It's an oft-repeated truism that, in order to run, you really only need a good pair of shoes. I've managed to do just fine with far less than that, recently. My venerable Hattori - which were never really quite "shoes", properly - are now beyond salvage. Their cushion - of which there was never really any - is gone. The upper is coming apart. The sockliner is worn away completely where the ball of my foot strikes. The combination of those things basically means that I'm running barefoot, even when I'm not. There's just no material left.
I've logged probably 99.9% of my miles since December in that one pair - probably a couple thousand, at least, though I never count - so I can't complain of a lack of value. The things cost me $40, and they worked. Or at least, they let me work. (Which is what matters, really: You are not your shoes.) And they saw me through Heartland, over 50 miles of toothy gravel.
Regardless, it's time to shop. Not a favorite pastime of mine. I enjoy the paucity of gear running requires, and generally, hate spending my money on anything that isn't coffee, fruit, or books. I'm not a minimalist runner in the sense that I think skimpy shoes are right for all runners at all times; but I am one in that I like running is the least amount of shit possible. Because shit is shit. Simple, right?
In related news, mandatory overtime at work, now and for the foreseeable future. I can probably spend more than $40 this time around.
Probably some updates later. Maybe. Maybe it's not worth talking all that much about. I'd rather mention, while we're here, that I ran 8 today, at a not-total-slog pace. Everything felt good. High volume training is cool like that.
October 17, 2013
October 15, 2013
Heartland: Obsessive Progression, Quantified
Previous Results
2011- 10:53:07
2012- 9:01:49
The former was my first ultramarathon, and, if we're being honest, my first marathon as well. I was, to be kind to my past self, undertrained and underprepared. But I was determined to finished, even after a too-fast start led to a too-weak IT band going rogue, rendering me an ambling mess for the final 14 miles. Probably, this is the most important race I've ever run. It laid bare weaknesses in me that I could neither deny nor - my psyche being what it is - tolerate. So I decided to fix them.
That's precisely what I set about doing. 2012 was my first year of truly structured training - having really just taken to running the previous year - and as such, my goal with Heartland was simply to execute a good, smart race. I let the leaders go, ran 4:15 out, but slowed somewhat, returning in 4:46. I felt that the race was an accurate representation of my fitness, but that, as always, my fitness needed to improve.
The Plan
In short? Run as much as possible. No tracking miles. Just get in 1-3 hours, every day, starting in February. Lots of hills. Lots of pavement. Two speedier sessions every week as well. Thankfully, I enjoy training and have basically no other hobby, so this wasn't at all hard to stick to.
I used the common distances of 5K, 10K, and 13.1 miles for the purposes of semi-frequent self-testing, via solo time-trialing (on the track, for ease of measurement). Given that I usually race on trails, I wanted to objectively quantify any improvements I was (hopefully) making. The goal was to get my 5K under 18 (nope), my 10K under 39 (38:19), and my half marathon under 1:25 (1:24:39).
But none of that would matter if my legs couldn't hold up for 50 miles, so I spent three days a week on what I termed "durability work" as well. Aside from some vanity lifting, this consisted of squats, deadlifts, glute/ham raises, side lying leg raises, and all manner of planks. Despite my relatively ambitious running volume, I incurred no injuries (not even a solitary forced day off), so I'd have to say this worked.
My final long run was the Hawk Marathon, at Clinton Lake in Lawrence, KS. Despite my going rather severely off course (To be clear: This is my home course, and it was well-marked. But I'm directionally challenged.), and running somewhere close to an extra 2 miles, I managed to run 3:55:15, and win. My long run ended up being even longer than planned, and I felt fit, so this was a good result.
The Taper
Remember that part about having no other hobbies? Yeah. I didn't run the Friday before. Does that count?
The Gear
A cycling shirt, so that I could use the back pockets, and avoid carrying a pack.
Nike split shorts. Because pants are the law.
A 0.5 L Platypus water bottle. As it's soft, it could fold up, when empty. I planned to run with it that way, and only drink at the aid stations.
Heavily used Saucony Hattori. I'm a devout minimalist zealot, but this turned out to be a mistake. More on that later.
The Race
My goal was to minimize the importance of the race itself, somewhat, by focusing so wholly on the preparation. Simply, I wanted to do the work, show up, and not fuck it up.
Goal 1) As always, finish. Hopefully without an existential meltdown. Goal 2-9) Win. Goal 10) Run a fast time.
Given my priorities, I started at what I felt to be a fairly relaxed pace. One runner came with me, and we ran together for the first 16 miles. They were certainly more pleasant miles, for having the company. (I'm awful with names, but I believe this was Chris Perry, who ended up having a great run, finishing in 8:48:37.)
I reached the turnaround at 3:50, by which time I had opened up a small lead. Unfortunately, last year's muddy race had given me a false sense of of security, regarding the gravel. Simply, my shoes, basically slippers to begin with, were getting shredded. Large portions of the sole were already missing, and they could not likely sustain the return trip.
Unless...
I asked, not expecting an affirmative, if the aid station had duct tape. Thankfully, they did. My Dad (and crew for the evening) quickly taped up my shoes, and I was off again, with my redneck rockplates.
Still, I ran very conservatively back to the next aid station. There were still a lot of miles to go, and I wanted to be sure that my improvised shoe solution would in fact work. Once there, I ate two figs, and popped a couple Ibuprofen.
With a mild sugar rush and not-so-mild pain suppression fogging my mind, I decided that this was fun again, that my feet felt fine, that this duct tape was working perfectly (it seriously saved my race), and that I should push it, just a little. Get to the final aid station, see where you stand, I told myself.
I cruised in and looked down at my watch, which read 6:48. I knew that I had run to this aid station at the race's start in 1:10, so I quickly downed two cups of ginger ale, and decided I could finish in under 8 hours. Maybe. Possibly. Certainly, I would try like hell.
The 8 miles that followed were some of the most satisfying running of my life. Every time I asked my legs for just a little bit more, they responded, and with very minimal pain. Even my feet felt just short of awful, rather than downright necrotic. Every 100 miler I passed (and their pacers) offered encouragement, and, in a few cases, commented on the daring fashion statement my shoes were making. One pacer (in a pink tutu, I believe) probably best summed up the absurdity of it all when she said: "Holy shit!"
The final 4 miles, by my hazy math, would require slightly sub-9 minute pace. Hills behind me, I thought this reasonable, and found the challenge invigorating. So, I told myself, simply run as hard as you can for 5K. At that point, the finish will be so close that adrenaline will take over. I hoped.
I hoped, and turned on to the finishing stretch of pavement with a little under 3 minutes to go. Fucking sprint. Or, you know, what passed for sprinting, at that point, for someone with basically zero natural leg speed. Still, I sprinted, and in my mind, I was David fucking Rudisha (not his real middle name, sadly), rather than some floppy haired jogging enthusiast with duct tape on his tattered running slippers.
Result
2013- 7:59:59
The Aftermath
Potatoes. A lot of potatoes.
Next
In short? Run as much as possible. No tracking miles. Just get in 1-3 hours, every day, starting now. Lots of hills. Lots of pavement. Two speedier sessions every week as well. Thankfully, I enjoy training and have basically no other hobby, so this won't be at all hard to stick to.
2011- 10:53:07
2012- 9:01:49
The former was my first ultramarathon, and, if we're being honest, my first marathon as well. I was, to be kind to my past self, undertrained and underprepared. But I was determined to finished, even after a too-fast start led to a too-weak IT band going rogue, rendering me an ambling mess for the final 14 miles. Probably, this is the most important race I've ever run. It laid bare weaknesses in me that I could neither deny nor - my psyche being what it is - tolerate. So I decided to fix them.
That's precisely what I set about doing. 2012 was my first year of truly structured training - having really just taken to running the previous year - and as such, my goal with Heartland was simply to execute a good, smart race. I let the leaders go, ran 4:15 out, but slowed somewhat, returning in 4:46. I felt that the race was an accurate representation of my fitness, but that, as always, my fitness needed to improve.
The Plan
In short? Run as much as possible. No tracking miles. Just get in 1-3 hours, every day, starting in February. Lots of hills. Lots of pavement. Two speedier sessions every week as well. Thankfully, I enjoy training and have basically no other hobby, so this wasn't at all hard to stick to.
I used the common distances of 5K, 10K, and 13.1 miles for the purposes of semi-frequent self-testing, via solo time-trialing (on the track, for ease of measurement). Given that I usually race on trails, I wanted to objectively quantify any improvements I was (hopefully) making. The goal was to get my 5K under 18 (nope), my 10K under 39 (38:19), and my half marathon under 1:25 (1:24:39).
But none of that would matter if my legs couldn't hold up for 50 miles, so I spent three days a week on what I termed "durability work" as well. Aside from some vanity lifting, this consisted of squats, deadlifts, glute/ham raises, side lying leg raises, and all manner of planks. Despite my relatively ambitious running volume, I incurred no injuries (not even a solitary forced day off), so I'd have to say this worked.
My final long run was the Hawk Marathon, at Clinton Lake in Lawrence, KS. Despite my going rather severely off course (To be clear: This is my home course, and it was well-marked. But I'm directionally challenged.), and running somewhere close to an extra 2 miles, I managed to run 3:55:15, and win. My long run ended up being even longer than planned, and I felt fit, so this was a good result.
The Taper
Remember that part about having no other hobbies? Yeah. I didn't run the Friday before. Does that count?
The Gear
A cycling shirt, so that I could use the back pockets, and avoid carrying a pack.
Nike split shorts. Because pants are the law.
A 0.5 L Platypus water bottle. As it's soft, it could fold up, when empty. I planned to run with it that way, and only drink at the aid stations.
Heavily used Saucony Hattori. I'm a devout minimalist zealot, but this turned out to be a mistake. More on that later.
The Race
My goal was to minimize the importance of the race itself, somewhat, by focusing so wholly on the preparation. Simply, I wanted to do the work, show up, and not fuck it up.
Goal 1) As always, finish. Hopefully without an existential meltdown. Goal 2-9) Win. Goal 10) Run a fast time.
Given my priorities, I started at what I felt to be a fairly relaxed pace. One runner came with me, and we ran together for the first 16 miles. They were certainly more pleasant miles, for having the company. (I'm awful with names, but I believe this was Chris Perry, who ended up having a great run, finishing in 8:48:37.)
I reached the turnaround at 3:50, by which time I had opened up a small lead. Unfortunately, last year's muddy race had given me a false sense of of security, regarding the gravel. Simply, my shoes, basically slippers to begin with, were getting shredded. Large portions of the sole were already missing, and they could not likely sustain the return trip.
Unless...
I asked, not expecting an affirmative, if the aid station had duct tape. Thankfully, they did. My Dad (and crew for the evening) quickly taped up my shoes, and I was off again, with my redneck rockplates.
Still, I ran very conservatively back to the next aid station. There were still a lot of miles to go, and I wanted to be sure that my improvised shoe solution would in fact work. Once there, I ate two figs, and popped a couple Ibuprofen.
With a mild sugar rush and not-so-mild pain suppression fogging my mind, I decided that this was fun again, that my feet felt fine, that this duct tape was working perfectly (it seriously saved my race), and that I should push it, just a little. Get to the final aid station, see where you stand, I told myself.
I cruised in and looked down at my watch, which read 6:48. I knew that I had run to this aid station at the race's start in 1:10, so I quickly downed two cups of ginger ale, and decided I could finish in under 8 hours. Maybe. Possibly. Certainly, I would try like hell.
The 8 miles that followed were some of the most satisfying running of my life. Every time I asked my legs for just a little bit more, they responded, and with very minimal pain. Even my feet felt just short of awful, rather than downright necrotic. Every 100 miler I passed (and their pacers) offered encouragement, and, in a few cases, commented on the daring fashion statement my shoes were making. One pacer (in a pink tutu, I believe) probably best summed up the absurdity of it all when she said: "Holy shit!"
The final 4 miles, by my hazy math, would require slightly sub-9 minute pace. Hills behind me, I thought this reasonable, and found the challenge invigorating. So, I told myself, simply run as hard as you can for 5K. At that point, the finish will be so close that adrenaline will take over. I hoped.
I hoped, and turned on to the finishing stretch of pavement with a little under 3 minutes to go. Fucking sprint. Or, you know, what passed for sprinting, at that point, for someone with basically zero natural leg speed. Still, I sprinted, and in my mind, I was David fucking Rudisha (not his real middle name, sadly), rather than some floppy haired jogging enthusiast with duct tape on his tattered running slippers.
Result
2013- 7:59:59
The Aftermath
Potatoes. A lot of potatoes.
Next
In short? Run as much as possible. No tracking miles. Just get in 1-3 hours, every day, starting now. Lots of hills. Lots of pavement. Two speedier sessions every week as well. Thankfully, I enjoy training and have basically no other hobby, so this won't be at all hard to stick to.
October 14, 2013
Perpetual Motion
The thing about race reports is that the deal entirely with things that have already taken place.
Heartland happened. It went well. I am genuinely pleased to have won the race, but more so, that the two years of work that went into making it happen worked. I'm not really interested in romanticizing my training, however, or dramatizing my "journey".
It's not that I'm not proud of my progress, so much as I always just assumed it would happen. Three years ago, I told my roommates I'd win this race one day, despite having never run further than 9 miles, at the time. I believed it, because I'm fucking nuts, basically. But here we are.
And where are we?
Back in the gym. Getting my legs moving and trying to coax some strength back in to everything above my waist. Home, searching ultrasignup for another race. A 50k in two weeks looks cool. If my legs get back under me in that time, I'd be fit enough to hammer a fast one, and it's a flat course. Maybe a 6-hour ultra in November? Or a road marathon?
Can't say. I can say that every good race can be turned into one hell of a workout if you just sign up for something else right after it, and I'm probably going to do that.
For me, that's really the entire source of satisfaction from a race well-run. I'm not really ever pleased with my performance, as much as I am pleased that it moves me one step closer to some ever-improving ideal version of myself. Essentially, the better I do, the better I think I can do. Those imagined prospects quickly drown out past accomplishments, and I plow forward.
I never catch the carrot, but fuck, I do really like carrots, so I guess I better keep going.
October 13, 2013
Heartland, Briefly
The narrative of most any successful race is essentially this: I ran as hard as I could for as long as I had to. I finished and it was hard but ultimately gratifying.
Heartland fits the template. I ran hard and led the whole way. I won comfortably in 7:59:59, sprinting like hell to make finish under 8 hours. The middle miles lagged a bit, and the gravel shredded my shoes to the point that duct tape was required to keep them and my feet together. (Just a day later, and my feet are fine, however.)
I have a lot more to say, not about how the race unfolded specifically, but about peri-race things. When I can organize them somewhat, you'll hear more.
For now, I'm just gonna chill.
Heartland fits the template. I ran hard and led the whole way. I won comfortably in 7:59:59, sprinting like hell to make finish under 8 hours. The middle miles lagged a bit, and the gravel shredded my shoes to the point that duct tape was required to keep them and my feet together. (Just a day later, and my feet are fine, however.)
I have a lot more to say, not about how the race unfolded specifically, but about peri-race things. When I can organize them somewhat, you'll hear more.
For now, I'm just gonna chill.
October 11, 2013
Killing Time
Time is both uniquely hard to kill and yet supremely vulnerable when we'd least like it to be. No shit, right?
Time flies, allegedly, when fun is being had.
Today has felt its length. Is feeling it. Tomorrow will be no different. The race starts at 6, and I will be totally, horribly lucid for every moment, from my inevitably too early waking to the shuffling, ambling start.
And then?
Jogging. Glancing. Who's going for it? Do they know what the hell they're doing? Chill.
Miles to go, but time, time.
Time killers today:
Overtime at work.
Browsing a bike shop, where it was noted that, to my supreme amusement, my arms were too big for the "race cut" jerseys. (I'm 5'10, 140 lbs. A bike shop is the only place I'm anything but a stick. Maybe I should hangout more often?)
Rice and beans, apples. Carbs. No running today though, so no appetite. Pre race stomach didn't help. I got down roughly 1,000 cals today, total, gave up. Is this how cyclists eat every day?
Read some things, watched some things.
Now? Writing this. No shit, right?
Overtime at work.
Browsing a bike shop, where it was noted that, to my supreme amusement, my arms were too big for the "race cut" jerseys. (I'm 5'10, 140 lbs. A bike shop is the only place I'm anything but a stick. Maybe I should hangout more often?)
Rice and beans, apples. Carbs. No running today though, so no appetite. Pre race stomach didn't help. I got down roughly 1,000 cals today, total, gave up. Is this how cyclists eat every day?
Read some things, watched some things.
Now? Writing this. No shit, right?
October 9, 2013
Pre-Race Non-Thoughts
Trying to find something to say about my pending race, because I feel like there should be words here for it. 50 miles is a long way, long enough to appear something of an impossible stunt to my new coworkers, who haven't been introduced to ultramarathons as things that exist. But I don't have much to tell them, nor do I have much to tell you.
It is a silly thing I'm about to do. No arguing that.
And yet.
It should be a beautiful night.
Things are good. Fitness is better than ever. Nothing hurts.
I'm not nervous, not scared. It's just running. It might hurt, though. Almost certainly will, in fact. And?
Not excited really, either. No anxiety at all. No nervous energy. It's just a run. Go cruise. Let the hills do the work and turn your legs over. Chill.
You run 50 miles the same as you run 5 - one step at a time. Bullshit cliche but the race goes through a lot of pasture and so there will be plenty more bullshit to come. I'm just getting comfortable. Anyway, neither your legs nor your mind can cover the distance at once, so don't try.
So... No goals? Time? Place?
Honestly, I've got them. I'd like to run fast. Goal is 8, or a little under; and I think I could flirt with 7, if everything clicks. If that happens, looking at the rest of the field, I guess I'll probably win.
But shit, I don't know. And truthfully, honestly, my only real goal is to have a sensation-filled run. I want to feel. Good? Bad? Everything. I'm looking for an endorphin bath, not a belt buckle.
(Sitting here for thirty minutes. Can't think of a tidy or profound ending. That's it? That's it.)
(Sitting here for thirty minutes. Can't think of a tidy or profound ending. That's it? That's it.)
October 3, 2013
Prairie Ode
Stealing this from the Heartland race packet, which is, in turn stealing it from William Least Heat Moon:
There are several ways not to walk on the prairie, and one of them is with your eye on a far goal, because you then begin to believe you're not closing the distance any more than you would with a mirage. My woodland sense of scale and time didn't fit this country, and I started wondering whether I could reach the summit before dark. On the prairie, distance and the miles of air turn movement to stasis and openness to a wall, a thing as difficult to penetrate as dense forest. I was hiking in a chamber of absences where the near was the same as the far, and it seemed every time I raised a step the earth rotated under me so that my foot fell just where it had lifted from. Limits and markers make travel possible for people: circumscribe our lines of sight and we can really get somewhere. Before me lay the Kansas of popular conception from Coronado on - that place you have to get through, that purgatory of mileage.
Hiking in the woods allows a traveler to imagine comforting enclosures, one leading to the next, and the walker can possess those little encompassed spaces, but the prairie and plains permit no such possession. Whatever else prairie is - grass, sky, wind - it is most of all a paradigm of infinity, a clearing full of many things except boundaries, and its power come from its apparent limitlessness; there is no such thing as a small prairie any more than there is a little ocean, and the consequence of both is this challenge: try to take yourself seriously out here, you bipedal plodder, you complacent cartoon.
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