#470: Race Report, (sort of): 2013 Bluegrass 10,000

Ten...

Thousand...

Meters.

Even after half a dozen marathons and half marathons, the 10K... this 10K has a special place in my heart.

I don't remember the year, but I remember the night. It was lifetimes ago. Before cancer and the mental hospital and getting fired and my marriage coming apart. It was a summer evening and life was full of possibilities and I was making a list. It was like the list Gatsby's dad shows to Tom at the end of the novel. I still remember some of the items. "Practice cursive writing." "Get out of debt." "Take Martha to Ireland." And the last one was something special, something impossible, for no one's benefit but mine: "Run the Bluegrass 10,000."

I wasn't a runner at the time. I wasn't doing anything physical at all, if I remember. But something - I would say it was God's inspiration - prompted me to stick that item on the end of my list of life goals. Looking back, I'm convinced it was divine inspiration, because that thought planted the seed that sprouted when I was lying on my sick bed, looking for a reason to hang on to life. "I have to live. I haven't run that race, yet." And so the dreams began and the running soon followed.

2011 Bluegrass 10,000

My first BG 10K was the last race I ran before joining the Y. There were no coaches, no trainers, no YMCA logos... just my own will and Martha's faith in my ability to do the impossible. I wore the shirt that Mum bought me on my 50th birthday. She paid full price at Dick's because I said I wanted a LIVESTRONG shirt, and I was almost finished with treatment and there was no telling how much longer I was going to live so a $30 tee-shirt wasn't so extravagant as it might have been another year. Martha took this picture with her phone, from a balcony high above Main Street as I shuffled along the last mile of the race.

I remember feeling amazement as I crossed the finish line. It all sort of hit me at once... the miracle I had gone through. Since my diagnosis, I had four members of my family and friends still fighting cancer for their lives. Soon, they would all be gone, but three lived to see me finish that race. They were all proud of me. They still are, I hope.

2012: A familiar uniform makes
it's Lexington debut.

My second time down Main Street was very different than the first. 2011 had been a cool, overcast morning, perfect for running. July 4, 2012 lived up to its name: it was a firecracker of a morning. I didn't record the temperature in my log, but I know that I didn't skip any water stations that day. Temps and humidity both soared and battered me, especially out on the hills of Richmond Road. After the turnaround, I was running on fumes. My second half was much slower than the first, and I finished strong, but spent. It was fast enough; faster than I'd ever run 10K before; but it didn't feel like a quality effort. I had let myself get pulled along by faster runners early and spent all my endurance coins too soon. I didn't want to make that mistake again today.

2013: You must admit,
I'm taking better pictures...

This morning, I was awake at 3:00 AM, too excited to sleep. You would have thought I was getting ready for the state championships and not a community holiday race. I made my standard race day breakfast: jelly toast and coffee. Chatted with the insomniac club on Facebook. Joked with other runners as they woke up to predictions of thunderstorms at race time. Pinned my bib on and put the timing chip on my shoe. Climbed the walls. When I couldn't stand the wait any longer, and the sky had started it's transition from black to steely gray, I tucked my spare key into the waistband pocket of my running shorts and headed out the door.

There wasn't a lot of traffic on Broadway as I began the 2 mile jog toward town. I took it slow, working out the kinks. Taking stock. Feet? Feeling good. Ankles and calves? Strong and relaxed. Coach Carrie had seen to that. Quads? A little twinge just above the right knee. Just early morning bugs to work out, I hope. Go easy up to the crest of the hill and see how it feels on the flat. There, that's better. Hips? No sweat. Tuesday's ache must have been from the stride change on the treadmill. I haven't run inside since the weather turned to spring and shortening up for the 'mill probably caused that little tweak. My posture is strong. Arms feel light and powerful. Chest high. Head back. Eyes up. Yeah, I'm ready for this.

Police officers and volunteers were setting up barricades as I came into town. We exchanged cheerful  "Good Mornings" and I thanked them for coming out on their holiday. I turned the corner toward the starting line and was struck, as I always am, but the beauty of the gathering tribes of runners. Gorgeous, toned bodies. Wide bottoms and rolling bellies. Golden tans. Pale, aged skin. Pre-teens and grand masters all jogged loosely back and forth along Main Street. We were all early and it was fixing to dump rain on us and there was no place on earth we would rather be.

2013: Strider Nation reporting for duty

I found the Striders and exchanged fist bumps and greetings. Runners bump fists. It isn't a pose, it's a sign of respect and a way to make contact without exchanging whatever fluids and ointments and microbes and whatever else is on the hands of the dozens of people you greet at a race. We laughed at the weather, and Chris joked that she wanted a pair of glasses with windshield wipers on them. Someone suggested that my sunglasses were an admirable show of optimism. Finally we gathered on the steps at Thoroughbred Park and posed for our annual group shot.

John's Striders is a running group affiliated with John's Run/Walk shop here in Lexington. John's is mecca for running in our town, and the Striders were created to help new runners find their way into the sport. They are an amazingly joyful group of people. Runners with decades of experience willingly share their wisdom and encouragement with newbies. There has never been a time I've run with them that I didn't come away inspired and a smarter runner. I'm proud to be one of them.

2013: In the Zone on the way to a new PR

The race was just super. I had mixed a special 10K playlist on my iPod to keep both my spirits and my cadence from lagging. The support from spectators was great. People with cowbells shouted encouragement, and several times I heard my name from friends and fellow runners. The storm never materialized, but a light drizzle kept me cool through the race and I was able to pass several of the early water stations by. I don't usually run with headphones, but today I did and I found that the music helped me to stay focused. My mind didn't wander like it does on a long training run. I probably missed a few things along the way, and I don't think I'd make a habit of running with earbuds, especially in a  longer race, but today, I was glad I did. The hills that had caused me such grief last year were little more than gentle rollers today. Mountain miles training with the Striders had seen to that. When I hit the half-way point, I was right on target with my pace, and decided to press the gas pedal a little to see what I could do. My body responded better than I could have imagined, finishing the second half of the race two minutes faster than the first, and running the last mile in 9:34: as fast as I've ever run a mile in a race. My goal had been to finish in 66 minutes. I finished in 1:04:18, a new PR by almost 4 full minutes. And what was playing in my aging ears as I crossed the finish line? Freebird, of course!

I jogged/walked home in the rain, alone. I usually like to meet friends for brunch or coffee after this race, but it's kind of a special year for me. I'm learning a lot about being alone these days. I expected to be a little sad about not having anyone to hug or share my post-race euphoria with, but I wasn't sad at all. I felt... dare I say it... proud. Grateful to God for giving me a chance to run. Grateful to all the people I've known and lost this year and the inspiration they will always give me. Grateful for the friends who are sticking with me, and the new friends I haven't met yet.

And yes, dammit. I'm proud that I made the choice to accept all those gifts and turn them into a loving celebration of life. I may never break any records other than my own PRs, and I may never win anything other than participant shirts and finisher's medals, but crossing that finish line, you feel like a champion. And in a way, I guess we all are.

Everybody in a race has a thousand reasons not to be there. Excuses. Rationalizations. Justifications. Anxieties. Nobody with any sense puts on skimpy clothes on a rainy morning and runs 6 miles in a race they can't win. And in spite of all that, we run. We run together. We run alone. We run. And by running, we celebrate who we are... who we can become... and we testify to the power of will and faith. We all succeed because we choose to run and we believe that no matter how crazy it looks to the rest of the world, it is worth it.

When people see us running by the side of the road, they see all kinds of things. Fanatics. Neurotics. Traffic hazards. But once in a while, I hope they see the miracle. In a world full of death and discouragement, we are alive and running. We are not stronger. We simply choose to run. We choose to live. I hope that now and then, when people see a runner, they realize that they too can choose life. There are miracles waiting for each of us.

Peace,
Pennsy

#451: 2013 Flying Pig Marathon, Part 2

When we last saw Pennsy, he had just kissed Mrs P goodbye and was heading down the stairs of the parking structure, toward what he remembered to be the starting area of the Flying Pig Marathon. He was travelling without his hydration pack because the weather and his physical condition could both be described as 'sloshy." But what our hero had forgotten was that in addition to 2 liters of sports drink, his pack also contained

• Drivers license, Debit card, and insurance card
• Cell phone in case of emergency
• Interval timer to chirp out when to walk and when to run

The first was not missed. There was no need to pay EMT's or Emergency room doctors, or to prove my identity to any of the ubiquitous and heavily armed security personnel. On the other hand, I did have to borrow a phone to find Mrs P after the race, and not having my interval timer just may have cost me a couple hundred dollars in Buck-a-Minute donations. I decided I would just insert a walk break at every mile marker, but by mile 16, it was clear that that hadn't been enough. But we'll cross that bridge a few miles don the road. 

I made my way around Paul Brown Stadium. You might have to be a Steeler fan to appreciate the humor, but there was an enormous logo for Heinz on the flashing billboard outside. I passed the starting gate, and began jogging the long walk back toward "Pigpen H," the last corral for people who estimated their finishing time to be over 6 hours. I was somewhere around Pigpen C when they had a moment of silence, then a piper played to honor the wounded and dead of Boston. Somewhere near Pigpen F, an accapella group from the University of Kentucky, of all places, sang a really lovely rendition of the national anthem. I had just reached the big flag that said "G" when the horn sounded to start the race. We were on a sort of side spur road, so I knew that the slow pokes would have to wait a long time while the quicker runners passed. I made it all the way to the end of the line, and decided to use the traffic to control my speed for the first few miles. Then the wait started. We smiled at one another. Chatted. Stretched. Then I noticed someone pointing up in the sky. They had search lights ballyhooing around the starting line like a Hollywood opening. I figured that's what people were seeing. When I looked up, I saw a miracle instead. At 6:40 in the morning, with the sky steely blue with cloud cover, reaching from Kentucky to Ohio, hung an enormous rainbow. I've never seen anything like it in my life. I stood with my jaw slack, amazed at this wonderful sign from heaven. It felt like God was blessing our run. It was a good thing. I was going to need it. 

I hit the starting line at 6:51, 21 minutes after the gun. I had prepared a very clear pacing plan with the goal of bettering my previous Marathon time by an hour. 10 miles at 13:00/mile, 12 at 12:00/mile, then the last 4 miles somewhere between 11:00/mile and "go like hell."  I had calculated my run/walk pace based on 60 second intervals. had to throw that out the window when I discovered I didn't have my timer. My first 10 miles were actually pretty good: Between 13:32 (the first and most traffic laden) and 12:22 (an ego pace because I knew that the Striders would be cheering during that stretch, and didn't want to get caught walking.) One big surprise in the early part of the race was mile 9. I was expecting "the Climb." it pokes up out of the elevation chart like the Matterhorn. It's a 300+ foot climb, most of which occurs during miles 7 and 8. I took it nice and smoothly, comforted with the knowledge that once this one was done, the rest of the course was a long, gradual down hill roll. Mile 9 disabused me of that belief. The hills along the rest of the course are only small in comparison to "the Climb." On their own merit, they are little assasins, one and all. Not enough to kill you, but enough to just make you want to throw up your hands and cry out, "Dear God. ANOTHER one?" I held my pace through 16 miles, but after that, the 1 miles splits start to slow back down into the 13:00/mile range again. By mile 18, I knew two things. I was not going to hit the wall, I felt almost no pain or cramping in my legs. but I also knew that I was fading. I would not be dropping an hour from last year's time.

One other thing about "the Climb" When you get to the top, you run around a really dramatic overlook called Eden Park. The valley spreads out around you and it feels as if you are looking down from the clouds. It reminds me a little of Mount Washington in Pittsburgh. I would like to go back there someday when I have a little more time to stop and look around.

Mile 21 was the first and only time I went over 14:00/mile all day. It was also right around the time that my 1 minute per mile walk breaks fell apart. I tried several solutions, and finally settled on counting. 10 strides running, 10 strides walking. My mind was turning to mush at this point, too. I would count out loud, and laugh at the idea of runing a marathon 10 steps at a time. I cursed at the devil. I called out to lost friends and LIVESTRONG warriors. I tried to avoid thinking of the things and people who made me cry. It was easy. When some unwanted thought would rise up from the deep, I would just point my consciousness back toward the sound of my feet and my breath. At Mile 23, with just 5K left to run, I started going hard. No more walk breaks. I was going to go for broke. All I could think of was the Buck-a-Minute team. If I could knock an extra minute or two off my time, another kid could take swimming lessons or a trainer could spend an extra hour with a survivor who wanted to learn how to swing a kettlebell or perform a deadlift. I wasn't going to hit my personal goal, but I wasn't going to let those people down, either. 

One by one, I started to pass the walkers. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't blazing by any means, but I refused to let up. I thought about Becky in her nursing home bed, waiting to get sick enough that they would take her back to the hospital. I remembered all of them, then. I heard Carrie saying "Don't quit on me, Bob." I heard Mrs P, "I believe in you, Bobbo." Hardest of all was Coach Melissa. "Remember who you are. You are that same Bob Johnson that I saw that first day at the Y." I ran, partly to honor them, and partly to escape the tears that I felt threatening to choke me. When the finish line finally came into view, about a quarter mile down Main Street, I hauled up onto my toes and sprinted for all I was worth. I sprinted the way I do when Carrie has me run hill sprints. My arms pumped. My breath rushed in and out with each stride. I gritted my teeth. My eyes flashed. I was running angry. I was racing cancer. Mine. Becky's, Everybody's. When I hit the finish line, I threw up my hands and praised God, just as my nephew the preacher had asked me to do. I don't know how many people saw me. There aren't many spectators left after 5 hours of a Marathon. But God saw me. I knew who had given me the tools to do what I had done. I was humbled, but also proud. I was the one who had to choose what to do with those tools. God had let me choose, and I had chosen to try to be my best self. 

I was spent. A worried little volunteer took my arm and walked me, first to the mylar blankets, then to the water bottles. I realized that I had no way of reaching Mrs P, so asked a volunteer to let me use her phone. Security was  much too tight for us to meet at the finish line, so we decided to meet back at the parking garage. I made my way through the gauntlet of bananas and fruit cups and water bottles until I left the post race area, I looked down and realized that at some point, someone had hung a finisher's medal around my neck. I had just run my second marathon. I checked my Garmin. 39 minutes. I beat my old time by 39 minutes. Pretty impressive, if not the miracle I was hoping for. About 40 bucks per pledge. Not a bad day's work.

It started to rain, and as I tried to climb the stairs from the river to the walk way around the stadium, I felt the first crippling cramps of the day. Here at last was the wall. I had pushed it back to 27 miles. But there was still a long way to go to the car and my legs hurt so badly that I cried out each time I climbed another step. Limping, bellowing, and soon soaking and shivering, I walked up into the city. Mrs P had given me an intersection to find. I could not remember what she had said, nor could I have remembered how to find it if I did remember. I was far from the handful of blocks we had seen on Saturday. Nothing looked familiar because everything looked the same. A panhandler with a cardboard sign considered me carefully as I wandered by in a daze. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had offered me a buck. 

Finally, I met another pair of runners who looked as lost and stupid as I was. "We just went all the way around in a circle. We can't remember where we parked." "Did you see the Millennium Hotel on your walk?" "Yes," she shouted, as if she had finally gotten an answer right on Jeopardy. "It's a block that way!" We parted, and I assumed we would probably see one another again as we spent the rest of our lives wandering like Flying Dutch Pigs around the canyons of Cincinnati. Instead, as I approached the hotel, a woman with a plastic bag full of clothes approached me, smiling. No crying, No, it was not a stranger. It was Mrs P. "How in the hell did you find me?" I asked, amazed and squinting through my bifocal-less eyes. "I told you to meet me here. I've been standing on the corner watching people limp."

She led me to the car where I put on a dry shirt and some warm pants. We rode back to Kentucky, and stopped somewhere for lasagna and a bowl of minestrone. Then I went to sleep and woke up a few minutes from our house. 

It should have been a great day. Dropped 10% from my Marathon time. Doubled my fundraiser total. Finished 26 miles at a full gallop. But bipolar disorder can blunt even great days. By the time I got back to Lexington and opened up the race website to confirm my official time, it was as if it had all happened to someone else... as if I had watched a Marathon, instead of running one. The tears I had been hoping for... the cathartic bursting of the dam at the finish line that would let all the pain and grief out once and for all... they did not come. Instead, there was just exhausted numbness. At night, in our bed, I sobbed while Mrs P held me. No longer crying for my lost friend, but for the fear of losing the Y itself. 

I am terrified. As frightened as I have ever been of anything. If I can't get well, if this thing doesn't go away, then I will never be able to go back to work at the Y... back to the best job I have ever had, and the only one I have ever really loved... 

Yes, I am humbled by the generosity of my God and my friends. Yes, I am proud of the things we have achieved together. I am proud that there will be so much more money in the purse of LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. But I am so afraid that I won't be able to be there to see the good it will do. God, help me. God, heal me. Please. I am so very very afraid.

Peace,

Pennsy

#450: 2013 Flying Pig Marathon, Part 1

At Mile 8, I knew that the worst of the hills was over. By Mile 9, I knew that I needed to improve my skills in reading an elevation chart.

This little piggy went to Cinci

The Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati OH is an urban race. You go through lots of neighborhoods, the canyons downtown, and a truly beautiful city park. You also spend a lot of time looking up hills saying "Oh shit, not another one..." This was my second Marathon, and I profited mightily from my experience running in Pittsburgh last spring, but it was also my second time taking on 26.2 while woefully under-prepared to do the climbing that the course required. That's a mistake I don't want to make again.

My race weekend started on Friday with a few loads of laundry and an early lights out. The 90 minute drive to a 6:30 start was going to knock my sleep rhythm way out of whack, and I wanted to be prepared. I also got the heart-breaking news that my bosses at the Y want me to take May off   to recover from my recent breakdown. I know that they are probably right, but I was feeling very good and really hoped I would be able to get back into the swing of things this week when LIVESTRONG at the YMCA starts its summer session. Instead, I'll spend the month healing, reflecting, and dropping the weight that I gained while fueling up for this race. My weight is still the biggest obstacle to my speed, and I'm determined that by September I'm going to get down to my target of 220. I'm at 266 this morning. The trick is going to be getting my mood stabilized so I'm not medicating myself with emotional eating. If I'm not careful, I could be back over 300 in a matter of weeks.

Saturday, Mrs P and I drove up to the Queen City to pick up my packet and swag, and to cruise the Expo. It was a big one, like the race itself.  I understand there were around 30,000 runners registered for the weekend's events, which makes The Pig about 3/4 the size of the Pittsburgh which was run at the same time, just a few hours up the Ohio River. Cinci is so much like The 'Burgh, in culture, in history, and in geography. Both are river valley towns with heavy industrial roots that have evolved as the information age has developed. It's skyline blends classic American skyscrapers with some post-modern monstrosities that rival the amazingly weird gothic glass edifice of the PPG building back home. The strangest of them appears to be capped by a gigantic football shoved point first, halfway through the roof. Still, there is life and friendly hospitality to be found in these old streets, and in spite of it's proximity to Kentucky, Cincinnati is definitely a Northern City.

I managed to get out of the expo having spent very little money... mostly because I left my wallet in the car. It was lucky for me that we have such a strange, hyphenated last name, because otherwise I don't think that the conscientious volunteer would have given me my bib. Security was very present and very visible throughout the event. Fallout from Boston. I wonder if racing will ever be the same again now that the world feels the need to protect us from the crazies.

Traveling light

Mrs P did all the driving this weekend. My screwed up sleep, my hard-cycling emotions, and my lousy driving combined to make us both more comfortable with her more steady hand at the tiller.

For Becky

Back in Lexington, I finished the laundry, packed up all my gear, and laid out my race clothes. I planned to dress light. I already had enough extra weight on my body. I didn't want to add any with a potentially rain-soaked outfit. I selected my spandex compression shorts, my Y tank, and a pair of toe socks to go inside my amazingly green NikeFrees. A SPI belt full of energy chews would be all I would carry, unless the weather called for my hydration pack. I intended to go for broke on this one. By 8:00, I was showered, in bed, my 2:30 AM alarm was set, and my relaxation app was droning softly from my iPad. Sleep was deep and easy, if interrupted by several trips to the can. I had been drinking gallons of liquids all week to get myself hydrated. While this tactic proved to be very successful on race day, I did wear a path to every lavatory in sight starting around Wednesday afternoon.

Race day morning, I didn't make it to the 2:30 beep. By 2:00 I was lying in the dark, staring at the slowly changing red numbers on the clock. Might as well get up. And now, I have to be honest with you, dearest reader. My memories of race day are always a little foggy. This race came along with my head in such a strange space that I'm not sure what I remember and what I've made up. So enjoy the ride, but I won't be testifying to any of the following time-line under oath.

Breakfast was coffee with fat-free half and half, and an apple fritter. This leaden, sugary treat is probably about the worst thing you could eat before a race, but it was my breakfast on my last long run, the 28 miler, and I didn't want to screw with the routine. I checked my computer and found two deeply moving messages. The first was the news that an old college buddy had donated an amazing amount of money to Living Strong at the Y: enough to carry us all the way to our very ambitious goal. I sent him a thank you as soon as I saw his donation come in. I also received a carefully written and inspiring message from our nephew the preacher. He reminded me of God's role in my life. How my salvation not just from cancer, but from sin came from my creator and redeemer. He reminded me that the people who came and went in my life were gifts from God. He also exhorted me to remember that while people might leave, God's faithfulness would always remain and my first duty must always be to obeying God, not to earning the approval of people. It was just what I needed to hear. I blogged about his words, and carried them along with me through out the race.

It was raining when we left Lexington, about 15 minutes later than I had hoped we would. Mrs P drove through the misty darkness while I drank water, sipped apple, carrot, ginger juice, and napped. We were behind schedule when crossed the Ohio into town, but that was not my biggest problem. Coffee. Half and half. Water. Juice. Guess what I had to do? Guess what there was no sign of anywhere on the traffic packed streets of Cincinnati at 5:45 in the morning? When I could hold it no longer, I had to resort to desperate measures. I was wearing my racing shorts, and couldn't afford a slip and drip. I searched through the trash can in the car. It says on their website that a large McDonalds Mango Pineapple smoothie comes in a 22 oz cup. I shucked down my drawers, surrounded by traffic, suddenly grateful for the pre-dawn darkness. Little Pennsy and I filled that 22 oz cup with ease. I quickly opened my door and dumped the contents out onto the street. Then we made some more. I was not aware that such volume was even possible. Mrs P and I were both a little queasy after the moment had passed. Finally, we found a parking garage and she slipped the Honda into a spot where I could finish dressing. I opened the hatch and changed into my shirt and shoes. Heart rate monitor. Sweat bands. Tape with my pacing plan written on it. Sunglasses for later. I considered the rain, the temperature, and the four cups of water i had just made, and decided to leave the hydration pack in my race bag. I knew it would be empty by about mile 12 anyway, and the thought of carrying an empty, mildly sloshing pack on my back just made me want to pee again. I checked to make sure that the baggie protecting my energy chews was zipped shut and rolled up inside my SPI belt, kissed Mrs P, posed for some pictures in the creepy sodium light, and I was off. She went back in the car to sleep. We would meet up at the finish line.

Peace,
Pennsy

#421: Race Report: 2013 Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon

After your first time on the course for the Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon, it's easy to pick your favorite mile: it's mile 8. Those long, gentle rollers are as close as you get to flat and straight, and the last quarter is a lovely downhill coast that finishes at the mile 9 post and the most hellish climb on the course: a 100 foot, quarter mile climb that John's Striders just call the S-curve. Knowing it's out there makes you savor that beautiful preface even more.

Yesterday, as the 2:30 pace group and I rounded the corner that starts that lovely mile, we were greeted by a foal and his mother. They were running along the fence, following the runners as we gasped out on the road. The thoroughbreds would mirror our progress all the way to the corner of their pasture, then turn and gallop back to escort another lucky group of brightly dressed humans. They reminded us of two things. First: RTB's billing as one of the prettiest half marathons in America is an understatement. Second: there are creatures who love to run even more than we do. What a beautiful reminder that a race track is a pale parody of the free, generous spirits of these glorious animals.

The morning started before dawn, like all race days. My clothes were laid out on the bathroom sink, waiting for me to shower and apply all the necessary lubes and tapes that protect my skin on a long run. Carrying my race shoes and socks, I padded carefully to the kitchen to make coffee without waking Mrs P. My pre-race rituals are part of the fun for me, and that includes the paranoid fear that I'm going to step on a sharp dog chewy in the dark and ruin my foot. The week before my marathon, I put my shoes on before I got out of bed. This time, I chose to live a little more recklessly.

My pre-run breakfast hasn't changed in a long time. One cup of coffee and two pieces of toast with jelly. Sugar and carbs for fuel. Caffeine to open my eyes. Again, I chose to try a new strategy. I super-charged with a second cup of coffee, and two gooey apple fritters. I knew it would mean extra bathroom trips before the start, but I also knew how long those hills were. I didn't want to run out of gas before the end.

It was around 39° as I started the Honda, its windows covered with condensed fog. As I drove the back roads to Keeneland, I passed hollows and creeks filled with gray mist that turned the bluegrass fields into a dream. An hour before the race, the parking lots were nearly full, and the roads were packed with carloads of runners waiting patiently. None of us were in too much of a hurry to get out onto that frosty grass. I parked in the field and made my way up the hill to the Keene Barn where the expo had been. This morning, it was full of drowsy athletes, stretching, hopping, and occasionally napping, seated straight legged on the floor, their backs against the wall, even in sleep they were stretching the hamstrings. I made a quick stop in the men's room, determined to beat the rush, and then walked out to the starting line for a little jogging to ease my jitters.

The air was simply magical. To the west, the fog cleared for a moment to allow the nearly full moon to peek through the blue morning skies above. To the east, diffused through the thick fog, the sun glowed, it's outlines indiscernible:  not a rising disk, but a slowly warming glow above the horizon. There are runners who like to sit quietly before the gun. There are others, more nervous types like me who just want to keep moving. A big old diesel takes a little longer to rev up than a zippy little coupe. I joined another senior runner just past the starting line. We nodded greetings and jogged along quietly together for the first half mile of the course. We did a couple of hill repeats and I studied my Garmin as I went, reminding my legs of the 12:00 per mile pace I had planned. The road ran us directly into the rising sun, and I followed the silhouette of my partner as he trotted toward the sky, then turned and coasted easily back down to the base again. After three or four times up and down, I felt myself starting to get warm, and headed back toward the car where I would put on my race shirt, the numbered bib pinned on since last night.

By the time I reached the car, I knew I was in trouble. 25 minutes till start time, and I really needed to pee. I looked around the parking lot. Everywhere I turned there were engines running, trunks popped open, people dressing. I stood behind the Honda with the back window up and the tailgate open. Screw it. We were all runners here. We were used to training early in the morning and jumping up into the cedars for a quick one when necessary. Just as I was hooking my thumbs into my waist band, a man walked out from between two cars. "Bob, right?" "Yeah, hi." "I recognize you from the Y. Good to see you here. Gonna be a cold one, huh?" We chatted briefly. I was wearing the logo on my shirt, and was particularly glad that he hadn't caught me with little Pennsy at work in the dawn's early light. Once the coast was clear. I quickly did what needed to be done in the shelter of the open tailgate, carefully avoiding both the back bumper and my shoes.

Uncle Ernie Peel:
Godfather of Strider Nation

The start was simply epic. A stream of 4000 registered runners from all over the country stretched colorfully in the fog as far as I could see in either direction. We started in waves, each corral leaving the gate two minutes after the one before. The course is narrow and traffic was thick, even with the careful logistics. As usual, I found myself swept along in the early wave of runners, much faster than my intended pace. My friend Chris pulled along beside me around Mile 1 and I noted that I was going much too hard. She is a more experienced runner than I, and smiled in recognition of  my early blunder. I switched my interval timer on and started the 2:00 run/1:00 walk plan I had made during the week. The early hills rolled gently by, water stations, mile markers, Canada geese, horses, dogs and chickens. It's all part of the beauty of this course. I felt warm and strong, my brown jersey gloves the only concession to the chilly morning air. Otherwise, I was dressed for spring in my shorts and tank top. I decided to ignore my time for the first 10 miles of the race. The only thing I thought about was moving smoothly, keeping my core strong, and reserving some of that sugar I had eaten for fuel once I hit the S-curve. Around mile 6 I found myself running with Ernie and the 2:30 pace group. That was about 10 minutes faster than I planned to go, but I was still feeling strong, and the walk breaks let me keep with them without straining. I would trot past them on my run intervals, then they would pass me on when I walked. Rather than try to pull away, I decided to stick with them for a while to see if I could keep up. They just might have saved my race for me.

Pennsy loving mile 8.

Coming down the hill toward mile 9, I pulled along side Shayla, a Zumba instructor from the Y. "Ever run this course before?" I asked. She said she hadn't. "This is the toughest hill on the course coming up. Take your time." She thanked me for the heads up and I eased gently ahead of her. As I passed the mile 9 marker, I took a quick inventory. Feet? Pain free and comfy in my new lime green NikeFrees. Legs. No cramps, no chafes no heaviness. Core? Strong and tight. Breath? Smooth and even. Teeth? The adhesive I put in had given up the ghost around mile 6, so I had adjusted to their flopping by this point. I decided it was time for a test. I knew from experience that walk breaks on a steep hill are tough and slow. I had a great rhythm going and didn't want to break it out of fear of the long climb. I remembered the Lance Armstrong quote I had put away in my heart for this very moment. "Pain is temporary, Quitting is forever." If I was to finish strong, I would have to start right now. I shifted into low gear and began jogging slowly up the hill, ignoring my interval timer. I was going to run the whole hill, or send for the paramedics. Runners passed me on both sides, breathing hard. We could all see the top of the hill, and I'm sure most of them thought I was over-reacting. What they didn't know was that the S-curve isn't a hill, it's three hills. You hit the hard right bend at the top feeling like a conqueror, only to see the second climb ahead of you. As we started this part of the curve, I started passing gasping runners. Many more were walking, now. Their eyes were either gazing at the asphalt ahead, or else glued to the hard left turn that promised the crest and at last a chance to catch their breath. I plodded on, my mind alternating between Coach Carrie's exhortations to keep my abs tight and my thoughts of my friends who had passed or were fighting relapse. The pain in my legs was nothing compared to Becky's chemo or Jan's terrible surgeries. They had never quit. Neither would I. As I reached the second turn I heard the familiar words I had once spoken myself. "Oh, my God." All around me, runners were realizing that there was still more hill to climb. This is the part that can break your heart, and I heard hearts breaking all around me as they watched a fat old man in bright green shoes plod past them to the crest of the hill. I won't say nobody caught up with me after that, but I never saw most of those runners again. At 10 miles, I glanced at my watch. I wasn't just on plan, I was on my best Half Marathon pace ever, with less than a 5K left to run. I started cheating on the walk breaks. Using every down hill to run, cutting the rest intervals to 45, 30, 15 seconds. I felt my cadence quicken. With each run interval, I would pass someone and choose a new person to pull me along. I knew these hills. At mile 12 I checked my watch one last time. I   guessed that I had around 17 minutes to hit a time of 2:30, much faster than I expected. Then I checked my lap time for the last mile. 10:47. I wasn't going to break 2:30. I was going to PR. My fastest Half was 2:24 and change. If I could hold pace, I was going to come very close to that. No more walk breaks now. Pain is temporary. For Becky. For Jan and Doug. For the Five. For the Eight. For my coaches. For my trainees. For all the people who had told me that I inspired them. For Kim, who started running on the other side of the world after reading my blog. For James and Raynee and Jaspal and Marian and more names than I can list. I saw their faces. I heard their voices. I picked up my tempo and passed the last runners in my group. I was going to finish ahead of the crowd, and I would finish strong. Friends called my name as I came through the gauntlet of spectators. I crossed the finish line and clicked my watch. Couldn't read it. No bifocals. I took some chocolate milk from a volunteer and walked away in the sort of numb funk that comes with the endorphin rush at the end of a long race. When I finally got to the car and my glasses, I didn't want to trust my Garmin. It was too close, and I had fumbled with the buttons at the start. It wasn't until I got home and saw the official times that I knew for sure.

Last year's time: 02:43:26. Cut it by almost 10 minutes.

Official time: 2:23:45. 10:55 per mile. 38 seconds faster than I had run on the much flatter, much faster Iron Horse last fall. A new Personal Record.

I'm not sure what the implications of all this are for my Marathon in May. I learned that I'm faster than I thought. I finally made a race plan and followed it. There's a world of difference between 13.1 and 26.2 miles, and I have a little more than a month to bridge that gap.There's one thing I know for sure, though...

I woke up this morning a better runner than I have ever been in my life.

The cancer warriors in my heart are my inspiration. They are the reason I run. Thanks to them, I will never let pain make me quit. Thanks to them, I will never run alone.

Because "Surviving" just isn't enough...

Peace,
Pennsy

#407: 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon

A friend asked me, "How long does it take to train for a marathon?" I didn't hesitate. "51 years." This race report could be a novel, but I'll try to spare you that. Still, there's a lot to say.


ANTICI..... PATION


The 7 days before the marathon were verrrry long. Once the calender said "7 days," my obsession kicked into high gear. I wore shoes all the time so I wouldn't stub my toes. I questioned every bite of food. I saw myself running every time I closed my eyes. I promoted my fundraiser relentlessly. Monday night, I ran with the Run This Town kids from the Y and we did speed work: exactly what I should not have been doing the week before a marathon. That night, I lay in bed fretting over my sore quads. Had I hurt myself? Had I burned up too much energy? Would I recover in time for the race? 

By Wednesday, I was stone crazy. After a couple of hours of checking the clock, I got up at 4:30 and wrote out my agenda for the race weekend. Travel time. Sightseeing with Mrs P. Time at the race expo. Rest days. Race day. Then I wrote my packing list. Race clothes. Spare clothes. Street clothes.By the time I went to work, I was packed and ready to go. I ran 4 easy miles on the Legacy Trail to work off some nerves, then did my shift at the desk at the Y. Our LIVESTRONG at the YMCA class was particularly sweet that night. We had a good workout, then during stretch and reflect time, everyone wished me good luck. Rehearsal that night was long, but productive. Our directrix, the Mad Russian told me to win my marathon, and I assured her that I intended to do so.


Thursday was travel day. Mrs P packed and told me when she was finished so I could load the bags into the car. On the way out of town, I stopped to say goodbye to the gang at the Y, and to add my brother PP to our membership. He had driven up from Florida to watch the dogs, and wanted a place to exercise while he was in town. The lunchroom gang all wished me well, and I insisted on a big hug from Coach Melissa. Then we were off. The drive was lovely. Not even the great flat plains of central Ohio could dampen my spirits. We arrived at Mum's house just after dark, only to discover that I had packed everything except our suitcase. I had all my race clothes and spare gear. Nothing else. We added trips to Walmart and Goodwill to our itinerary...

Which way to the wharf?

Ran a marathon and all I got...

Friday morning, Mrs P and I drove the 2 hours to Pittsburgh in about 1:30. I got completely lost trying to find the entrance to the Monongahela parking wharf, and we wound up on the North Side, two rivers away, in the shadow of Heinz Field. A friendly waitress at a street cafe (something unheard of during the sooty days of my childhood in Pittsburgh) gave us directions, and we parked by the river. We explored the streets where my starting corral would be, and traced the route to the starting line. Hiked to the convention center to pick up my bib (number 4952), my race shirt, and my swag bag. The expo was a big trade show with booths representing gear manufacturers, retailers, charities associated with the race, and runner services. I spent as little money as possible, and we headed back home, stopping on Liberty avenue for a slice of the best pizza either of us had tasted since we moved from Brooklyn. That night, we bought some clothes at Goodwill in New Bethlehem, and underwear at the Walmart in Clarion. 

That's a runner's leg?

Love all up and down my arms

The girls over my heart

The Strong Eight

 Saturday, we relaxed on Mum's porch. Mrs P got out the Sharpies and wrote the names of all my sponsors on my arms, legs, and chest. My sister B came down to the house with a $20 bill and said she wanted to write her own name. "I want to write it on your butt," she joked. I was too tired to resist, and dropped trou right there on the porch. "Now I'll be riding your ass the whole way." Then it was time to go to bed. I did my final gear check, then turned out the lights, only to wake up every hour until 3:30 when the alarm sounded. 

One more for the 5

What I won't do for 20 bucks

 

Race day started with a toasted bagel and strawberry jelly. I didn't think my stomach would tolerate coffee, so I drank a couple of bottles of water. Checked the numbers on the fundraiser. Took in the love from my friends on Facebook. Rubbed on Mum's poodle, Cujo for a while. Then it was time to wake Mrs P, collect B, and hit the road. They slept while I drove the dark country roads under a gigantic full moon. It was so bright, it looked like the sun was about to come up. We twisted and turned through the night and I did my best to think about anything but the race. Fat chance. In the city, I took the wrong ramp off the Veterans Bridge, and we somehow wound up on top of Mt Washington, across the river from town and our parking spot. B managed to get me back, and we finally parked on the wharf. We walked along the river for a while, then climbed the old, concrete steps to Stanwix street.


MARATHON

Anybody got a light?

What's it like to line up with 25,000 runners? It isn't like anything at all. We walked up to Gateway Center, where the crowd curved around the bend toward the starting line. B wondered if there had ever been this many non-smokers downtown before. I could tell she was jonesing for one, but suspected she might have been beaten to death if she had tried to light up. Back at corral "E" where I would be starting, we found my pace group. I was shooting for 11:30/mile. I turned back and realized that there were about 40 runners behind me. I didn't bother doing the math. I was at the back of the biggest pack I had ever seen. Mrs P put her hand on my chest and confirmed what I felt: my heart was pounding. Just before the gun, we hugged and kissed and they left me to hop and stretch in the street. At 7:30 there was a great cheer, and the throng started shuffling toward the starting line. The race had begun.

Only 24,960 runners to beat

I had occasional running partners, curious about the names scrawled all over me, or the "Survivor" tag the folks at the LIVESTRONG booth had given me to wear. There were the people encouraging us through every neighborhood with water, fruit slices, and cowbells. We crossed the Allegheny three times, then went down the North Side to the West End Bridge over the Ohio. I was feeling great as we started up Carson Street, the main drag through the South Side: my family's first home when Gramma Johnson's parents brought her here from Ukraine in 1904. As we approached the Birmingham bridge and the 11 mile mark, I felt strong and confident. I had trained hard and was ready to begin the 5 mile climb to the Frick mansion in Shadyside. 


Wrong.

Uhhh... Keeneland's hills look nothing like this

I thought there were hills in the Bluegrass. I really did. They felt like hills to me. They were not hills. THIS was a hill. My form broke down quickly. My head dipped, my shoulders fell forward, and my upper back started to ache. Walk breaks became longer and more frequent. People on the side of the road would clap and encourage me, then ask if I was OK. Starting around mile 15, every step I took involved a cramp in my upper calves. Over and over I wanted to stop. Over and over I told myself aloud "Just keep moving." I stretched my neck up, trying to run tall. The angle of the climb was torture on my calves and hamstrings. The dreaded sweep bus pulled up beside me the first of many times and a ghoulish Samaritan stuck his head out the front window. "You want a ride?" I would rather have finished on bloody stumps than to get on that bus. I smiled, clenched my fists, and waved him on again and again. My heart and lungs were strong, but my muscles were failing me. I couldn't believe a person could hurt so much in so many places at once. Again and again, I looked down at the sweat smeared names written on my legs and arms. Donors. Lost loved ones. Fellow cancer fighters. They were the ones who got me through. There was no way I could have stayed off that bus on my own.

The dreaded "Sweep Bus"

Marathon: Robert Parks Johnson - FINISH in 6:21:53. Pace: 14:34. At 14:14:03.

In the shadow of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette,
 where my father, uncle and grandfather worked

Mrs P and B had managed to sneak into the VIP grandstands. It wasn't too hard, since the winners had finished over 4 hours earlier. I saw them cheering and snapping pictures just as I passed and their smiles gave me the last boost I needed to run across the finish line. A lady handed me my medal. Two young girls doused me with water. I staggered to a photo area where a man snapped my picture and handed me a business card. I guzzled Gatorade and water and grabbed a banana before wandering to a bench at the entrance of Point Park and prayed that the girls would somehow stumble across me. We embraced. "We did it," I said to Mrs P. "YOU did it," she corrected me. "WE did it," I insisted. "We kicked cancer's ass." My sister looked at the two of us and said, "You sure did." "We did it," I repeated. "F**k cancer."

WE did it

Polly, Marmaduke, and Mrs P

Riding back to Mum's was agony. My legs were seized with little cramps from my ankles to my hips. My seat was tipped all the way back and I slept most of the way, waking up from time to time as one spasm or another stabbed me. Mrs P sat in the back seat petting my head. B drove, singing along to country music on the radio. "When did my sister turn into a redneck?" I wondered sleepily. At Mums, the family greeted us. Hugs and congratulations all around. We ate something, I don't remember what. We opened a case of Iron City Beer and I drank three or four while kids and dogs played in the yard. I had stretched and used my foam roller as soon as we got home, and now I sat on the chaise lounge, my legs punishing me every time I tried to move them. My medal was still hanging around my neck. I looked around and thought to myself, "This just might be the happiest day of my life."

Mrs P and me before the race

My niece and a buddy

Nobody loves you like your little sister

The next morning, I checked my fundraiser page. $3490. I still have a few pledges coming in, so we'll be rounding that up a little. 


WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?

Survivor? Damn right, I am

• The Pittsburgh was a very reckless choice for a first marathon.
• I need to spend a lot more time building up my core and leg strength.
• I want to be several pounds lighter before I take on my next 26.2.
• A four week taper might be just a little too long.
• I missed a lot of early walk breaks, and need a louder alarm so I can hear it in heavy traffic.
• I need a lot more speed and hill work if I'm going to enjoy my next big race.
• I have the best, most supportive, loving friends and family in the universe.
• God is great.
• Cancer is a wussy.
• There really is no place like home.
• I am a by-God marathoner.

My God, what a great day for a run.


Peace,
Pennsy


Oh by the way, Living Strong at the Y will be accepting donations until Sunday, May 13. You know, just in case you were waiting to see if I would actually do it! 

#400: Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon

An unlikely cover boy

The Run the Bluegrass was my second Half Marathon. Parts of it were easy and familiar to me, others left me struck with awe, admiration, or stupor, depending on the circumstances.

My pre-race routine is getting pretty set. In the days before a race, I prep as if it were a marathon. Ease up on the the training. Focus on fruits, veggies, and whole grains at the table. I always pickup my race packet early so I don't have to figure out what to do with a plastic bag full of coupons and swag half an hour before the race. The day before, I do the sleep math, counting backwards. On site about 90 minutes early. Travel time. Two hours to dress, eat, and use the bathroom before I leave. Seven to eight hours of sleep. An hour to pack my bag. Wherever that puts me on the clock, is where I start my countdown. This weekend it was 8:00 PM, Friday night.

This little bald lady is tougher than you

We finished our LIVESTRONG at the YMCA session with a half hour walk on the Legacy. The girls zoomed on ahead while I walked behind with F, who is the toughest man I've ever met. F has had cancer three times. He also has a rare wasting disease that is slowly erasing his muscles. And he has the heart of a lion. I've watched him grimace as he squats four or five inches, the most his legs will allow. I've seen him progress from pantomime bench presses, straining to simply move his clenched fists up and down, to knocking out 12 reps with a 9 pound bar. I watched him get thrown off a treadmill, take stock of his bumps, ask for a hand back up, then get back on the thing and finish his cardio. F isn't exercising so he can fit into smaller jeans. F is fighting for his life. He's one of the reasons I keep asking you for money. (You can do that by clicking the link, by the way.)

We finished at 7:30, and I booked it on home. Mrs P had a hard day, and had stopped for pizza and beer. I was tempted for a moment, but the thought of port-a-potties somewhere around mile 10 convinced me that I'd be better off with a bowl of granola for supper. Then it was time to pack.

Locked and loaded

For me, packing is a fairly obsessive process. I empty out my whole bag onto the bed. Don't need the swim goggles. Don't need the lifting gloves. One wet sock? Seriously? Get a towel. Extra towel. Three towels. You never know. Find the expensive running socks. Both pairs, in case of puddles. Which shoes? The new shoes, of course. My favorite compression shorts? My black LIVESTRONG running shorts? They're in the washing machine. Crap. Put them in the dryer and pray not to forget where you put them in the morning. (as if I'd forget to put on pants. Garmin? Charged. Timex? Run walk interval alarm set. Tape, Body Glide, Aquaphor, Band-aids? Check. Finally, I lay out my new dri-fit YMCA tank and pin my bib on. Mrs P managed to get the blood spots out from last weeks long run, but in my mind, I know they're still there, right over my heart. Pack and repack two or three times, just to be sure I haven't forgotten anything. Trim my toenails. Take a shower. In bed by 9:00, where visions of Bluegrass hills dance in my head. 

The dogs wake me at 2:00 to go out for a pee in the rain. The alarm wakes me at 5:00 and it's race day.


Weight? 254. Excellent. Heart rate? 58. Right on. One cup of coffee. One bagel with jelly. Wait for nature's call. Swap my jammies for the royal blue compression shorts and the black shorts. Mrs P is stirring in the bedroom, so I go back there to finish dressing. Grease up the feet with Aquaphor. Pull on the good socks. Double knot the shoes. Sun block. Slather the nips. Try to put 'Iron Man" cartoon band aids on them. Mrs P points out I've done that backwards, as the band aids fall off my lubricated chest. Finally, pull on the shirt and my YMCA Staff fleece to keep warm, and let my sweet bride go back to sleep. She promises to be there at the finish line with her camera. 


Nature finally calls, but only on line 1. I finally give up on waiting for line 2 to ring and leave, hoping for the best.

 "Is this heaven?" "No, it's Kentucky."

You know the final scene from Field of Dreams where miles and miles of headlights are snaking along the road in the dark toward the baseball field? That's what I see in my rear-view mirror as I turn onto Versailles Road at 6:00 in the morning. All these people. From all over the country. All coming to run these hills that I love so much. Last night's rain has left a misty, mystical fog on the ground and the air glows with pre-dawn light.


Something cool is happening at these gatherings. I'm meeting friends. These are people I've run with. People from the Y. People I know on Facebook. Faces from other events. A guy I used to go to church with. Ladonna, my fellow cancer fighter. Bob, who swore me to secrecy about his training, who has been preparing for this day since autumn. I'm one of them, now. I'm part of the community of idiots who get up at 5:00 in the morning to run. And they're some of the most supportive, generous people I know.

LaDonna reminding me why we're here

I wander around the crowd, taking it all in. Long sleepy lines for the bathroom. Drowsy bodies in warm up clothes stretching on the floor. A few of us trotting around outside to get the blood flowing in the legs. Slowly, 2000 people gather at the starting line. The horn sounds, and we're off.


Actually, the elite runners are off. We mortals are waiting in a line four lanes wide to filter through the starting gate. It takes my group about four minutes to reach the gizmo that will read out timing chips. I start my Garmin, and we're off. 

Target pace? 13:00/min. Must have been the Gatorade...

I told you all about the course in last week's post. We flow along the curves and hills, this river of brightly colored running clothes. Runners are stopping to take pictures. We laugh to each other as each new climb starts. I tuck in behind one runner after another as I fall into my 3:00 run/1:00 walk intervals. Many who pass me early, I catch later when their legs start to tire. God bless Jeff Galloway. Every two miles or so, a crowd of cheering kids holds out paper cups. "Water? Gatorade?" I stick with water for the first half, then switch to the sweet sticky stuff at around 7 miles. The last 3 miles are a celebration for me. I follow a group of friends, much stronger runners than I, who are joking and teasing and stopping every few hundred yards to take pictures. This isn't a contest, it's a festival, it's a holiday for loving life. I run the last two miles faster than I ran the first, and as I approach the finish line, there is Mrs P, always beaming, shooting pictures through tears of pride. I feel myself choke up a little too, but I'm not sure if it's from emotion or if I'm having a heart attack. 

He's with Stupid

At the end of the finisher's corral, a person whose gender I don't even remember holds up a blue and white checked ribbon, just like the colors Secretariat wore, and slips my medal over my neck. I float through the crowd dazed until Mrs P catches up with me. My friend Bob greets me with a bottle of water and a banana in his hand. We embrace, take more pictures, smile and laugh, then drift off toward the parking lot. When I look over my shoulder, I see Bob, standing still, watching the crowd. He isn't ready to leave. He's drinking it in. 


I don't really have an ending for this. On the drive home, a thought came to me: How much better would our world be if every now and then, we all got together on a Saturday morning and ran together? I think it might make a big difference.


Peace,
Pennsy


Hey, don't forget to make your donation to Living Strong at the Y. It's easy, it's cheap, and you'll be a much better person if you do. Promise.