was me pacing myself, being smart. I adopted a similar strategy for the bigger climbs over the last couple of miles, and finished the first third of the race in 1:40. This was on pace for a 5-hour finish, which, given the course-lengthening and 104-degree heat, seemed like an ambitious goal. One lap down, I was pretty sure that that time would lead to a high finish, and so it became my goal. (As it happens, no one would come close to that time. I wouldn't even come close to coming close to it.)

The second loop was lonely, and I began to feel the heat. I had settled, as I seemingly always do, behind the leaders, and in front of the mid-pack. Still, I was running everything but the steepest inclines, and continued to ice/hydrate/eat/salt at planned intervals. 

And then, somewhere around the halfway point, my radiator blew. I stopped in the middle of the trail, put my hands on my knees, and gathered myself. I started to run again, but stopped just yards later. I felt heavy, lethargic, and above else, anxious. Some part of my brain had panicked, and decided that we were stopping this silly endeavor, right now. 

But I shuffled on, because the middle of the trail is no place to stop. I reached an aid station, put down as many calories as I could, iced myself down for a few minutes, and started running again. Not a mile later, the feeling came back. I stopped again, put my hand on my forehead, and decided that this, probably, was heat exhaustion. 

My anxiety increased, not because I was worried that I might hurt myself, but because I could feel my goals evaporating in the smoldering heat. I had put in too much training for this to happen, PR'd at 10K and 13.1 in training, spent hours climbing imagined mountains on a treadmill. And I was going to stop because it was hot? No, I thought. Fuck that. And so I ran, digging in to the powdery dirt and ascending the incline in front of me. 

And then my calf seized. I eventually did stand up, began to walk, hobbled, sat down again, hopped along for a bit, yelled choice expletives, and then just stood there. I stared in to the trees, breathed, felt my heart racing, my clothes dripping, and my calf knotting. Someone passed me, asked if I was OK, and I think I said that I was. It was a lie, of course, but one you have to tell. 

I turned off my watch then, because I couldn't stand to see the minutes pass. I stood there, alone for I don't know how long, until finally, my toes uncurled, and I began to walk. Some time later, the muscle loosened up enough to allow for a clipped running gait, but nothing with any real pace. I decided that I would drop out when I arrived back at the start/finish.

The rest of the loop consisted of limping, hobbling, jogging, hiking, and getting passed. Normally, this is nothing to be pleased about. But in my condition, I was glad for it. Misery loves company, and all that. I tried to hang on to people as long as I could, be pleasant, and commiserate about what hurt. Everyone was a saint. 

But something more needs to be said for the aid station volunteers. It's cliche to express thanks by calling someone a lifesaver, but in this case, it may literally be true. Were it not for their patience and assistance, things would have been worse.

So, going aid station to aid station, I stumbled across the line. There was a large crowd there, my parents among them. Had they not been there, had so many people I know not been there, I may have dropped then, as I had planned. But I couldn't, and didn't. I was suffering, but I decided I could endure another 2+ hours of it in return for the knowledge that I had done so.

I went back out, calf screaming, head burning. I may have decided to continue, but my body wasn't quite willing to oblige. Still, it would keep moving forward, so long as I limited my running, and kept icing and eating. 

As more and more people streamed by, my mood improved. I was no longer angry that I wasn't really racing the race, and their positive feelings about finishing rubbed off. Still, it wouldn't be accurate to say that I was having fun, or that I felt good. I could not, no matter the amount of ice or water used, cool myself down for more than minutes at a time. And I could really only run a half mile at a time, before my calf would again seize, tremble, and force me to stop. It's a funny thing, feeling so utterly defeated, your fitness not doing a damn thing for you. Your body has quit, and that's that. 

But that wasn't quite that, not yet at least. There were still a handful of miles to go, and they crawled by. The largest hills of the course lay at the end, and I wobbled up them, hands planted on my knees, barely keeping myself upright. But I loved those hills, at that moment. Maybe it was delirium, but I smiled every time I reached another, knowing that I was that much closer to being finished. 

When the finish line did come, I ran across it, adopting a gait I hadn't used in hours. The clock read 7:04, and I thought, seven fucking hours? I laughed a bit, felt my calf cramp again, and nearly fell down. 

The Proverbial Midnight Oil is Probably Bitter and Not as Delicious as Espresso, But Drink the Latter and You Burn the Former, Usually

I am writing this, not exactly as a public service announcement, but at least as an acknowledgment. I had a fair bit of espresso this afternoon, after having a fair bit of coffee in the morning. I then spent somewhere around 3 hours in the gym, because I look at tapering for a race like setting up expectations.  And frankly, I'm not quite sure enough of myself yet to have those. If I taper, then it's a target race. And if I blow a target race, well, that's not very good at all. (I guess this part only makes sense if I explain that I'm racing a 50K this Saturday. So, yeah, there's that. I'll probably write a really long race report about it. Get excited. Or stop reading for a week. Your call.)

But I digress. I had espresso, lots of it, and then went to the gym. I spent some time on the treadmill, the elliptical, then the treadmill again. Then I did core work until I couldn't, and dips and chinups until my arms went limp. Then I went back to the treadmill, jacked up the incline, did some sprints, then lowered it, and did some more. Then I did headstands for a bit, and tried to do handstands, but failed. I almost fell on my head a few times, but always landed safely, if gracelessly.

I decided that was probably enough, so I cleaned up, went across the street to the grocery store, and bought some kombucha (a delicious little money vampire that I hate that I like), sweet potatoes, and pears.

Happy with this haul, I ate a bit, and then sat down to read, if not the whole internet, most of it. The thing is, people keep adding things, like, all the time, so you never really get a reprieve. And so I read, about coffee and mitochondria and a kid getting eaten by an alligator, almost.

I decided that, since it was getting late, I should probably turn my computer off. And so I did, but since I wasn't tired yet, I started reading the latest edition of Running Times, which really makes me want to root for the Kenyans this Olympic year, which isn't patriotic, but oh well. But doing that made me want to check a couple running websites I had missed during my previous internet rounds, because there was too much other neat stuff in the way, so I did that.

Finally, reading made me thing about writing, that maybe I should do it, but I didn't have a story idea. But, you know, lack of a coherent narrative never stopped me from putting digital ink down, and so here we are.

Maybe there is a lesson here, which is why I decided to post this. Maybe you shouldn't inhale espresso late in the afternoon. Of course, they do say you can sleep when your dead, but I don't know about that. Really, I hope they're wrong, because if we get to sleep when we're dead, that means whatever afterlife you believe in doesn't have espresso, and seriously, fuck that.

Bad Coffee, Bad Race

So I was running a race, as I do, meandering along a trail at what we might call 5K pace, since it was a 5K, but I was probably not going quite that fast, honestly. There was dirt and mud and rocks, which you expect, and I had worn bulkier, treadier shoes, so those things were not a problem. The mud flicked back and the rocks were neutered, and I ran, kind of flipping my feet forward and grasping towards that next rock, that next swath of earth.

This happened, and I smiled at the right parts, enjoying myself when people were taking pictures, and griping inside my head that this wasn't faster, and wasn't easier. There was a lack of pop in my legs, and a lack of romance to the whole endeavor. I wasn't loving it, and it was hot. I felt like I was running in a sweat suit, and was dripping as if I had been, and moving with the same ambling lack of grace.

I was following three guys, two of whom I usually beat, one of whom I always beat. There was a guy in the front, springing along, who should have been further ahead, and would have been, if not for the rocks. There were a lot of rocks, and so we were hopping then, which was fun, and I was close, ready to make a move, if only I could summon the leg drive to do so.

I pleaded with them, my legs, not the guys, begged them, and then reasoned with them. Please, I said. It's only another mile or so, and this is a fun trail for you. You love this. No really, you do. What's that? You say you don't love it so much right now? Well, then the sooner we get to the finish, the sooner you can stop. And the top three get a maraca. You love those, right? No? Well then fuck, just run hard enough not to look like a jackass, and at least don't get caught by anyone.

They listened, or something, and there was a little pop there, and I almost jumped off the shoreline, and in to the water. I am not a triathlete, so it was probably better that I stay dry. Or at least, stay only sweaty-wet, which isn't usually all that pleasant, and wasn't then, to be honest, but was probably better than falling in Clinton Lake. Clinton Lake is not the nicest lake, as far as water goes, and I don't really like deep water anyway. Something about sharks, and how they could be there. You laugh, maybe, but you never know. You can't know for sure that sharks aren't in that lake. No one has looked, because they just assume there aren't any. But assumptions make an ass out of me and you, and anyway, I didn't want to lose my ass to a shark bite, so I didn't fall in.

The other guys didn't fall either, even though I kind of wished they would, but only if they were ok, maybe just banged up enough that I could pass them, and then finish without working too hard. But anyway, they didn't fall, but they did slow down a bit. So I was still pretty close, and decided that this was probably the part where I should start running harder, because there wasn't that much trail left to run, and really, I do like running hard on the trail. I also like it when running hard translates to running fast, but this time, it didn't.

And so the other guys disappeared in to the woods, twisting around the bends and through the trees just ahead of me, and just outside of kicking range, fighting mostly for second and third, because the winner was going to win. The winner always wins; that's why he's the winner. Anyway, he was winning, even though he had taken a wrong turn, which I had done as well. I thought about making excuses regarding that, but decided that I shouldn't, because he was still winning, and had done the same. But he's faster than me, I thought. Well yeah, some other part of me said. That's kind of the point though, isn't it? Kind of hard to bitch about that.

There was a flight of stairs near the end, which I took two at a time, but only for two steps. Then I backed that off to one, and flipped my heels back at a 45-degree angle, spinning out to the side like egg beaters whipping the concrete, only it never got fluffy, which was probably ok, since I couldn't have run up it if it was fluffy. I thought about Led Zeppelin singing about the Stairway to Heaven, then about Gollum, that Lord of the Rings character that Zeppelin sings about too, then sort of sprinted across the grass, and across the finish. The three guys who had finished ahead of me clapped, and we went to get some water, bananas, and to bitch about how fucking hot it was, and how rocks are hard, and you know, you really can't run that fast on this course. And maybe the course was long too. I heard they changed it. Definitely long.

We stood there and caught our breath, our excuses, except for the guy who won, who was pretty gracious about the whole thing. He's always gracious, which is nice, because he's always winning. I am too, and I was then, because the guy who didn't quite place needs to be gracious too, and not whine about how the rock plate in his shoe prevented him from really opening up his stride, or how he had skipped breakfast, and only choked down some shitty gas station coffee on the way to the race, because he had nearly overslept. But you know, it was probably the coffee. You really can't be too careful about these things. If you drink shitty coffee, you'll probably miss a turn, and start to run up the wrong hill, and then probably, you'll go run the course again after the race, and then run around the street some, even harder, because you're kind of annoyed at yourself. So, you know, don't drink gas station coffee, and things like this won't happen.

Free State Trail Marathon Race Report

I don't remember the first time I ran at Clinton Lake, the local state park. I do remember that I skipped class to do it; though I can't say why. My memory of the subject is fleeting, comprised mostly of sore knees, slow trotting, and pulling up just short of an hour. Sixty consecutive minutes had been my goal, and although I didn't reach it, the ache in my joints suggested I had done enough.

One year ago, I ran the Free State Trail Half Marathon in 2:14. And I do remember that. The race started, as mine tend to, with a gusto-laden stride, too long and too fast. I clung to the leaders, thinking that pace was a thing to be willed, rather than earned. My training had been fractal, slow jogging whenever I felt like it, with the odd track interval session thrown in. I remember the trees, dirt, mud, and water crossings. I remember falling behind the leaders, stumbling down hills, and twisting my knee. I remember wishing that I had worn something other than road racing flats, and mostly, deciding that this trail racing thing was really too hard, and too painful.

I thought back to those moments, to those sensations, Saturday morning. I sat in my car, hiding until the sun crested the hills, and felt some paradoxical cocktail of confidence and fear. In the year since that half-marathon, I had run two ultras (one somewhat well), and put together some actual training. I had reason to believe in my fitness was up to the task awaiting me.

But then, hadn't I been confident before? And hadn't I been wrong before?

Here I was, nervously swatting my exposed quads, worrying about how my singlet fit. Here I was, wearing a singlet to begin with, wondering if that itself was fraudulent. Split shorts and singlets were for real runners. I remembered the person that couldn't run these trails for one hour, and wondered why he was dressed like this.

The horn went off, without so much as a countdown. The marathoners turned, and staggered down the road. Four of us pulled slightly to the front, myself holding behind. The man in the lead had a spectacular vaudevillian mustache, and the man behind me wore American flag shorts, with a singlet adorned with the word "BEEF". None of this seemed odd.

I spent the early portion chatting with a man from Omaha. He had begun to direct races there, and told me about a number of interesting races in Nebraska. I offered back monosyllabic chatter; clearly, he had more wind at this pace than me. Noticing this, I resigned to let him chase the mustache, and to ease off the pace.

The easing proved all too comfortable, however, as the middle miles slogged on. These were my hometown trails, rocks and roots I knew well. And yet I found myself shuffling, more than running, picking my way through the rocks, rather than bursting across them. My stride was that of someone who was running a 100-miler, not a marathon.

It occurred to me that I was going to get passed a lot, and that I really wanted to get to the halfway point. There, I could get Coke.

The man - who looked an awful lot like a taller Ryan Hall - wearing the BEEF singlet easily slid past me, just before a particularly rocky portion. I fell as he did, mostly because I was trying to read what the acronym ZIP stood for, which was also in bold type. (Zinc, Iron, Protein, as it turns out.) I laughed, and pulled myself up. I had talked for weeks about how comfortable I was on these trails, and how I never, never, fell.

One isn't so bad, I thought. The blood on my knee made a nice accessory, and if anything, served to invigorate my stride for a bit. Then I fell again.

Several more miles passed, without incident, but also without an increase in pace. I begged my hips to open up, but it was no use. I held in my mind a video of Geoff Roes and Uli Steidl, methodically ticking off stride after stride, working their way up a thin swath of dirt. In my mind, I was grinding out the same sort of effort - just a whole lot slower.

The halfway point gave me the Coke I had waited for, and the knowledge that I had covered half the required distance. I felt, on the same day that some were racing 100K, rather pathetic. I had run 13 miles, and was tired. It occurred to me that the only way to defeat that sentiment was to run, so I did. I ran from my paranoid sensation of weakness, and forward. Always forward.

But not very far forward, before I was struck by a powerful need to use the restroom. Does The Pope shit in the woods? I asked myself. No matter, I thought, because I had to. And so, Leave No Trace suggestions fresh in my mind, I waded trough the grass, and far off the trail. My proudest moment, this was not, but these things do happen.

I resumed running, and found my pace still lacking. There was no doubt that I could move forward, and do so comfortably, for hours more. I felt like I could run 50 miles. And while there was comfort in that, it wasn't the goal for the day. I wanted to run - to race - a marathon. And that took a gait I couldn't seem to find.

My ultra-shuffle took me to a clearing, and a path next to a fishing spot. There were men by the water, relaxing, certainly unconcerned by whatever I was doing. And there was a man behind me then, his pace like a metronome. I stepped aside, letting him by before we resumed running in the woods.

His company was pleasant, and we chatted for several minutes. I told him that I was going to hold his pace for as long as I could manage, and wished him a good race when I no longer could. But as he disappeared ahead, I felt encouraged. He had run 3:38 the previous year - good for 3rd place. He said that he was ahead of that pace, with about ten miles to go.

Under four? I asked myself. Would I be happy with that, and could I manage it? Yes to both, I decided. In a race where one might expect to win with anything under 3:30, sub-4 would suffice.

There was another aid station, positioned such that I could see many of the chase pack. To my surprise, I also saw the man who had passed me at the lake, and the then-departing BEEF shirt wearer. And so I told myself a lie, which happened to be completely true: You need only run a hard 10K. Your legs can manage that, and your lungs haven't really been taxed to begin with. The twenty previous miles were prelude; this, now, is the race.

It was a lie - but I wanted so badly to believe it, that I did. For the first time since the opening miles, I felt like I was running. I took the downhills with abandon, thinking that my quads and knees could be sore the next day, and nothing would be lost.

But my perception, it seemed, was not wholly accurate. There were footsteps again behind me, two runners that I could see, and others that I imagined.

And then it was fun. I flung myself down the hills, and charged up them. I felt myself pulling away, looked back, and found that I had. I felt a sticky substance in my right shoe, looked down, and saw that my venerable Hattori had a larger-than-usual hole in the upper, and that there was red spreading from that area. I felt proud, in a sense, like I had earned some sort of validation. I was running in split shorts and a singlet, but I had a bloody shoe!

My enthusiasm grew as I hit the final aid station. I downed two more cups of Coke, and ran with whatever I had left towards the finish. This was a section of the trail I knew especially well. It was rockier than most, and hillier too. But this was a 5K now; and I had run two 5Ks on these same rocks.

My pursuit, it seemed, had the same idea. They appeared again; first as the crunch of shoe on rock, then was the swish of shorts, and finally, as the breathing of a man laboring. I ran harder, because there was nothing else to do. My arms swung, and my stride lengthened. I held my gap, but did not lengthen it. And so I ran harder yet, and the gap remained the same.

There was a hill then, which I remembered walking up the previous year. I was near the finish, I knew, one final push from sprawling across the timing mat. Roes again in mind, I worked up the rocks, picking my way across them.

But there was still no gap, and this time, when I tried to run harder, there was nothing. A man in a blue shirt passed me, then one with a Salomon hydration pack, and finally, one with a red shirt. They were all very courteous, thanking me for pushing the pace to the finish. I stepped aside, clearing the trail for them. I congratulated then on matching that pace, and then besting it.

I saw my Dad, as I climbed the final hill. I smiled, and pointed to my shoe. 23 years old, and still pointing out a stubbed toe to my Dad, I thought. There was another surge behind me, though for this one I had an answer. I sprinted the final yards, leaned across the line, and finished in 3:46:50, 8th overall.

There was more Coke at the finish, but I didn't drink (or eat, for that matter) anything. I smiled, shook hands, accepted and extended congratulations. I talked with several people I knew previously, and a couple I had met during the race. We had shared the trail and the experience; and now we related it, with words and smiles. I felt tired, sore, elated, and so many other things. But whatever else, I felt, at least, like a runner.

Marathon on the Mind

If yesterday's post seemed a bit Nike-centric, and perhaps a bit running related, I hope you'll forgive me. My mind is on the marathon at the moment, on the 26.2 miles (as if a trail could be measured that well) of winding mud I hope to navigate somewhat quickly this Saturday.

If you've been reading for any length of time, this tangent will not be a surprise to you. Every so often, I attempt a rather long race, and my mind gets occupied with that. Sure, there are shorter dalliances, about which I usually say little to nothing. Winning a couple 5Ks is nice, to be sure, but not nearly as satisfying as my 16th place finish at the Psycho Wyco 50K. And though there is effort involved in running any distance, there is a lack of drama, and of romance, to distances that do not have the known risk of breaking you.

And there, in that potential for disaster, one finds the addiction. It is a potent cocktail, adrenaline and endorphins mixing with a million other things, some yet without names, to produce a unique state of presence. You are there, on the trail, and the whole world is under that canopy, contained in the mud, rocks, and roots over which you traverse. You are there, and you could not be anywhere else, could not be doing anything else. There is nothing more important than that hill, and getting to the top of it.

It is pure, primal, feral, free, and so many other things. But it is, ultimately, indescribable. Perhaps this is why so many words have been devoted to the distance, why writing on running produces eloquence unmatched. While we must ultimately fail in our attempts to capture the essence of our pursuit, the effort leads to beautiful heights. In that way, the writing and the running are alike. You don't run to win the race, but to find something in yourself. And you hope, likewise, to make something better, using your effort to carve a positive image of the self. You leave your fears and neurosis scattered on the trail, litter to be swept up by the feet of your fellows.

In 1956, at the start of the marathon, Emil Zatopek is said to have declared that "Men, today we die a little". And perhaps he was right. Though the part that dies, if anything truly does, is vestigial. What you are left with is more, a greater sense of the self, of what you and everyone else around you are capable of. You gain respect for the land over which you ran as well, as it serves as your omnipresent pacesetter, counsel, challenge, and inspiration. You feel a certain intimacy with even rocks, after racing over them.

But there is a certain futility in that description. As hyperbole-laden as it may seem, it falls short. It falls inevitably short, since words, however powerful, are so much smaller than the sum of human experience. They cannot take the full measure of miles, no matter how measured.