back on it

So it appears all I needed was four days off.

Friday and Saturday were as easy as can be. Today, though, was my first "workout" in a while. Bob showed up at 7:30 and I took him on my Downtown - Southtown route. I forgot how enjoyable it was to run with a buddy. It also helps when said buddy is able to click off sub-7 miles when I start feeling frisky.

Bob likes to go fast. I knew this. Still, I always feel like taking it slow for the first two miles of almost any run (including tempos). After forcing a slow start, I let Bob dictate the pace and sure enough we start bringing it down to around 7:40ish -- a quick easy. As the return on South St. Mary's can be terribly boring (long, straight, and almost no cars), I decided to rock what I call a mid-run interval (hold a tempo pace of 6:35 - 6:55 for at least one mile). Although my initial goal was to keep it at 7:10, we never ran anything slower than 7 flat. Whatevs...it felt good to get the turnover out and about.

Nearing the homestretch, we decided to run some strides -- 3 x 10 seconds. Perhaps there was room for more, but we ran out of street before hitting the apartment. Bob was step for step the whole way -- SA RnR marathon training is going to be a lot of fun.

Right.

----Post Edit----

So I went on that double I was flirting with. I'm glad I did. It was the perfect run: breathing, stride, body temp...everything just clicked. My legs were somewhat tired at the outset, but they came around towards the second mile. In a bad (note: good) way. Although I didn't initially want to run a progression, it almost seemed easier the faster I ran.

I immediately began to think what I had changed in my routine. The only thing that was different from recent runs was my diet. I made a strawberry-banana-blueberry smoothie for Maki and me and had it about 3 1/2 hours before the run. I'm going to continue with this to determine if it has the same effect. If so...gold.

I added a photo that describes how I felt after today's double. It's about as perfect as it can get.

run less = less help

So I’m hurt again. The original self-diagnosis was ‘Achilles pull.’ It then manifested itself into a ‘soleus strain.’ Now it’s more along the lines of ‘tendonitis.’ The area in question is marked by the number “1.” I fear posting this will only draw criticism from peers (“Go to a doctor!”), but I feel confident that applications of R.I.C.E. will relieve my symptoms (this has worked 4 times already with other ‘afflictions’). I’ll do anything, however, to avoid repeating my previous experience at the doctor’s office.

Doctor: “So it looks like you have a bug.”
Me: “I’m pretty sure that’s the case.”
Dr. (after perfunctory checks): “Yeah, well, could be all sorts of things. Drink lots of orange juice and don’t sleep under a fan to help with the sore throat. You checkout at the window before the lobby. Have a good one.”

The orange juice (read: acid) hurt my throat and I slept in a room with no fan to begin with. Still, I struggled through this penance for a week and finally got over it.

Although I would love to give this leg a week, I just don’t think I can make it. I notice myself sighing a lot, eating and drinking things that are decidedly unhealthy, and opting not to answer the phone when I’m doing absolutely nothing. How many days has it been since I hung up the trainers? Two. I know. Helpless.

6.13.09 - flag day 10K



First 10K. Done. McAllister Park is known for its trails, but I didn't assume this race would be run on them. I assumed wrong. Even though the trails were paved, all the twists and turns led to some random splits. Still, I enjoyed myself.

I arrived at the park around 6:40 and immediately went and registered. Given the flag theme, the shirt was what I expected. I threw the bib and bag in the car and started my warm-up. I ran the opening 0.5 of the course and knew I was going to have to work harder. The course was twisted and there were even a couple of cut-backs. Sigh. I ran back to the car.

Only a mile worth of running and my singlet was drenched in sweat. The humidity was at 87%. Ugh. I decided then to run shirtless. After stretching and doing a couple of warm-up strides, I went over to talk with Matt and met a guy named Lance. Matt signed up for the 5K, so I expected him to run balls to the wall from the start (at 50, dude runs mid 18s). Lance told me he intended to run 6:40s, so I decided I would pace him. He seemed pretty fit.

Although the race was fairly small, it attracted quite a few strong runners. I came in wanting to run something close to my last 4-mile tempo (6:37 pace). If I could run a conservative opening 5K, I didn't think this would be a problem -- there would be someone to reel in towards the end. We all lined up at the front and waited for the guy holding the watch to say "go." He did. We went.

The first mile was the same: jostle for position and let the too-fast crowd have their glory. I tried to keep on Lance's shoulder, but he was starting to pull away. Although we were in the high 6:20s, he said he felt good. I held back and focused on steady breathing and a comfortable stride. Something around 6:35 or so. That's when the trail started to twist and turn and I dropped off the pace. Still, I was doing OK.

I was passed at mile 2 by a strong looking Masters runner. After a lot more twisting and turning, we emerged from the woods to a long straightaway. I opened up a bit here and dropped the pace down towards the 6:20s again, but it didn't last long as we had to cut back 180 degrees after about a 1/4 mile or so. For some reason, that threw everything off. It took me a while to get my turnover going after coming to a near dead stop.

I crossed the 5K mark at almost exactly 20:45. I was hoping to rock a sub 20:30, but I had run too conservatively. Despite this realization, however, I continued to run defensively for the next two miles.

Around mile 4.5 or so, I caught up to 3 runners. One of them was that older guy who passed me at mile 2, and the others were a couple of guys who passed me at the start. I was pushing the pace, but could tell they were trying to fend me off. I hung back during the woody section and remained patient. As soon as we emerged into the straightaways, though, I made my move. I picked off an older runner first, and then set my sights on a guy who looked like he could be in my age group. As we approached the cut-back, he swung far out and I took the inside. I immediately burst into a sprint to pull away, but he surprisingly slowed to a jog (as if letting me pass). Runner 2 -- down. There was only one left.

I knew I had left a lot out there as I started to drop the pace down into the 6:00-10 range comfortably. I was pumping my arms, breathing hard, and closing the distance. With about 0.2 miles to go, he turned around and saw me. As my element of surprise was gone, I had no choice but to drop the hammer. I pushed it to 5:20ish pace, but so had he. As he had a 50 meter lead on me, I knew I was going to have to dig REAL deep. Although I eventually got within 10 meters, I knew it wasn't going to be enough. If I really wanted to beat him, I thought, I should have ran harder earlier. With 20 meters left to the finish, I gave up the pursuit.

I ended up running a 20:27 closing 5K and although the fastest split was the last mile, I was too apprehensive. I treated this like I was running a 10-miler. Whatevs. Good to have an actual 10K PR. Now it's time to break it.

41:14 – PR



Overall – 10/204
Age Group – 3/18

hell's hills 25K trail race


First trail race. Done.

Started out fast as the route became single track almost immediately -- didn't want to get stuck behind the crowd. Started in 5th and kept that position for the first 2.5 miles. I was passed by 2 different people by mile 3 and then again at mile 4. By mile 5, I reeled in the guy who was originally sitting in 4th. I ran completely alone from mile 5 to mile 10.5. First 5 miles: 40:42.








The course was terribly twisted and very technical. I was engaging all of my core muscles just to stay balanced during the innumerable dips, turns, and inclines. And that was only the first 6 miles. I tried sucking down a GU, but my stomach wasn't having it. I almost threw it up and decided right then against energy later in the run. From mile 6 on, a lot of the course was soft pine needle/packed dirt/loose rock. There was, however, quite a few areas with loose sand that completely sucked the life out of my legs. Ugh. I began to hurt around the second aid station (mile 10.5). When I stopped to fill up my water, I was passed again putting me back in 8th. Second 5 miles: 42:33.

This is when the hills came. In droves. Unrelenting. Two back-to-back series of around 6 hills completely took whatever energy I had left and crushed it. Around mile 11 was the first walk (5 seconds). I started the geriatric shuffle shortly after that, but was able to regain form on the flatter portion. Still, there was very little flat in that course. The loose rock made the climbs even worse, and the descents more dangerous. Oh yeah...this is about the time it hit around 82 degrees. I walked 2-3 times after this and for always less than 15 seconds, but I was struggling. I wanted fuel, but my stomach was being a bitch. At around the time I decided I couldn't take this crap anymore, the downhills started. I floored it. I was pushing 6:30s and then it started to flatten out. And then climb again. I was about to start another walk when I noticed some flags; I had only 800 or so meters left to the finish. I punched it and was able to hold on to 8th place. Last 5.5 miles: 44:25


2:07:40 -- PR (impossible NOT to on a first)



Overall - 8th




2.21.09 – ‘diploma dash’ – 5K city championship

Given the prize money, this race usually boasts a very strong field. This year was no different. Regardless, coming off a series of good training weeks and races, I felt comfortable lining up behind the likes of Keating, Hunter-Galvan (former Olympian) and Keena. I was looking for a sub-19 and knew this crowd would set the pace accordingly.



After the initial sprint out of the gates, I settled into a solid sub-6 pace. I intended to run this until around the first major turn, but I felt good and rolled just behind the lead pack. After about 0.5 miles in, three or four runners started to pull away and that’s when I decided to cool the jets. I was still on the heels of Galvan (consistent 17s for the 5K) and knew that this would only end up hurting me later.

The course was billed as “flat and fast,” but the first mile was nothing but rolling and somewhat challenging. I hit a 6:20ish split and panicked because the intensity felt somewhere between high 5:50s and low 6s. Still, it helped that this was on the campus of UTSA. Since I went to this school for 3 semesters, I was familiar with the layout. I knew the remaining portion of the course would be flat and slightly downhill, so I attacked.

5:37 for the second mile was ridiculous, though. That wasn’t me. I don’t run those splits comfortably and it showed. I started to struggle towards the end and was passed by a couple of strong masters runners (notorious in this city). As I approached what I believed was the final turn, I began a kick of sorts only to realize I was off by about .3 miles. Although my turnover was still somewhere in the low 6s, mentally I was done.

When the finish clock came into view, it read 18:3x. Realistically, given the early kick, I was about 30 seconds out. Lord knows I’m a realist, but I decided to give it a go. I started to spread it out and pump the arms. I focused on a couple of nearby runners and just gassed it. I looked back at the clock with about 100 meters to go and it read 18:40. I knew I had it licked, but I sprint like a fool anyway. When I crossed the finish line, I pumped my arms and let out a victorious, “Yatta!” Why Japanese? I’m not sure. The spectators laughed at my enthusiasm. I would have too.

18:53 – PR

Overall – 29/912
Age Group – 2/55

give it a minute...

as I get the feel for this site.

big sur race report

Fists clenched, spittle flying from the sides of my mouth, I ran. I could see the finish line. I was almost there. The pain in my calf was not going to beat me. 8…9. Not this time. 10…11…22:22:12. Done. My first official 5K PR. The date was June 28, 2008.

Nearly 10 months and six 5Ks later, my dad and I arrived at the San Antonio airport with just enough time for the automatic terminal to tell us we were late for our plane to Monterey, California – we were going to run the Big Sur Marathon. After looking confused for nearly 2 minutes, one of the attendants took pity on us and printed our tickets. The flights, however, were completely forgettable. I remember some mountains, an attractive flight attendant, and the flat stench of cheap vinyl and recycled air (I hate airplanes). I tried to sleep – didn’t happen. I remember trying to solve a crossword puzzle in the airplane magazine, but I gave up after I correctly guessed the word “zephyr.” Although the instructions stated to take the magazine if the boxes were filled in, a Costco-sized bottle of Febreeze wouldn’t be able to get the smell of coach seating out of my bag.

Upon arrival at the Monterey airport (the naval of the aviation industry, by the way), we located my bags (which arrived before I did…long story) and jumped into Kiran’s rental car. I sat in between Nate and Naya and would enjoy that position for the remainder of the trip -- there’s nothing like hyperactive kids in stereo. And if these guys were the music, Kiran’s driving was the bass – the hard, heavy thumping kind that resonates in your chest and makes you sick. I was glad, needless to say, to arrive at the hotel.

The main lobby/bar/restaurant at Carmel Valley Ranch boasted huge floor-to-ceiling windows. They beautifully framed the surrounding landscape while offering an interior that was quiet and minimal, yet sophisticated and vibrant. This juxtaposition, whether intended or not, worked very well.


We walked to our room located near the lobby (and in close proximity to Kiran and Elizbieta’s), but we discovered it was a suite. As we didn’t need a dining room, nor would we even appreciate the fake books and flowers, we decided to move into something smaller. Our “other” room was located well across the property, but I didn’t want to imagine the barrage of comments that would be made if I, a future marathoner, complained about walking farther. Sure it was smaller, but it fit in terms of price and privacy.

We decided to have dinner at the restaurant located on site – Citronelle. The chef, come to find out, is the somewhat famous Michel Richard (I’m guessing his name is not pronounced like my brother’s “Richard”). In between hearing stories about Vampires and Ghouls from Nate (he purchased a new book), I started with one of Michel’s signature dishes: Lobster “Begula” Pasta. It came in a small watch case-looking tin and had lentils, squid ink, butter and lobster. I can only imagine what sort of choice French words Michel would have for me if I described his dish like this to his face, but I’m not a food critic. I did, however, enjoy it on many levels. Nate thought it was “monkey brain soup,” but I assured him it was not. He seemed somewhat delighted, but more disappointed.

I then had the sake-miso marinated Sablefish Рwonderful. The highlight, however, was the Cr̬me brulee: vanilla bean cream stacked on flaky pastry glazed in caramel with a blooming strawberry on top. I have never had better, but that did not stop me from trying (I made it a habit to have this dessert every night at every restaurant we visited in Monterey).

The next morning we awoke to a still sea of blue trees and encroaching fog bank. We decided to go on a warm-up run around the area and began with a tour through the golf course on site. Along the way, we ran past some deer and a congregation of wild turkey on one of the greens. The mountains to the West prevented the wind from entering the Valley, so there was not so much as a breeze that morning. We continued the trek though the course and then headed back up the hill leading to the lobby. The hill was steep and long. It hurt.

After a shower and shave, we headed to the nearest town. Carmel boasts a myriad of shops that sell everything a tourist could ever hope for: shells, Kincade paintings, boating shoes, and $250 outfits for their children. We decided to have lunch at an Italian restaurant run by Spanish-speaking individuals. Coupled with the huge party of Korean nationals that came in before us, it felt like as if we were eating at a UN cafeteria. The gnocchi was good; however, if not for this report, I would have never written home about it.




Dad and I started to psyche each other up once we returned. I voiced all of my anxieties, but he responded by disregarding each and every one. He called them “nerves.” It would be hours later until I realized he was right. Again.

I started with the preparations. I placed everything in a corner: shirts, shoes, socks, timing chip, arm warmers, hat, and jacket. I remember cursing the size of the sweat bag (too small), which was a clear indicator that I had over-packed – I cut back. I then pulled out some moleskin and started to tape up my pinky toes and middle left toe. I made sure that the Body Glide (anti-chafing) was out and that all toiletries were readily accessible. Race was practically half-way over.

I feared that I would sleep in, but only two hours in and I discovered that that would not be an issue. Starting approximately at 11:30pm, I woke up every 10 minutes until the alarm went off at 3am. Despite this poor night of sleep, one would be hard-pressed to find a person more awake in the entire resort. I put on my clothes, brushed my teeth, cleaned my ears, got down on my knees and prayed for nature to call. After I waited a bit, she did.

We met up with everyone in front of the lobby and crammed into one car. At this point, I might as well have been drunk – the ride was a complete blur. The only thing I remember was that Kiran drove so close to a car that when it pulled over to let him pass, it blinded him with its lights to show in obvious disdain. Nevertheless, Kiran’s aggressive adherence to punctuality got us there on time. We parked and walked to the bus.

I walked ahead of the group, with dad, and found a bus that was nearly full and had a sign that read, “Relay Leg 4.” I passed it in favor of the empty lead bus, but as I turned to call the group, I discovered we were alone. I attempted to backtrack and find them, however, dad broke away to ask one of the drivers where he could relieve himself. “Umm…there’s a side of a building over there,” the long-haired, Twisted Sister of a driver stated. As dad took off, I remember thinking, “I hope he at least picks the most inconspicuous side.” I boarded the empty bus and took a seat. The leg room was just as horrific as I remembered. How hilarious would it be if I cramped up on the bus ride to the marathon? My smile became stoic as the silence in the bus grew louder. I was quickly thinking myself into a panic; I needed the group.

On cue, the gang emerges in the doorway. Elizbieta was sarcastic: “So, Paul, it appears we had the ‘wrong bus.’” I tried to explain the situation, but it was still too early in the morning and my wits had not shown up. Dad did, though, and he took a seat next to me. We talked about my high school days for a bit. We pretended to sleep. We were ready to go.

The bus ride alone was worth the price of admission. Although I could have done without the ladies to the right of us talking so passionately about nothing, or the dude behind me who continued to jam his stubby little knee in my back the entire trip, it was almost spiritual. I looked out the window the entire time (as I am wont to do in anything that 1. moves and 2. has a window). I caught the shadows of redwoods, of tall pine trees, of sand embankments, and the occasional glow of an animal’s eyes. I tried to follow the elevation changes in order to get a read on how much the race was going to hurt, but I decided against this after a short while. I looked to dad a few times and occasionally his eyes would be closed. I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I could tell. Our minds were busy racing.

Upon arrival at the starting area, dad and I became quickly separated from the group. I knew this was going to happen, but wasn’t bothered in the slightest. The place was packed. Those who arrived earlier than us had already found a curb or patch of grass and established a home base of sorts. By the look of things, people had been there awhile.

Nature must have a thing for me, I thought, because she called the minute we started to queue up for the porta-potties. As we waited, I saw a girl enthusiastically enter a recently vacated commode only to exit even quicker. “Ew,” she stated, “someone is going to have a pretty rough day on the course.” Those who were close enough to hear took her word for it and remained in their respective queues. Still, though, based on the awkward silence and glances from some of the runners, there must have been a couple of people who wondered how bad it actually was. I wasn’t one of them.

Now, I don’t want to stay on the issue of bowel movements, but anyone remotely close to me knows how this has been an issue on my long runs. For the first four long runs (14, 16, 15, and 18), I have had to “go” at least once (almost always around mile 8). I assumed this would be no different during the marathon, so instead of fearing the poop, I embraced it. To be more honest than I should, I started to practice going to the restroom mid-run. I even focused on getting these “shit splits” down to sub-9 minute (mile included). Although I failed the first time in a 14 miler, I was stamping out some impressive times in the later runs. My PR: 8:43. With wipe.

Needless to say, I expected to answer some calls on the course. But there I was, entering a porta-potty about to deal with my 2nd number two of the morning – I was thrilled. I exited the pot confident, refreshed, and smiling from ear to ear. The sun was beginning to rise over the mountains, the trees were taking form, and I knew I was going to have a great day.

Dad and I made our way to the coffee line shortly after that, but I had no intention of becoming caffeinated. We talked with a girl who was running Big Sur for the second time. She was nice, but more importantly not overly enthusiastic as a lot of runners can get before a race. She said her goal was to finish; I said my goal was 3:30. She smiled and said, “Go for it.”

After what seemed like three hours in line, I decided to get into my race gear. I took off the beanie and put on the Asics hat. I placed the sunglasses on top and packed my zipper pocket with 4 GU packets – junk in the trunk. I then took off the wind pants and jacket and stuffed it all in the sweats bag. I went to the van, wrote my bib number on the bag and then wrote Maki’s name in Japanese on my bib. She was coming with me whether she liked it or not.

20 minutes before the start…“5 to 6-hour finishers…5 to 6, start lining up!” screamed the race director. At this point, we were a little more than halfway through the line. As we approached the front, another runner flatly stated, “There’s really no need for a line, there are tables over there serving water and fruit.” I grumbled a bit and embarrassingly walked to grab some water; the woman was right, no need for a line.

15 minutes before the start…I found a 2’x 1’ empty space along a curve and started to get ready. I checked my laces – double-knotted. I checked my bulging fanny – all 4 GU packets secure, zipper closed. Arm sleeves – on. Sunglasses – still there. I opened the 5th packet of GU I was carrying and downed it like an Herradura shot. I drank both cups of water and ditched the trash. Let’s do this thing.

10 minutes before the start…I start heading over to the starting line, but noticed a lot of runners were not even near the staging area. As I wanted to start immediately behind the seated group, I waited and stretched. As I started to really feel a good pull in the IT band, I felt something even better: “nature.” Again. I attempted to head back to where the magic initially happened, but the lines were too long. That is when I looked to the left and noticed a semi-hidden group of porta-potties without a single line. The sun wasn’t out quite yet, but I swear there was a ray of light shining right on them.

5 minutes before the start…I made my way through the crowd and lined up in the sub 3:30 corral. Although the runners lined up shoulder to shoulder immediately behind this corral, I had more space around me than during Sara’s yoga class. It didn’t seem a lot of us in the front were confident enough to commit to the 3:30 thing, but I simply didn’t know better. I saw a couple of people from the blog scene in front: Scott Dunlap and Bob Hearn. Bob had just come off a negative split 2:59 at Boston 6 days prior and Scott, well, his idea of a race usually starts at the 50K distance (has a couple of 100 milers under his belt). “Whatever you do,” I repeated to myself, “stay behind them.” I talked with a father of a boy who couldn’t have been older than 15. It was his first marathon as well. I turned to attempt to look for my dad and in less than a second, I noticed him standing on an embankment to the left. I didn’t wave because I knew he wouldn’t see me. Still, I saw him, and that was enough. I was ready.

1 minute before the start…People were still relieving themselves in the grass to the left of the start. Women standing up, men sitting down, I saw it all. But it was time. The anthem was sung by some portly white dude with a hoarse voice. I felt unpatriotic when I wished for him to stop, but I blamed it on nerves. As the race director raised the gun, I felt my muscles tighten. I looked down at the pavement and noticed every crack. I then focused on my watch: “Don’t forget to push the start button hard enough. Don’t F this one up, Paul.”

3…2…1. Bang. We’re off.

After the gun fired, I made my way with the crowd and passed the starting gate. Our watches collectively beeped when we passed the timing mat signaling the start of over 3000 commitments. I ran through injury, through doubt, and through a lot of nasty porta-potties to be able to run through that starting gate; I was ready.

The first mile was severely downhill. As we needed to run down to sea level, I knew the start would be exceptionally fast, but didn’t expect the grade to be so steep. After establishing some space from the starting pack, I toned down the strides – I kept them small. “Focus on turnover,” I repeated to myself, “these first two are only warm-up.” I looked to the watch: 8:04 pace. Perfect.

Although I was barely 0.5 miles into the marathon, enthusiasm had already caught up to people. I was passed like I was stopped by nearly everybody I saw in the first two miles. I, on the other hand, only passed two people. One was picking a rock out of her shoe and another was stretching his calf. I never once assumed that so many people would go out so fast. Surely all of these people had run a marathon before, I thought. Surely they are not as ignorant as I am.

After the second mile, people were starting to thin out. I was still being passed, but not at the same speed as before. I didn’t care; the redwoods were perfect company. The skies were still blue at this point (the clouds would come later) and the sun was pouring in between their leaves. The trees quietly cheered me on one after the other and protected me from the wind I knew I would face from mile 5. I shut off the iPod soon after the first mile and listened to the melody of a thousand feet slapping the pavement. As we all started to settle into pace, strides became similar and it fashioned a familiar rhythm of beats. This was a sign that people were beginning to group up. I clocked a 15:50 opening 2 miles, good enough for 7:55 pace. I was right on schedule, but now it was business time.

I started to quicken the strides and pump my arms a bit more aggressively. I was bringing the pace down slowly and, as we were still heading down slightly through the redwoods, letting gravity do most of the work. I started to click off miles at my next target: 7:40, 7:45, 7:45. I had dropped the group I was stuck with in the first two miles and had passed nearly a hundred people since dipping into the 7:40s. Right before emerging from the trees, I caught up with Bob Hearn. I was apprehensive about running on his shoulder, but decided to pass him if he dropped the pace. I was serious. I had brought my business socks.

5 mile mark – 39 minutes flat (7:50 pace). I was cruising and didn’t feel a thing. The end of the redwoods was signaled by a steep hill that curved to the right. After blowing past it and hitting the second aid station, I tried to search for Bob, but I couldn’t see him. As I attempted to look behind me, I was met with a wind that could sculpt mountains. I knew the fog bank was going to make them stronger-than-normal, but this was spectacular. I lowered my head and leaned slightly forward. I kept my strides quick and small in order to maintain good balance, but I was beginning to panic: “What if it’s like this the entire time?” I knew that even though my watch was spewing splits in the 7:40s, I was most likely running at an effort much greater. I kept at it: 7:48…7:47.

At mile 6, I came upon a guy who I had passed around mile 4. I noticed his burnt orange Big Sur shirt from the marathon the year before and really wished ours weren’t lavender. I made some comment about the wind and he responded, “It could be worse.” I noticed his German accent, but decided to joke first and then inquire where he came from later: “Sure it could be worse; we could be running a marathon.” Not really funny, but he laughed. We eventually got to talking and I discovered he was indeed from Germany. His name was Marco. We then went on to help draft each other through the lowlands. This is also where the downhill ended and the uphill began. It was gradual at first, but then became noticeably steep. Coupled with the wind, I fell off the pace: 7:54…7:58.

After sharing the drafting duties with Marco, I asked him what goal time he had in mind. He stated that he would be ecstatic to secure a 3:45 since he had had little time to train and was coming off a 20-mile long run the weekend prior. “Given the conditions,” he added, “I just don’t see my fitness levels carrying me past anything faster than that. The way I figure it is this: I passed the 3:45 pacer about 3 miles ago, and he has not passed me since, so I must be OK. Ha!” I smiled at the comment, but was completely serious when I thought: “I will drop you like a sack of bratwurst if we start rolling 3:45 marathon pace.” Regardless, we were not. Yet.

Before I noticed, Marco and I were reaching the 9th mile. I remember from the charts that there was a hill that dropped us all the way back down to sea level before the climb up Hurricane Point. Marco and I pushed the pace in order to put some seconds in the bank. This was also the first time that the mountains began shielding us from the wind. We hit the 10 mile marker in a fast 7:24. Talking and pacing with Marco saw me completely lose track of the one thing I didn’t expect to: time. 10th mile – 1:10:27. Give or take, I was 2 minutes over schedule. I wasn’t freaking out. Yet.

At this point, though, I made a tough, but necessary call – I decided against gunning for a 3:22:11. I didn’t calculate the winds in the initial equation, and there was no sense in attempting to make up time in the more difficult latter part of the course. I wasn’t deflated in the slightest, however, as I had a made a good friend and was running a great race. My legs were crisp and my breathing was never once in trouble. I knew I was headed for a good day.

But that is when Marco drew my focus to Hurricane Point: “There it is. Big and beautiful. In roughly 16 minutes if you’re fast, or 17 if you’re smart, you’ll be there.” He pointed to the top, and I decided to look away. It looked nasty. It looked far. It looked glorious.

As we approached the bottom of the mountain, Marco called me to the side of the aid station. I had been spilling liquid all over the place every time I tried to run through one, so I obliged. He told me to properly hydrate and rest the quads from the downhill we just ran. I wouldn’t have listened to anyone else, but I trusted his judgment for some reason I can’t explain. We walked fast for around 15 seconds and then began the ascent. At the very base of the hill, however, were the Taiko drummers. The rhythm matched our stride and I felt rejuvenated. As we passed, I screamed in Japanese “Thank you so much for coming out; I deeply appreciate it!” As I scanned faces for a response, I noticed that a majority of them were old white people who looked at me quizzically. Oh well.

The first part of the hill was the most difficult. It was steep and long and the end was nowhere in sight. Just when you thought the hill was starting to plateau, it would rise again defiantly. This is where Marco and me began passing scores of runners. Strong runners. Experienced runners. We were pumping our arms and legs while keeping our backs straighter than most. We met up with a runner who got everyone hooting and hollering: “Let’s get to work! Wooooo!!!” It had the stink of drunken frat boy, but it took my mind off the fatigue that was creeping in. He hung around for a half mile or so and around the 11th mile marker, he exclaimed, “Whale!” I turned to see a water spray and, indeed, there was the largest mammal on the planet. I didn’t look long; the second mile was waiting.

When my watched beeped to let me know the 11th mile was completed, I looked down to see 8:54 staring at me in the face. I started to freak out: Had that walk at the aid station ruined my marathon? Am I really running that slowly? I decided not to answer too quickly, as Marco was signaling me to make another pass; the walkers were beginning to increase in number.

After about another half-mile up the hill snaking through walkers and runners alike, he turned to me and stated, “ready?” Without having the slightest clue what he was referring to I said, “Sure.” What was I doing? I was placing all my faith in a guy I had only met less than an hour ago. I was pretty sure he wanted to stop, but was surprised when he dropped the hammer and pushed the pace. We ceased conversation and focused on the attack. It hurt. The 8:20 pace for that mile confirmed it, but he said that since the top was close, we would need some momentum once it was crested: “You’ll soon come to find out why it’s called ‘Hurricane’ Point.”

After several false alarms, I saw the top. It rounded the corner and seemed to drop sharply; I couldn’t wait to open some speed on the downhill. As we made the turn, however, we were met with a wall of 40+ mph winds. My legs crisscrossed for a second because I couldn’t control foot placement, but I didn’t trip because I had next to zero forward momentum. Although I have never had to do it before (nor would assume I will get the chance to do it again), I leaned forward and pumped my legs and arms to get some speed downhill. Yes, downhill.

After several yards of slow downhill running, the mountains began to provide some cover from the wind. “This is my chance,” I thought, and I started to increase the pace. Although the race program had warned of trying to “make up time” on the downhill, I knew that if I kept my strides quick and my pace reasonable, I wouldn’t be in any danger of blowing my quads. Although we were rolling 7:30/40 pace, the intensity was minimal. We let gravity do most of the work and focused on putting in a decent opening half. Bixby Bridge was waiting.

As we descended towards the halfway marker, I thanked Marco for helping me with the last “hill.” I also inquired what his personal best was for the marathon. “2:52 in Berlin,” he mentioned, “but it took me a while to get it.” I felt like a chump for even thinking about the “bratwurst” comment. The entire time I assumed I was helping him, but it was the complete opposite. I pressed on: “Well, exactly how many marathons have you run before?” “Oh,” he paused, “over 20 I suppose.” And just like that, my confidence was put into perspective. He must have noticed this, because he quickly stated, “But really, Paul, for you to be able to run Big Sur like this so far is a great sign. I have no doubt that not only will this be the first of many for you, but you will most definitely break 3 hours. Now let’s get down to that bridge.” Heading down; looking up.

I have seen countless pictures of Bixby Bridge, so I assumed it would be beautiful, but the reality defied all expectations. It was almost tragic, insofar as pictures do such an injustice. Still, I remember thinking, “this bridge is a lot smaller in real life.” Before I could really enjoy hitting the halfway mark or appreciate all the sights and sounds of the surrounding area, I found myself at the end of the bridge. Half-marathon split: 1:44:51. Almost 3 minutes off my goal time. I was disappointed, and almost got caught up trying to calculate where I lost it, but the sight of a photographer at the end of the bridge lifted my spirits. I darted to the left to ensure I would get into the shot, and I did, but at the expense of a female runner behind me. Apparently, I cut her off like an 80 year-old Asian woman driver entering a highway – she was not pleased. I attempted to apologize, but she just ignored me. The picture was hilarious.

The next few miles were either slightly downhill or flat, so this allowed Marco and me to stamp out 7:40 miles with engineer-like efficiency. 7:40…7:42…7:44. Before we came upon mile 16, though, Marco informed me that he needed to stop – nature was busy calling me all morning she must have forgotten him. As we pulled up to the porta-potty, he left me stating, “I’ll try my best to catch up in the later miles, but I hope I don’t. Good luck.”

Marco’s parting words spurned me – I downed a GU, dropped the hammer, and attacked the uphill from mile 15 to 16. Although I produced a 7:39, it felt smooth and relaxed; nothing hurt. I had two initial plans: A) If I felt great, I would start pushing the pace down to the 7:30s starting at mile 18. B) If I was in trouble at 18, I would start the final drive at 20 and only run 7:40s. I settled on plan A and began to prepare mentally for the work. It was time.

I came off 17 at 7:46 pace, but was bombarded with wind almost immediately afterwards. I remained patient, but I knew I was losing seconds. At mile 18, my fears were confirmed by an 8:00 flat split – not a great start to the end of the marathon. It could have been worse, I thought, but I didn’t want to wait around and find out – I quickened the pace and muscled through the wind and inclines.

I dropped the pace back down to 7:50 for 19 in attempt to bank some seconds that I knew I would lose in the hills to come. I was passing people left and right (including the girl I cut-off) and I was gaining confidence with each takeover. But just as I would gain steam, I would hit another hill or encounter a particularly disheartening gust of wind. I dropped to 7:59 for mile 20, but didn’t come to anything resembling a wall. I did notice a sign that read, “Phidippides almost stopped his run here,” followed by another later down the road that stated, “but didn’t.” Or something to that affect. Cute.

Mile 20. There I was. Since I had never run past this distance, I was reaching a milestone with every step I took. As I attempted to wax poetic about my achievements, I saw what I had known was coming, and feared: the emergency telephone box. There was nothing terribly ominous about the actual box itself. In fact, its flaky blue paint and wind-battered pole made it look sad and out of place; however, this marked the start of the last 10K. Dad and I had driven this part of the course and noted every major hill until the finish. I remember telling him, “When you see the emergency box, it’s go time!”


Naturally, the start of the last 10K was a hill. After seeing the box, I attacked hard. At this point in the race, I was catching up to scores of walkers and relay racers. After reeling in one of the relay runners and passing him, an Indian guy, he stayed on my shoulder and began pacing me. I asked him how he was doing. “OK,” he stated after trying to catch his breath, “are you in the marathon?” I am, I responded. After wiping a large volume of sweat from his brow he followed up with, “impressive.” In order not to disappoint, I continued to push the pace. For about a half mile he stayed with me, but then dropped back stating, “finish strong.” I decided to do just that.

Mile 21. 7:42. I was still feeling better than most it seemed, but I was beginning to question whether or not I had burned too much energy too early. I would soon find out that this was indeed the case. The end of mile 21 and the beginning of mile 22 witnessed the second greatest single incline on the course: 130ft. in less than a mile. Since attacking the hills had worked up until now, I attempted to do the same here. I failed. My legs started to grow heavy and my turnover became sloppy. I was planting too far to the outside and losing momentum; I was slowing down. I tried to pump my arms, but it felt like I was barely moving. Oh no. Oh no.

The mile 22 split came at just the right time. After cresting the hill, I still had enough sense to run hard on the downhill and came in at a respectable 8:02 pace. I thought to myself: “If I can turn out some low 8s or high 7s, I will be in great shape. Just hold on, Paul” But then that’s when they hit me. One hill. Two hills. Three hills – they just…never…stopped. I was burning all the reserves just to top the hill, and ran too conservatively downhill in order to recover. I was throwing precious seconds out the window. I looked to my watch for my current pace on a particularly bad hill and saw what I had feared most: 9-min miles. An aid station was several yards away and I quickly took my “emergency” GU. When I slowed down to drink water, I felt my legs begin to seize a bit. I tried to run again, but the legs were growing increasingly heavy. For the first time, I decided to walk. Was that it? Was I going to be another runner who ran a “great effort?” Will I joke somewhere that I had a wonderful 20-mile training run? No one will ever see me, I thought. I can simply walk/run it in and blame it on the hills or wind.

I was four steps into the walk when the young guy I started next to (passed nearly 6 miles back) passed me. He slapped me on the shoulder and smiled, “C’mon, let’s finish this thing.” I nodded because I couldn’t muster the energy to respond vocally, but I started to shuffle the feet. What eventually spurned me to begin the run again, however, were not his comments; it was the presence of another force. The kind that has caused cities to both rise and fall and frequently transforms men into both heroes and fools: a beautiful woman.

Mile 23. 8:26. I had been able to perform adequately enough on the downhill portion of the hills to turn in a sub-8:30 mile. Still, the mile marker came at the bottom of the hill, and it took no time for mile 24 to head up again. At this point, I noticed her. She had passed me shortly after I began the shuffle in mile 23, but had slowed down on the following hill. As she had a good pace and looked to be running pretty efficiently, I decided to make her a target. Even though we had a mere 30 yards between us, it took me nearly a half mile to reel her in – she knew when to push the pace and when to run conservatively, which helped me establish a rhythm. Halfway through mile 24 I caught up with her. We took turns running on each other’s shoulder, but never once really talked. I remember us passing a skunk at the end of mile 24 and she said, “Yummy.”

Mile 24. 8:16 and dropping. My legs came back. The intensity of the hills was beginning to dissipate slightly and when I looked to my watch and read 3:09:50, I knew I had this marathon licked. Two miles at 10-minute pace would get me my sub 3:30, but I was looking for more. Although I was still running with the girl, she had dropped behind me about 5 yards. After running through yet another uphill, I decided it was as good a time as any to end our up-and-down relationship – I quickened the strides and lost her on the following downhill. I felt good enough to smile.


Mile 25. This mile was mostly downhill, but the wind made me work harder than expected. Still, my breathing was paced and my stride was consistent. I knew I wouldn’t hit 3:22:11, but I was surprised I was still this close. At the bottom of the hill named “D-minor hill and D-major time,” I heard my watch beep. 7:52 pace.

Mile 25-26. I hurt. I was tired. I was hungry. I was almost done. The only thing that stood in between me and my goal was a long uphill chock full of walkers. I didn’t look up; instead, I focused on a space 5 yards in front of me and just drove the legs. I looked for the sign that my dad and I discovered marked the end of the hills. I didn’t see it. I kept pushing. I kept passing the walkers. I don’t even remember getting my picture taken. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the sign – Ribera Rd. I gun it.


Mile 26. 7:57. The hill took a lot out of me and I remember pushing close to 9-min miles on the way up, but it was literally and figuratively all downhill after that. I began pushing the pace. 7:50…7:45. I needed to finish strong; I needed to make up some time I lost. 7:40…7:35. My breathing became labored, and my stride started to become wider. At this pace, I thought, I would not be able to run another mile, so I pushed it even harder. 7:30…7:20. I was pumping my arms and my eyes were focused straight ahead. Harder. Faster. Almost. There.

Mile 26.2. I saw the flags. I knew the finish was right around that corner. I was heel striking and struggling, but I was doing all of it at a pace I could handle. With 500 meters left to the finish, I saw a runner around 50 in front of me; I began reeling him in. It took me less than 10 seconds to catch up to him as he was hurting pretty badly. He undoubtedly had a story to tell, but I was too busy focusing on ending my own. 100 meters left – I start the sprint. The thing I had been chasing since January of this year finally came into view: the clock. Fists clenched, spittle flying from the sides of my mouth, I ran. I could see the finish line. I was almost there. The pain had enveloped every part of my legs, but it didn’t beat me. 54…55. Not this time. 56…57…3:27:58. Done. My first marathon. The date was April 26, 2009.