I thought since we’re all getting in the mood for Nashville’s Country Music Marathon, I’d post a video I shot when lived over on Music Row. This was long before I started running, but doing this every year was certainly a spark. There’s an East Nasty and a fun storyline with a little girl who is watching.
They told me I wouldn’t sleep much . . . and they were right. The Saturday before I had run the furtherst distance of my life, eight miles. It was a painful lumber in the rain with my fellow “Couch to 5K Graduate,” Grant, on the flattest of Greenways. Now, I was standing with 30,000 other people convincing myself I could go 5.1 miles further on what many consider one of the tougher 1/2 marathon courses. 
I stood next to my buddy Roger (who was also running his first 1/2) contemplating whether or not I could make it through the bathroom line in time to get back for the start. I passed and hoped the feeling would go away. Roger and I had the same goal of around 2:10 and started this journey together after a late night photograph revealed we were both turning into whales. We trained on our own, but this race was in our sights for months. His strategy was to listen to three songs with the same cadence over and over on his iPod to keep pace. Mine was to keep running. 
The gun went off and our corral inched its way toward the starting mat. I was cold, had to piss, and was suddenly feeling very intimidated by the idea of running so far. I stayed with Roger for about three blocks and his methodical precision started pulling away. My biggest fear was starting too fast, so I purposely went slow, and soon . . . Roger was gone. 
It didn’t take long before I started feeling the reality of a 1/2 marathon. As I got to the top of the infamous Demonbreun Street hill, I was barely 3 miles in and apparently falling asleep. This was a risk that seemed like it was sure to have a bad ending. 
But, I was on a mission and started using hallucinations to my advantage. For some reason, I thought I had really picked up the pace and started spotting Roger every couple blocks. I’d see him just within striking range and pour on the muscle with plans of flying by with a big back slap on the way. But every time I got close, I realized it wasn’t him. My haphazard racing style was no match for his West Point style of discipline.
For the first 9 miles or so, I was in pain, but nothing like I was about to face at mile 10. I rounded the corner in the Gulch and hit an absolute wall. In all my years of athletics, I have never experienced such a physical meltdown. My legs basically shut off. Instead of running I began to shuffle, and as you can see from the above photo, I was one of the sexier specimens on the course at this time. They wound us into Bicentennial Park and before cutting left toward the finish line, the organizers dropped in a couple of turnarounds that absolutely ground my soul into mush. It took every fiber of my being not to walk. 
My shins felt like they may literally crumble at any moment and it wouldn’t have surprised me if there were razor blades in my shorts slicing into my thighs with every step. With less than a mile to go and a downhill ahead to take me home, I still wasn’t sure I could make it without walking. Each step felt like I was putting my foot into a cauldron of boiling acid and that downhill would prove to be one of the more excruciating jaunts of my life. 
From watching several marathons in the past I remembered the finish line being on the other side of the stadium, but through the grace of God, I was nearly brought to tears when I my creaky ankles turned at the bottom of the hill and pointed at the finish line a mere 50 yards away. I saw the photographers hovering above ready to capture my glorious moment and put every ounce of energy I had left into raising my arms for the photo op. 
I was on the verge of fainting and these two girls didn’t seem to give one shit about the fact that my eyes were rolling back into my head. The good news was, that about 10 steps after the finish line, I found myself immersed in a claustrophobic sea of humanity, which may have been the biggest challenge of the race. I was a lost boy without a home (or a medal) and instinctively started shouting “Yo Roger” in the voice of Stallone looking for Adrian.
Eventually I got my medal and found Roger. We were the proudest two guys on the block and immediately started asking people if they were using their extra beer tickets. It was like 9:30 and we were putting them back like true Wisconsin born lumberjacks. We were so impressed with our feats that we wore those medals all day and night. He finished about 5 minutes in front of me and eventually went on to run a full later that year in Huntsville before moving to the Key’s to be a full-time musician. It was quite the memory, and in 3 days, I will be on that same course. No Roger, no fear, and hopefully no pain.
The first marathon I ever watched was in Nashville. My mother came with her childhood friend, Susie, to support Susie’s daughter in the 1/2 marathon. I remember being amazed that Heidi was running that far and literally stunned by how many others joined her. We watched the beginning on Lower Broadway, but made our way to the finish line for the rest.
I squeezed up next to the fence and gazed in bewilderment as the elite runners flew by mile 26 at a sub five minute pace. I was about 10 years younger and in decent shape, but remember thinking I couldn’t have run the last 100 yards that fast if I used starting blocks!
People were so positive and energetic as they encouraged the runners through their final steps. I was not used to the early morning activity and marveled at the genuine smiles and happiness. I didn’t turn into a runner that day, but it was always in the back of my mind.
Susie, at 60 years old, may have been the happiest of the bunch. She stood next to me and shouted at all the shirtless young guys, “Whew! Way to go hottie!” “Wow, sexy thang!”
I was kinda funny and embarrassing at once. Finally, I gave her a look like “what the hell are you doing?”
She matter of factly brushed me off by saying, “Oh, they love it.”
And she was right. Nothing makes you run harder than an unsolicited compliment.
By the end of that afternoon Susie’s brash advances (along with the awkward reactions of the guys) had me rolling on the ground.
Now, it is today, and some bitter and demented person or persons decided they wanted to squash the fun. I am sad, confused, and angry. Like everyone else I think it was cowardly and twisted. I search for answers, but nothing will explain why someone detonates bombs on innocent people.
What makes me sad is how some of happiest moments of these people’s lives were ripped away in a split second. How someone just like Susie was having the time of her life dishing inspiration to people who dripped sweat for months and miles to find that finish line. How so many would have been able to say “I finished Boston.” And how, instead of simple sweat, they were left with blood and tears.
I think about the volunteers and security guards who went from token support to life savers instead of changing out of their yellow t-shirts. The neighbors, the shop owners, and the students that look forward to this day like no other, but will never think of it the same. I think about the people who squeezed up next to the fence and gazed in bewilderment as elite runners flew by at a sub 5 minute pace to cross the most prestigious finish line in running. And how now, because of a lost and distorted mind, those same people, who stood cheering for hundreds of strangers, will never be able to stand on those legs again.
Finishing a race is an incredible high. You’re exhausted, but completely relaxed and at ease with the world. You’re endorphins soar and your most genuine and compassionate sides flourish. The simplest things in life take center stage. A hand shake, a high five, a hug. Today, thousands shared those moments with friends and family before their serenity was shattered by indiscriminate violence, and once again, left us asking why.
When logic goes out the window. When the pain is greater than we can understand. When the suffering seems to have no end. There’s only one thing you can do. Keep the faith.
If you’ve ever been to Nashville or watched the new ABC show with the same name, you’ve probably heard about the Bluebird Cafe. It is a legendary music venue that seats 100 people, kicks you out if you talk during the song, and has hosted most of the world’s greatest songwriters. Tonight, I went to watch my buddy Roger steal the show.
Some of you may remember Roger as my “Wisconsin buddy in Nashville” and this story about how we both decided to change our lives on the same day. This Thursday he will take “changing his life” to the extreme. He’s packing up his guitar and moving to the Florida Keys to be a full-time musician.
It’s a bitter-sweet move for both of us. We have become very close and ran our first half marathons together. I was also there in December when he ran his first full. Roger is one of those guys who gets something in his head, sets a plan, and makes it happen. It’s very inspiring and I will miss him.
Roger is exactly the kind of person I like to surround myself with. Positive, ambitious, and determined. My Ironman training teammates are the same way and on days like today it hits home in the simplest of ways.
My training patterns are slowly but surely falling into place. I am not yet the 5am guy, but I’m routinely waking in time for 7am pre-work workouts. I have been cautious about going too far too fast with changing my sleep patterns and training. Today was a good example as they were on bikes at 7 and I showed up at 8 for spin class. But, other than a little ribbing, it was incredibly motivational to see these guys digging in. It truly reminded me of a team that was determined to do whatever it takes to win. And winning in this case could be as simple as finishing under 17 hours.
After the bike, we walked to the front door of the Y and stared into the pouring rain. After years of adulthood, my natural reaction was to think that we would just run on a treadmill, but not one of these guys blinked. They stepped through the door, put backpacks in their cars, and started running down one of Nashville’s sketchiest streets.
We jogged in silence for a while as the rain soaked our head and shoes. I admired the potential of the rundown neighborhoods I normally drive through in the dark — and as fast as possible. Today landscape was still, and almost inviting. The soft sounds of our feet prodded past the urban blight and we barely saw a soul.
It was an easy pace but East Nashville is loaded with hills. We started joking about how runners yell back to warn other runners about oncoming cars or bikes or whatever. “Car up.” “Bike up.” Then took it to the extreme.
“Puddle up.” “Mailbox up.” “Stick down.” “Bird up.” Nearly everything we saw became an obstacle.
“Street sign.” “Curb.” “Trash can.”
As we made our way back toward the Y, we realized the time was a few minutes short of the targeted 30 minutes. It was a similar moment to standing there looking at the rain. I fully expected everyone to opt for the easy way out, but the quick decision was to veer off and run a few blocks out of the way to complete the goal.
It seems simple, but I found incredible joy in that symbol of dedication. They had already been on bikes for two hours and we may have been two minutes shy of the total run time, but they decided to go the distance and I guess that’s a microcosm of the Ironman mentality. Finish.
I have always known that being around positive and ambitious people makes a major difference. Once again, I am seeing it first hand.
After working various printing jobs for 17 years in Nashville, Roger hasn’t lost sight of his dream and is transforming his life into that of a full-time musician. Jim, Daniel, Kevin, Mark and our coach, Robbie are are incredible inspiration and because of them, I am tackling something most people I talk to can’t even comprehend. The little kid in me is coming back and reality is changing thanks to the motivational forces that surround me me.
The other day I posted about fellow Ironman Wisconsin teammate Daniel Hudgins and his quest to raise money for the homeless by using his controversial hair as bait. You could vote (by donating) to “save or shave” the hair and the tally came down to the wire in a tension filled finish! He raised over $3,000 dollars and all proceeds will be given to Room In The Inn. The excitement was captured in my latest video:
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.
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.
