Even More Flying Monkey Pics
Rocket City Marathon Recap
Some reflections on the Rocket City Marathon.
Yes, this is the one and only Bill Rodgers who was a former record holder for the marathon and won NY and Boston. According to his Wiki page, was not only a hero, but secondary fuel for the running boom of the 1970’s. That guy he’s hanging out with in the Mexican poncho and glasses is my friend Roger who just finished his first 26.2 mile race in 2012. As you can imagine these two had a lot in common and talked for hours.
Below is the “infamous tunnel” that every runner had to deal with twice. I heard from several (well, one runner, Roger) that for a few seconds it became “pretty dark” and “it was hard to see if you were stepping on lizards or pine needles.” Jim was also fascinated by the narrow runway, specifically whether or not his Smart Car could make it through. We decided it could, but I don’t think he tried. 
This is Cara just before the finish and what she claims is a marathon PR. I haven’t done the research, so I am hesitant to confirm. 
There is Captain Jim warming up in his post race cape after his “failure” to qualify for Boston. He looked strong as an ox at mile 15, but couldn’t quite keep the pace and backed it down to save energy for training. His next shot will take place in New Orleans. Make sure to give him a pat on the back. He loves that, especially while running. 
Now, these guys I’m not sure what to make of. Well, actually, I am. They are good dudes and friends who temporarily lost their minds while winning over hundreds of runners in the process. Don’t be fooled by their quiet demeanor, either. They dished extreme vocal support to unsuspecting runners, nearly to the point of startling them off their stride. Seth and Daniel, marathon spirit team number one.
Roger channels his inner Bill Rodgers as he approaches the finish line. Shortly after the race, Roger told me, “You know, Bill was right. He said as you get near the finish line, remember one thing . . . You will never win a Boston or NY marathon, but you won’t win the Rocket City, either. Just make sure you follow the pace group with the sharpest looking ladies and everything else will fall into place.” 
It doesn’t matter how fast you are, entering the dreaded Rocket City tunnel brings out the nervous smile in everyone. Especially when you’re this tall and the tunnel ceiling was meant for middle school kids. 
Truth be told, it’s scenes like these that make me wonder why I drive 2 hours to take pictures of marathons. But then again, something here is remarkably awesome, especially when chants of “USA” ring in the background.
Here’s a shot of Roger going too fast at mile 2.5.
Let’s make no mistake, watching a marathon is exhausting. Thankfully Meg grew up in Huntsville and knew the back roads that kept us in front of the runners. Her family was also gracious enough to cook a mind blowing pasta feast that propelled East Nasty runners to excellent showings at Rocket City.
A New Perspective on Digging Deep
I have experienced it first hand as I struggled to finish my first 5k. I have watched friends complete half and full marathons while heat pummeled their bodies. I have witnessed a good friend finish Ironman Louisville despite puking multiple times on his 112 mile bike ride. The very nature of these races forces you to dig deeper. But what if we looked at the concept of digging deep in terms of trusting your plan?
Saturday at 7 am, I stood near the start line of the Rocket City Marathon with two friends who were there to watch. One of the guys said he signed up, but wasn’t running and like a flash, my brain skulled into overdrive. I went from casual spectator, to seriously contemplating a 26.2 mile run.
My gut bubbled. This would be the surprise of the day. I would headline the 10 o’clock news; people would be astonished by my feat; I would be limping for a week.
Thank God, logic choked me.
The Huntsville Marathon was not part of my plan and I think this is why most companies, teams and people get in trouble. They settle on a strategy, but ignore it for a deviant opportunity. The Steelers, St. Louis Cardinals, and folks at Apple stick to a plan . . . and it works.
I was thinking like the Titans yesterday. I was looking for a quick way to make fans and get closer to my goal of an immortal mortal. I know the hail mary is bad form, but sticking to a solid, long-term plan is one of the hardest things in life.
In fact, I was even imparting this wisdom the night before.
“I know you’ll feel good early, but resist temptation to start this marathon too fast. Finishing strong is a way better option.”
I mean, EVERYONE who runs knows this, but it is very difficult to stay with that plan.
“You’re running a race, for god’s sake, run the mother fucker!”
Of all the races I’ve completed, I did not take my advice in any of them. I always go out faster than I should and imagine I would have done the same had I decided to launch into the Rocket City Marathon.
So, I’d like to put a spin on the phrase “dig deep.” The obvious definition is to find something extra inside of you while you’re on the course. To swim one more lap. To spin when there’s nothing left. To pick up legs that can barely move. But what about digging deep when it comes to your character and a plan?
While I don’t know how deep I actually dug yesterday, I acted rationality. We endurance athletes often confuse going the extra mile with what’s best in the long run. I really try to remind myself to pull in the reigns with regard to training. It’s one thing to be a pro and push your body to the limits, but a big reason I’m committed to doing an Ironman is for the side benefits. I really believe it will unleash a better and more consistent person.
There is imbalance with any pursuit of passion and that holds true to training as well. What point is all of this working out if it makes you hurt? What point is there in settling on a plan and throwing it out the first time you’re tempted to do something else? Or do we simply prepare to be predictably irrational?
Heading to Huntsville Marathon
If you would have told me a year ago that I would be taking road trips to watch people run I would have slapped you upside the head. Now if you told me that, I would say, “You’re right.”
My friend Roger moved to Nashville from Wisconsin about 15 years ago. He settled into his Inglewood home and dreamt of the day he’d be a full time musician and/or songwriter. That dream festered for years, but in less than two months, it will be a reality. He’s taking his catalog of beach-friendly-originals and moving to the Keys, a true Cheesehead in Paradise.
We met at the Village Pub one night and have spent numerous hours reflecting on our Wisconsin roots over cold (and sometimes warm) beers. He likes to say I’m not really from Wisconsin because I grew up a stone’s throw from Illinois and am not very good on a grill, but there is an undeniable connection that typically shines in the stories we tell about our friends.
Roger and I formed Badger Nation Nashville one night on a bar napkin and spent much of last season pounding beer and pulling for new quarterback Russell Wilson and our beloved Badgers. But one night last November, we noticed a similarity neither of us liked.
We had slowly turned into blimp versions of ourselves and each vowed silently to address the problem. The next year would be different.
Today at 1:00 I’m jumping in the car with Roger and heading to Huntsville for the Rocket City Marathon. I’m not running, but will be screaming from the sidelines as Roger crosses the finish line of his first marathon.
I’ll also be cheering for my buddy Jim, who is setting his goals on the Boston Marathon. Jim has completed two Ironman’s and several other long distance races, but this will be his first stand-alone marathon. If all goes well, I will be running the last 6 miles by his side as he chases history.
If I had to point to one reason I am so involved in training and pursuit of Ironman Wisconsin, it would be Jim. He sacrificed a lot of time to plod along with me as I learned to love running. He spent countless winter nights holding back his pace and dishing out motivation as I slowly built my confidence and ability. I really hope to give something back to him tomorrow.
It really is kind of crazy in my head to think about driving 2 hours to watch a marathon, but I know those limited sightings go a long ways in helping runners push toward the finish. That, and the more I get into endurance sports, I realize it’s less about me and what I can bring to others. Hopefully my presence helps both of these guys hit their goals.
The Post-Race That Changed Me
Saturday, I cut a few more notches in my belt. It was a bittersweet day that, in many ways, changed who I am as a person.
Rebekah and I met Roger at the start line around 7:30 to shiver and discuss strategy for our 12K run. It was the first annual 12k Winter Warm Up and I knew it would be a little hilly, but it proved to be a beast.
12k turns out to be about 7.2 miles and would be the longest run I’d done in a while. I was coming off a nice 4-Mile race on Thanksgiving and decided to set my goal pace at 7:46m, which is my buddy Jim’s goal next week for the Huntsville Marathon. If he can do that for 26 miles, I can do it for 7.2! The competition bubbles.
There was also a 6k and the 12k was two loops. I’m not a huge fan of that set up, but it turned out to be kinda cool because we kept running by each other. I had mentally set a goal of 31:00 for the first 4 miles because I did that distance in 28:51 the week before. It seemed manageable and would put me in good position for the last 3.2.
Talking about these paces is a little surreal to me. In March, I was literally unsure if I could “finish” a 5k, let alone bust one at sub 8 after already running 4 miles. But, it’s a testament to what we can do if we stick with something.
Anyway, the course was filled with rolling hills and descents, but not much in terms of flat. I’ve actually come to love hills, though and feel like training with East Nasties has given me an advantage. In fact, there was a solid line of people I train with busting down the other side of the road ahead of me all day long.
To make a long and boring story short, I took first in my age group with a time of 56:39. Thing was, I thought there was no way I’d come close after running the first bastard of a loop. What’s kinda crazy cool is that I ran my first 5k in March at a 9:10 pace and it was a flat course. Yesterday my pace was 7:51 on a tough 12k track.
But that’s good news.
As we were walking back to our cars, Rebekah suddenly tripped and fell straight to the pavement. It was so quick she was already picking herself up before I realized what happened. Halfway up, I heard her say, “My tooth,” as she reached out to pick a white spec off the sidewalk. I was paralyzed.
She stood up and looked at me with a swollen and bloody lip . . . and sure enough, half of her front tooth was gone. I felt an incredible surge of compassion wash through my body. I leaned in, hugged her and said everything would be okay. Her pain was mine and I felt the horror that had to be racing through her mind. The flukiest of accidents had changed the entire tone of the day. The race was gone. The afternoon was gone. The smiles were gone.
I gathered myself, put my arm around her and we staggered to the car. I reassured her it would be okay, but had no idea what to do next. Then, in the most calming of tones, she spoke through her bloody hand, “Well, good thing my dad is a dentist.”
I was so proud of the way she handled her fate. Roger gracefully followed as we drove to her parents and knocked on the door. An unsuspecting mother opened the door to see her little girl in pain and it brought a tear to my eye. We explained what happened and her father calmly assured her everything would be just fine.
“Honey, this is what I do, I will take care of you.”
She laid back on the couch with ice on her lip and I knelt by her side wiping the moisture from her cheek. It’s the unknown that scares us and there was enough to last me a lifetime.
I took her car and waited in agony for some news. Would he be able to save it? Would she need a new tooth? Was a dentist’s daughter ready to face the world with a cracked smile? I felt helpless, but the flood of compassion kept rushing through my veins. In the face of her pain I literally felt my ego dripping away.
Two hours later I got a text message with a picture of her pretty smile restored in between big swollen lips. It was one of the greater senses of relief I’ve had in years. I could feel my body relax, a true, deep, and sincere calm. Hearing her upbeat voice helped even more.
The power of emotions is undeniable and I feel like the last year of training has unearthed many buried feelings. Saturday was another roller coaster that started on top, sank to the bottom, but set the tone for another magnificent climb to greater heights.
I didn’t swim, bike, or run on Sunday, but a renewed energy had me bouncing off the walls. I wanted to be with friends. Help people. Listen, love, and learn. I felt a sense of gratitude to be surrounded by so many amazing people and training for an unimaginable quest like Ironman with four other great guys and an inspirational coach.
It may be fleeting, but for now I have an increased sense of the moment. I’m excited and grateful for each training session that lies ahead. I’m optimistic that I will continue to improve and reach internal and external goals that have been patiently waiting for me. It’s all about enjoying the process and putting in the work. And considering the overall winner in that 12k beat me by 20+ minutes, I certainly have room for improvement.
Flying Monkey Marathon More Pictures
Here are some more pics from the Flying Monkey Marathon in Nashville. My apologies for shooting the “slow clock” in some of these shots. Feel free to follow my blog for more pictures and insight on the road to Ironman Wisconsin.
Music City Thanksgiving Day 4-Mile Run
If you had any doubt about my life being a complete cluster-f*k at times, this morning should cement your opinion.
I was up early and ready for the Music City Thanksgiving 4 Miler and carrying my new “smile attitude” for good measure. I went through a short warm-up routine in the basement that includes running in place, some push ups, and foam rolling to one of my go-to albums, “F*k This Shit We’re Outta Here,” by The Pimps. My dog circled me with her squeaky toy and my legs felt good, even after a 3.8 mile run with the East Nasties last night.
I left home at 7:30 for the 8:00 race and found myself in the back of a huge line of traffic around 7:40 at LP Field. I couldn’t understand how a 500 person race could cause this much back up at an NFL football stadium with thousands of parking slots. I found out soon enough.
After ten minutes I finally pulled into the ONE section they opened for race parking and a lady walks up to me and asked if I paid yet.
“Um, paid for what?”
“Parking.”
“Parking?”
“Yeah, it’s 5 bucks?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Don’t blame us, it’s the race organizer.”*
“I don’t have any cash.”
“Sorry.”
So, ten minutes to race time and I’m scrambling through the scrap yards and back alleys near LP Field looking for a parking spot, but there are cops everywhere screaming, “You can’t park there!”
I spin around the corner, and cut through the actual race course, loop all the way around the stadium and find a lot that takes credit cards. But, of course, the machine wasn’t working. I had to risk it and started running toward the start line. I turned the corner and saw the lead runners tearing off into the sunset. I missed the start!
Five hundred runners tore past me and I played Frogger to get through them and find the registration tent. The nice lady gave me my bib and ripped off my timing chip which I put on my shoe. I circled back around the start line, hit my watch, and raced after the racers.
I didn’t catch the first walker until point 3 miles into the race. Then it was navigation time as I slipped and slid through the massive throng of people in front of me. We curled through the “infamous parking area” and landed at the bottom of the imposing Shelby Street Bridge.
My hands and legs were cold, but my pace was blistering (for me). I hit the first mile mark around 7:15 and flew down the backside of the bridge with my goal of sub 30 minutes in tact. We weaved through the downtown construction, past the Rescue Mission, then up to the new roundabout near the spectacular Music City Center. It was a short steep hill that caught me off guard and hurt.
At the top of that hill we turned right onto Demonbreun and it was a four block downhill, so I trusted my ailing knee and pounded onward. I was cooking pretty good and passing people left and right. I used my new smiling technique coupled with parking anger to fuel my time, which was right on pace.
I staggered mid-way up the Shelby Bridge, but kept a steady 8 minute pace. Once on top, it was on again and I blasted down the backside feeling strong as we turned left toward the home stretch. I didn’t look at the race clock, but clicked stop on my watch as I crossed the finish line and it read 28:51. A solid minute under my goal and a 7:15 pace.
Like a turkey that escaped the kill, I proudly walked to the finish table where I saw fellow Fab Fiver, Daniel, who was time keeper for the race. I asked him to look up my number but he didn’t have a time for me. His buddy looked at my shoe and noticed I wasn’t wearing the right timing strip. It was still on my bib and didn’t register.
Okay, so lessons did we learn, kids?
1. Show up early to races flush with cash to grease unexpected parking officials.
2. Never trust nice old ladies to tie on your timing chips.
3. Listen to the Pimps to get you pumped up.
4. Smile in the face of it.
* Edit: I now see an email warning us about parking and evidently it is LP Field’s policy. Note to LP Field: Just because your football team sucks doesn’t mean you have to.
Triathlon Simulation
This is how ridiculous I can be. I came home after work determined to lay around and watch basketball, which I did for about 5 minutes. I got up, stumbled into the kitchen, ate an entire box of cereal, then decided, not only to workout, but to simulate a Sprint Triathlon at the Y.
I jumped in the pool and did a quick 11 laps (about 550 yards). I did my best to imagine people beating the shit out of me, but considering there were only two old ladies on aqua bikes in the shallow end, it wasn’t easy. I completed my first event in about 10 minutes, then ran into the locker room to dry off and change into sweats.
Transition One, about 5 minutes.
The large staircase was a welcome challenge on my way to the Spin Bike. I deftly avoided a large woman talking very loudly on her cell phone and trucked toward the sterile room full of ugly machines.
I used to love working out inside at the Y, but after learning how to run outside, I’m starting to question the validity of “gyms.” I mean, I get the weight part, I guess, but there is a Cross-fit gym not far from here that is in an old gas station and I love it when they open all the doors and flex “in nature.”
Inside workouts kinda bring me down. But, I sucked it up and jumped on the Spin Bike next to a colorful woman doing short choppy steps on her Stairmaster, which I decided was some type of effort to be better in bed or on the dance floor.
I spun and spun for what seemed like forever, but looked up at the clock and it was literally only 6 minutes. I was stunned, and, similar to most of my workouts, contemplated quitting. But I didn’t.
There’s something about riding a stationary bike that is both bullshit and awesome sauce. I sweat like a nun in a porn shop. I mean, there were puddles building and the bike started to drift closer to my colorful princess.
Somehow I toughed out 25 minutes before heading to the janitor’s closet and grabbing a wet vac to slurp up the puddles around my bike. My new lady friend didn’t seem to care and I noticed her ass was moving with a little more steam.
Transition two, about 3 minutes.
On to the treadmill for a quick 25 minute jog, or so I thought. The minute that belt started moving I remembered how much I hate fucking treadmills. I put the incline on “one” and pecked along at a 9 minute pace for, oh . . . about . . . 2 minutes.
I couldn’t take it. My ankles felt like they were going to get swallowed into some kind of treadmill vortex never to be seen again. There was nothing left to do, but chuckle, power down, and look forward to tomorrow night’s run with the East Nasties.
Post script: I signed up for a 4 mile race on Thanksgiving morning and yes, I really did eat a whole box of cereal. It was a smaller box, but I estimated about 1,000 calories. Must be something to do with post-work-early-darkness depression.
Flying Monkey Pics
I’m in conversion hell, so this will take at least another day, but here are a few more pictures from the one and only Flying Monkey.
