Blessing of the Fleet

I've been excited about this race ever since I first heard about it last year. A weeknight summertime race with a festival atmosphere? Yes, please. It was also cool to know a bunch of people -- both in and out of WTAC -- who would be doing it, too. This being my first road 10-miler, I didn't have a historical time I could easily use as a gauge of what I thought I could do, so I took to the ever-useful McMillan running calculator. I put in my only post-ankle sprain road race time (Bridgton 4 on the Fourth - 21:53 for 4 miles), and the calculator spat out a time of 58:27. OK, that's a useful starting point, but I thought I might be able to go faster, since the 4-miler was a relatively hilly course and I had three additional weeks of training under my belt. I arbitrarily decided that my goal time would be 58:00, and this is what I submitted with my application.

Race day arrived, and I discovered that the biggest challenge I might face would be getting to Narragansett, as a ton of people would be funneling into the town at around the same time on just a few roads. I was warned about traffic on Route 1 and consequently navigated through back roads and alleys to get to the high school. I parked in a field (my poor little Fit scarcely had the oomph to climb a grassy knoll to reach the parking spot), and picked up my "seeded" number in the middle school. When the woman gave me the number, she said what sounded like, "Chris Garcia." I politely repeated back my actual name, and she gave me a friendly but confused smile. Hmm.

I took a 10-minute solo warm-up and saw Jeff and Mike B. on both the front and back ends. I jogged over to the start with a few minutes to spare and wound up sharing personal space with both Seth and Jonny a couple of rows back from the line. A little to my left I saw what I assumed was an apparition of some sort. I went to wave my hand through it, only to discover it was real flesh and blood. Before me stood the Mike Galoob, New England Runner magazine's athlete of the month and secret agent of some kind. He said he'd be doing this as a workout, which meant I'd lose to him by a little less than usual.

The siren sounded, we took off down a hill, and I tried to settle in to the right pace as soon as I could. This meant dialing back on the downhill, and letting a whole bunch of people go by, including Jonny, who had already run something like 74 miles on the day. I caught back up to him around the mile mark, and he asked if my wife (who was positioned around the turn onto Ocean Rd.) would be mad that he was beating me at 0.8 miles. I said no, but I wasn't actually sure.

Despite the race still being in its early stages, I somehow found myself running alone on the Ocean Rd. stretch, into a slight headwind, of course. Where was Jonny now? Jeez. I had decided before the race that I'd try to run the first five miles at 5:50 and then try to negative split from there. I was slightly ahead of pace when we turned off Ocean Rd., but that soon changed. I hit a hill and got enveloped by a swarm of young men and the lead women. What just happened? This woke me up, and I latched on to the fastest boys in the group. (Apparently, anyone under the age of 30 has become a "boy" in my mind. When did I get to be old?) One of them I recognized as Colin Tierney, the top RI high school runner (who apparently was banditing the race, as his name doesn't appear in the results despite a big showdown with Mike Galoob in the final meters). I was eventually dropped by the fastest four or five guys in the group, but they had succeeded in dragging me along for a mile on the brutal 108 section of the course.

I hit the halfway point in 29:07, just three seconds under 5:50 pace. I was worried about my ability to negative split, but at least I'd accomplished the first part of my goal. Soon after, I grabbed the GU that I'd stashed in my hat and squeezed half the contents into my mouth just before a water stop, thereby avoiding the cement-mouthed situation I'd found myself in at Run with the Beavers. Live and learn.

Like many other runners, I was grateful to finally enter the shaded side road off 108. I also had some work to do, as my mile-six split was slow (5:55), thanks to the long hill on 108. I picked off a few guys along this wooded stretch and kept my sights on the others I could see ahead. I'd passed around 10 people since the first mile and thought I might be able to catch two or three more before the end of the race if I could keep pushing. I moved by two more guys just before we turned back onto South Pier Rd. and then tried to keep the pedal down as we went back past the start line. I was only vaguely aware of my pace at this point, but it didn't much matter; I just really didn't want to get passed back by anyone I'd overtaken. There's nothing worse than the pass-back, is there?

A sweaty mess. (Photo by Scott Mason. Is this a copyright violation?) 

I was feeling strong as I turned onto Kingstown Rd. for the final mile. No matter how exhausted I am in a race, the middle-distance runner in me almost always shows up for the last mile. There were two more guys I thought I might have a chance at with a big finish, so I began to accelerate as I came up behind a guy in a URI singlet. Just as I went to pass, my darn calves cramped up again. Fortunately(?), this was a somewhat familiar feeling, and I was better able to manage the cramps this time around. I knew that any sudden change of pace or direction would lock them up, so I very carefully tried to up the tempo and pass this guy. He stubbornly put up a fight and even threw in a surge as some URI supporters showered him with affection. Where's the love for WTAC? I finally moved past him in what felt like slow motion and tried my best to run fast the rest of the way without a calf malfunction. Every few seconds, I'd feel a twinge and back off before tentatively increasing the pace again. I hated knowing that I wouldn't be able to mount a respectable kick, but at this point I was happy to still be on two legs.

My best 'Gazelle' pose (both feet off the ground) as I approach the finish. (Photo by Jana Walker.)

Just as I began to realize I had no shot at catching the next guy, he took a sudden left turn. I wasn't familiar with the course, but it sure looked like the course continued straight. (This was just a hunch based on the hundreds of people who were lining the street directly ahead of me.) I got to the street where he turned and prepared to make a hard left when I saw that it was blocked by barricades, the runner trotting off anonymously into the distance. Yet another bandit!

The suspect was unusually gawky, with a long and narrow head, and a nicely coordinated outfit.
(Security camera-like photo by Spitler Race Systems.)

Just like that, I was alone, hobbling into the finish in 57:57, three seconds ahead of my arbitrary prediction, and with a second-half split 17 seconds faster than the first. I was satisfied with the execution of my plan but again very disappointed by my body's betrayal over the last mile. I was well hydrated (and didn't wear long socks this time), so all signs point to muscle fatigue as the culprit. That might have something to do with the fact that these 10-mile races have been my longest runs since the winter. As my ankle continues to heal, I'll make it a point to log some longer runs to better prepare for the fall racing season.

It was great to catch up with the guys afterward and hear about the many PRs and gutsy performances. I was particularly impressed (and not totally surprised) that Jonny managed to run just over an hour after all of the mileage he'd already put in on the day. The most mind-blowing performance of the day, however, goes to Mike B., who devoured a massive cheeseburger in about 3.6 seconds during the post-race dinner. He is an inspiration to us all.

Post Script: Sure enough, the 16th place finisher in the race was listed as "Chris Garcia" of Charlestown. I wrote a polite email to the folks at Spitler but figured it would probably never even be opened. Much to my surprise, the results were updated with the non-Spanish version of my name later that day. Well done, Spitler!

Run with the Beavers

This past weekend was the Run with the Beavers 10-mile trail race put on by rival/good guy Bob Jackman. The race was going to be a major test of both my endurance and ankle, so I set the mood dial to cautious optimism. I had two goals for the race: (1) Run even splits on the two-lap course, and (2) Place second (behind Greg Hammett, who would be untouchable, as usual). The first goal would require some patience on the first lap, but I thought I could pull it off. The second goal would be tougher, with both Muddy and Jonny in great shape and others no doubt gunning for strong races here as well. I was also looking forward to what I expected would be a close team competition. Jonny drops his allegiance to WTAC for this race every year, joining his brother and Boj to create the formidable and creatively named "Hammboj." WTAC would thus be running shorthanded but still with a strong, trail-hardy squad. To build camaraderie, Seth and Muddy crammed into my clown car for the ride up. We sang along to mix tapes, did each other's hair, and talked about all of the cute girls in school. We emerged an hour later full of team spirit and ready to go.

Note: By now, you have probably read several other race reports, so I'll get right to the action as I saw it.

The race course starts up a hill on a dirt road before jumping into the first single-track section. It's cruel to start a race on a hill, but that's the kind of person Bob Jackman is. As we took off, I found a spot next to Muddy, and we cruised up the hill side by side, entering the woods behind six other guys. I noticed that Greg already had a sizable lead and that no one had gone with him. The rest of us would be competing for second. The single track section is rocky in places and difficult to navigate when running close behind others. The guy directly in front of me had a couple of near ankle sprains. I found myself judging his trail running skills, but that seemed bad for my karma, so I scooted by after a mile and caught up with the next guy in line. Apparently, my judginess was too offensive to the trail gods, and as punishment they made me step awkwardly on a rock and twist my bad ankle (despite the industrial strength brace I was wearing). I involuntarily let out a primeval scream of pain and frustration. Without the brace, this would have been the end of my race, and probably the end of all running for the rest of the summer. With the brace, it hurt a ton, but it wasn't a knock-out blow. I limped along, letting Muddy go by on a treacherous downhill while I waited for my foot to numb itself into submission. It finally started to feel better after another mile, but just as I allowed myself to relax, I did it again! Can I please get a new foot? This one is defective. I made a promise to myself that if I had another ankle roll, I would call it quits and preserve myself. I couldn't risk ruining the rest of the year just for this one race. I was only a quarter of the way through and so much had already happened. What misadventures still awaited me?

After the 2.5-mile water stop, things started to shake up. Muddy and I moved by a guy or two, eventually landing on Jonny's shoulder. Jonny had been leading our group for the entire race to this point, but Steve Brightman edged ahead of him up the dirt road before entering the next single track section. In order meet my "even split" goal, my race plan had been to stay behind Muddy and Jonny for the entire first half, no matter how strong I was feeling or what other moves had been made. This meant letting Brightman go and hoping he'd eventually come back. I muttered to Jonny something about being patient and that there was a lot of racing left, but the advice was as much for myself as it was for him. Jonny, Muddy, and I ran together through the next single track and up the steep hill. This was great, as Jonny acted as our personal tour guide, warning about each section of the hill as it approached, while Muddy kept an eye out for loose beavers. As we neared the end of the first lap, I gobbled up the GU that Muddy had so generously given me before the race. This was the first time I'd ever taken one during a race, and it was actually pretty difficult to do. Apparently, GU + dry mouth = Gorilla Glue. Good to know in case I ever break a piece of pottery while on a run. As a mouth breather, however, I was fighting a losing battle trying to get air through the product of the complex chemical reaction described above. The water stop at the halfway point couldn't have come soon enough. I took a swig of water that broke up most of the GU glob in my mouth. I'd have to wait until 7.5 miles to get the rest.

That is not a smile. It the face of someone trying to flex every single muscle fiber in his body.  I think I held that footstrike for 20 seconds just to make sure Scott got one with the quad engaged (a.k.a. a "Jackman").
(Photo: Scott Mason)

We started the second half as a group, and while I was feeling content to hang where I was, I also didn't want to wait too long to make a move since I wasn't sure I'd be able to hold off Jonny and Muddy on the technical section before the end of the race. I decided to ease ahead before we entered the single track and then put in a small surge to catch up to Brightman. Again, I had to make a decision whether to sit behind him and risk letting the other guys catch up or to blow by and hope he could act as a buffer. I waited a few minutes but took the first opportunity to go once the trail opened up. It was really enjoyable to have the woods to myself for awhile. I focused on keeping my feet light on the trail and putting as much distance as possible between me and Brightman.

At the 7.5-mile mark, I grabbed another water and got some encouragement(?) from the volunteers. "Nice job. You're in second place...but really far behind the other guy." Thanks.

I tried to open up my stride on the dirt road to get some more breathing room on whoever was behind me. I figured it was still Brightman, but I then I heard voices. That sounds creepy in retrospect. What I'm saying is that people were behind me, and they were talking, which likely meant it was Jonny and Muddy. Shoot, they were moving up.

I got a little surge of adrenaline and took to the next single track section with a renewed vigor. My legs were tired but I wanted to put this race away now rather than letting it come down to a kick. All was going according to plan until just before the big hill when pop, pop went my calves. Calf cramps! Calf cramps? Calf cramps! I have never in my life had a calf cramp while running, let alone two of them, and I had no idea what to do. I thought I remembered seeing someone once stretch their calves out after getting a cramp, so I quickly pulled over to a big tree and stretched them against the trunk. It felt better, so I gingerly accelerated up the hill...when it happened again! This time, I used the incline of the hill to stretch them out as I tried to run up it. But every time I pushed off my toes, they'd cramp again. I tried running crow-footed, then pigeon-toed, then every other kind of bird gait I could think of. Nothing worked. I started to panic. A disastrous scenario played out in my mind in which I was forced to walk the entire final mile while the whole field passed me. How embarrassing that would be. I shook the thought from my head. I looked back but didn't see anyone yet. OK, this thing's not over yet, but I had to find a way to run without my calves cramping. Since the toe-off seemed to be source of the problem, I just had to avoid doing that. I started to run by pushing off the balls of my feet and keeping my toes out of the anatomical equation. This seemed to work. I got over the steepest section of the hill and found I was able to run normally again. But as soon as I hit the next rise, the cramps returned. I stretched once more against a tree, while two runners on their first lap looked on in confusion. I asked one of them if he'd carry me the rest of the way. He laughed. I was serious. I went back to the ball-of-foot method, and this got me through the remainder of the hills. The downhills weren't a problem, and I recklessly tried to get back some of the time I'd lost, ankle sprains be damned. The trail finally spat me out at the entrance to the finishing field, which has a deceptive little rise to it. With that rise came the darn cramps again. I awkwardly circled the field, a big grimace on my face, and stumbled through the finish line, never so glad to be done with a race. I turned around to see Muddy and Jonny very close behind. Another hill, and I might have been toast.

Thus ended one of the most eventful races of my life. I have no idea what caused the cramps. I was well hydrated and electrolyted, so I'm at a bit of a loss as to the cause. One obvious reason could be that the fitness just wasn't quite there, and my body was rejecting what I was putting it through. A more interesting but less likely theory is that the long socks I wore in the race (which had an upper edge that wrapped mid-way up my calf) put an unusual pressure on the area, which somehow triggered the cramps. Or was it something else entirely? Trail demons, perhaps?

Well, aside from the cramps and ankle sprains, I felt quite good out there, running very close to even splits (33:50, 34:15), but I still left the race very disappointed with the final mile. On the flip side, it was awesome to see Seth come in with a strong finish and then count off the minutes before Boj finished to see if WTAC would pull out the victory. We did and were rewarded handsomely.

All in all, it was a fun experience, and I look forward to a less dramatic version of this race next year. Many thanks to Bob Jackman and crew for putting on a fabulous event.

Return to racing - Bridgton 4 on the Fourth

It seems so long since we walked in the moonlight

My goodness, it's nice to run a race again. It's only been two-and-a-half months, but it feels like an eternity, thanks to the injury time warp phenomenon. The dreaded sprained ankle struck again in early May and turned minutes into hours and days into weeks. Time sure drags on when you can't run. I'm lucky that the weather was getting warmer, as it allowed me to put in a decent amount of cycling and avoid losing too much fitness. The ankle is still bothersome, but I love running in the summer too much to miss out on some good training and classic summertime races.

This past week, our family made the annual trek to my in-laws' lake cabin in Fryeburg, Maine. A couple of years ago, I learned about a big race in Bridgton, the next town over, on July 4th. Racing and July 4th have always seemed like a perfect fit, so I was excited to venture over and see what the race was all about. Despite the small-town setting, the race draws ~2000 runners thanks in large part to the influx of campers from local summer camps and vacationers such as myself.

When I first ran this race (in 2012), it was my first race in eight months and only the second in two years, and it showed. I struggled to a 23:48, needing a big kick to keep my pace under 6:00/mile. Last year, it was my first race in seven months, and I fared a bit better, dropping about half a minute from my time (23:13). So, my 2.5-month layoff this year seemed like nothing compared to the previous years. I was also coming off some good fitness prior to the ankle sprain, so I was hoping some of that would carry over.

My goal this year was to break 23:00. It's a pretty tough course, with a long hill from mile one to two-and-a-half, so this seemed like an attainable but challenging objective. One mitigating factor, however, was the big training week I'd been putting in. Vacation for me (and, I suspect, most of you) is not a time to rest, but a time to take advantage of freedom from work by banging out some big rides and runs, which meant I wasn't exactly tapered for the race. I was more like the opposite of tapered. Straight legged, maybe? Or boot cut?

Bad jean jokes aside, I rode over to the race with my buddy Mike, whose family joins ours in Maine for the week. I should mention that this race is 1/13th of the "Maine-athlon," a multisport challenge that we engage in annually. Each event is handicapped based on previous years' results, so I was going to have to beat Mike by 2:30 in order to claim first place in the event. This was my true goal for the race. Everything else was secondary.

We warmed up through the drizzle. While the temperatures were cool (mid-60s), the humidity was still quite high, and we arrived at the line in full lather. I settled into the first row and recognized a few faces from previous years. A couple of spots over from me was Silas Eastman, a 19-year-old who was a Maine state XC and Nordic Skiing champ in high school and the 2012 race winner. Behind me, apparently modest, was last year's race winner, Moninda Marube, a Kenyan now living in Maine. He's a 2:22 marathoner and really in a class of his own at a race like this, so I relished my time ahead of him as we waited for the gun.

Mile 1
The first mile is slightly downhill and can be pretty speedy if you're not careful. After about 400 yards, I found myself in second place, already 10 seconds behind Marube. I checked my watch, as I wanted to try to run around 5:30 pace or a little under, in order to keep things in control early. I saw I was at ~5:25, so I settled in there and let a few guys catch up as we hit the mile in 5:26.

Mile 2
I ran with a pack of four other guys, including Eastman, far behind the leader, as we began the long climb that would take us past the race's halfway point. I felt strong on the hills, surging to the lead of the pack in the steepest sections, and then falling back in behind them on the flatter sections. I'd really struggled in this mile in previous years, so I made a conscious effort to hang with the pack, even as things got uncomfortable. We made a road crossing, then a sharp left turn, as mile 2 clicked off in 5:42.

Course elevation profile. You just have to make it through 2.5 miles, the rest is a breeze...or so I thought.

Mile 3
I was on the verge of losing contact as we continued up the long hill but did everything I could to stay in the group. By this point, we'd dropped one guy, but the others were looking strong. The pack of four consisted of myself, Eastman, another young looking guy (who turned out to be a rising sophomore runner at Syracuse) and a mustachioed guy in a Dirigo jersey. My hope was to stick with them over the hill, as I figured the downhill would be fast for all of us, and I'd be able to recover enough to mount a strong kick to the finish. Well, I succeeded in the first part, as we finally crested the hill still together. Just as I started to relax on the descent, the other three guys took off. It was as if they were waiting for some secret sign that I didn't know about. Over the next half mile, they put 10 seconds on me, and there was nothing I could do about it. My legs just couldn't turn over like theirs on the downhill. Oh to be fast. The third mile was 5:33.

Mile 4
I ran the final mile alone, just hoping the group of three would break up and someone would come back to me. They looked too strong, though, so I focused on maintaining a good pace down the rest of the hill and onto Main Street, where a sizable crowd had already assembled in anticipation of the parade later in the day. I had a secret goal of breaking 22:00 that I wasn't allowing myself to feel too strongly about because I figured it would be unrealistic on this course. But it was now dawning on me that with a good finish I might have a chance. I galloped (a reference to my horse teeth?) down the street, managing a few waves to the supporters, and saw the finish line clock read 21:4X with less than 100 meters to go. It felt silly to sprint by myself, so I ran as hard a sub-sprint as I could, finally crossing in 21:53, with a final mile split of 5:11. It was a 4-mile PR, just nipping my 21:56 from last year's Run4Kerri.

Charging down Main Street toward the finish.
(Photo credit: mcclellandmiscellanea.wordpress.com)

Much to my surprise, I discovered afterward that the top-5 finishers all get prizes. I made Mike wait around in the rain for an hour, but it was well worth it (for me, that is), as I came away for two $25 gift cards, one to New Balance and one to Fleet Feet. Not a bad haul for fifth place!

Also, there is a great little write-up on the race by a spectator, if you're so inclined.

This year's splits were far better than in years past. 

Most importantly, Mike had stomach issues thanks to ingesting roughly 150 of my mother-in-law's chocolate chip cookies over the previous few days, so I was able to win our personal race despite the large handicap. The following day, however, Mike put together an incredible set of performances in croquet and bocce to pull even with me at the end of the competition. Now, it should be known, we come from a town (New Paltz, NY) that was far ahead of the pack in creating the "everybody wins" culture, and we grew up getting participant medals for everything we did, even if we sucked. All this has done is fueled our competitive engines as adults. What I'm trying to say is that there would be no tie in the Maine-athlon. After some deliberation, we agreed that the victor would be determined by whoever caught the most footballs thrown (by my father-in-law) off the dock into the lake. We each had ten tries on offense, while the other person defended. Well, I fell one catch short of Mike, and therefore lost the competition for the first time in its three years of existence. Now where's my second-place ribbon?

The very picture of failure.