Chicago - the most painful marathon I've ever run

Exactly a month plus a day ago, on Oct 7, I ran - or, rather, hobbled - the Chicago marathon. It was my most painful running experience to date, and I am not exaggerating when I say that I have experienced my share of pain in my running days so far. The race could not have been better organized, the hotel could not have been closer to the start, the weather could not have been more perfect. And yet...

There's a lesson to be learned from this experience. Maybe the cliche about the fragility of the body and the triumph of the spirit? Or, maybe, a lesson about perseverance? But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me step back.

Our hotel - Congress Plaza - was overlooking the start and finish area. I took a leisurely stroll in the morning to get to the start. It was the usual hype all around me - excited people of all shapes and colors swarming the baggage area, skipping, running, stretching. As usual, one can distinguish two types: chatters and observers. I was in the second category, standing on the side and watching people chattering endlessly to calm the excitement. Then the call came, we squeezed to our pre-assigned starting corals, the anthem was sang and the siren marked the start.

It was chilly, but sunny day, neither too hot nor too cold, ideal for running. The course was flat, the crowds cheerful, and thousands of runners flowed through the streets of Windy City like a giant river of humanity. It was festive, amazing, inspiring. I forgot the pain in left hamstring which kept me practically immobile for the last 2 weeks. I let the atmosphere inflate my chest and let the legs carry me. I felt like flying, carried along in that current of bodies. It was so effortless that I had to consciously slow myself down. I had no time goal - the injury made me aim to finish, regardless of the time.

Around 16 km mark it happened without warning - my muscle snapped. You know how it usually happens in stories - there's a warning pain which the hero (that would be me) ignores, and the pain grows slowly, until all the hero can do is grind his teeth and continue with superhuman effort... well, that's all bullshit. It doesn't happen like that. One moment I was flying forward, the next there was a knife - no, a bayonet - in the back side of my thigh, the pain so sudden, so crippling that I stumbled and had to hold onto the fence to keep from falling. It all happened next to a medical tent, so in I went. The fantastically helpful first aid staff stretched me, gave me Biofreeze lotion which was supposed to freeze the area and dull the pain, and sent me on my way.

I limped a little. Then I tried to run. The pain was back in a flash, only this time the knife felt double the size. I may have whimpered, I'm certain I moaned. And stopped. And stretched. And limped to the next first aid tent a mile away.

From there, I mostly walked. The pain in the left leg was constant. Not any longer sharp stabbing of a knife, but more a ball of ember searing through the muscle. As I passed the half-way point and realized that I'm at least three hours away from the end, my heart sank. My spirit followed. I looked for the vehicle that can take me to the finish, to take my clothes, lay in bed and pull the cover over the head. I saw another medical tent - they had golf carts there for the quitters - and directed my hobbling self toward it. Then something happened.

All the fast runners were long gone, but a constant tide of slower pokes was streaming by. A man shuffled by me. Bent. Old. He could have been in his 70s. His run was barely faster than my walk - and I was really slow. On the back of his shirt was written in huge letters: "Pain is temporary, quitting is forever." I read it once. Scoffed. Then read it again. The man was so slow, it gave me enough time for the message to sink in. I looked around. There were people big and small, old and young; an amputee with a carbon-prosthetic leg, a blind man with two guides, a guy in a wheelchair. All of them slowly progressed toward the finish line. The man with a sign was almost gone by now. And I thought how nice it would be to get that finisher's medal hung around my neck. I'd like to say that the pain lessened, that a surge of energy carried me on - but that, again, happens only in stories. I, however, found much needed determination, grit my teeth and limped on.

Along the way a priest dressed in the race crew's reflective vest offered me help when I stopped to stretch. When I declined, he asked me if I need a prayer. Thinking I am talking to a race official, I joked that I need all the prayers I can summon to get to the finish line. Then he asked my name, leaned his forehead on my shoulder and prayed to Thy Father to give me strength to finish strong. Oh, dear...

For the rest of the race the pain stayed constant. Blessedly, it didn't worsen. As the finish gate drew close, I tried once more for a few running steps, and paid with pain so amplified I almost vomited. Again, I clung to the side fence and, after a few deep breaths, drag myself over the line. Unceremoniously, I finished Chicago marathon.

As for the lesson - it was about reaching deeper than I thought is possible and finding strength to go on.

Good morning all you crazy marathon runners!

Niagara Falls International Marathon, October 21, 2012

Strange, I remembered, in my sleep, that I had to run a marathon the next morning. And I was not dreaming. So I waited, in my unconscious state, for the hours to pass. None the less, I had a great sleep. An unusually-peaceful night at a hotel without disturbance.

I slipped into my running armor I had prepared the night before. One piece at a time, they were all accounted for. It was 5:30 a.m. We heard a slight stir of activities in the hotel hallway. People were getting ready for the long day of races ahead, be it 5k, 10k, half or full marathon. A woman runner was already in her garbage bag, a known disposable piece of equipment to keep her warm before the race. Since there were still 5 more hours to go, it was far too early for us to put on our garbage bags. Beside, being steaming wet inside the plastic is not a very good idea before a race.

Little by little, the hotel lobby and the dark street were filled with throng of runners waiting to board the shuttles to the marathon start in Buffalo. The yellow school buses arrived and runners filed in orderly. We settled in our seats just behind the driver. The good spirit was reinforced when a runner said, "Good morning all you crazy marathon runners! But you all know the reason why when you cross the finish line!" Laughter erupted. It felt great. The transportation coordinator wished us good luck and off we were, down Queen Elizabeth Way to cross the Canada/US border at Peace Bridge, to the start.

The custom officer collected all our passports and went into the office to scan each of them. About 15-20 minutes later, a different officer came back and called two runners in for interviews. So we waited for another 10 minutes or so. It was nice to see them walking out of the office. We welcomed them back to the bus. The officer handed us back the passports like a stack of pancakes, and asked us to distribute them among ourselves. Now you can imagine the mess. The four of us sitting on the front row splitted the stack and started calling names. After a moment of air space competition, name pronunciation struggle, and arm-waving detection, all passports floated down to the lawful owners among the sea of hands. It was a nice pre-race teamwork exercise.

Our 45-minute bus ride ended at the local Albright-Knox Art Gallery, where we would keep ourselves warm until the start time. It was a neat little gallery with some famous painters' work like Paul Cézanne and Salvador Dali. However, putting marathon runners in an art gallery was proven, at least this time by us, to be not a very bright idea. A place where runners couldn't eat and drink, which was so important for pre-race hydration and fuel-up, where they were being chased out to the court yard or front door for their carb and fluid intake. They should consider putting runners in a regular gym instead of an art gallery next time, nowhere near the building patrolled by food and drink security.

Our clear bags with passports in were loaded into the secured trucks for safe storage and transportation to the Canadian side while we ran. There were close to 1,300 marathon participants. A small number, to keep everything well controlled and organized.

The American and Canadian anthems were sang and we readied our GPS tracking app on our iPhones. Then the race started in a joyful atmosphere. Zoran and I followed the crowd and occasionally pulled ourselves back a little when we realized we were running faster then we should have. We were all very excited. But I paid for it big time later in the race and regretted not running even slower in the first half.

It was 6.5k from the start to the Peace Bridge where we crossed the border from the States back to Canada. The loop we ran at Fort Erie felt very long. It was added intentionally to lengthen the route so we would finish exactly at the Niagara Horseshoe Fall. After the winding roads, we were back on the route that lead us straight to the finish. But this stretch would last for the next gruelling 30k.

The volunteers were amazing and the water stations were sufficiently placed along the route. We were running a 6-min per kilometre pace, and often well under 6min/k. Without a watch to pace ourselves, it was hard to control our pace to maintain the pre-planned 6:20 min/k. It was sunny, not a single cloud, the wind was refreshing, and it was exciting, but I was too excited. A group of runner/walkers was following us and using us to gage their pace. Every time they resumed running, they would catch up with us. It was getting annoying and stressful, so Zoran and I sped up a little just so they wouldn't be able to catch us on their approximately 10th running interval. We lost them, successfully at 25k, but that was the point when the pain in my left knee started to flare up.

I had to slow walk at 30k, but when I started again, the knee was so stiff and painful that it took good 20 shuffling steps to regain the jogging form, and I was not even running. We were jogging slowly with walking intervals for the next 10k. Every switch from walk into jog was hell for me. Then a woman called out, "2 more miles! You can do it!" So 2 more miles is a round 3.5k. I couldn't do a painful switch anymore, so I told Zoran I would rather jog through to the finish without stopping for the walk. It wasn't easy.

During those last 3.5k, I saw people who were running along side with us just moments earlier, now standing on the grass watching the runners passing by. I knew how they felt and I gave them my silent wish to come back to finish the course. My left knee was giving out, and for a moment I saw myself not finishing the race. I felt disappointed in myself. I was in a lot of pain. My battle had turned from physical to mental. Then I remembered what Zoran told me during his agony at the Chicago Mararthon. He was with the medic who was bandaging his torn hamstring at 16k, when he saw a senior runner passing by and his t-shirt read, "Pain is temporary, quitting is forever." My mind was set.

I hunched, my arms tight against my body. I tried swinging them with the biggest efforts I could make to propel my legs, but it was trivial. It felt like my feet were dragging two car-tires. My knees, quads and calves were burning and cramping. The painful steps took away my awareness to the surroundings. The thoughts of failure came on like heavy raindrops hitting the ground, "Am I going to make it?", "Will I have a heart attack?", "I think I'm going to die and will never cross the finish line.", "May be I should stop..."

The agony and disappointment overwhelmed me. Zoran said, "No, no, no. No stopping now! You'll finish it!" I choked and fought back tears. I whispered to myself, "Ok, ok..." I was miserable, but I wanted to get it done. "I can see the Falls! Come on, you can do it!" Zoran exclaimed. I didn't believe it at first. I thought the finish couldn't be that close. But I was wrong. I could really see the finish arch just hiding behind the curve. I wanted to speed up, but I couldn't. My joints were in flame and the pain was excruciating. I was moving like a snail, but glad I was still able to.

When we finally reached the finish, I heard the DJ calling our names. But nothing else went through my ears. Later I found out from Zoran that he said, "Zoran, you better let her finish first or you'll never get the end of it!" So he paused just before the time sensor and let me pass the finish first. I stumbled across, accompanied by a swell of tears from what I had just accomplished. "Way to go! Nicely done! Congratulations!" the DJ concluded.

In my delirious state of mind, I realized I have to walk over to one of the medics, so he can put a thermal blanket on me, and a little further down a volunteer hung the finisher's medal around my neck. I sat down on the curb to switch off my running tracker. And there I saw my brother and sister's comments during the race. I knew they would be cheering for me in cyber space. Zoran, who was there with me, for me, despite his hamstring injury, congratulated me. He is my coach, my kick in the rear end. He was running with me to make sure I was ok and that I finish the race.

The Niagara Falls International Marathon marked my journey and now I can proudly call myself a marathoner. But the medal and title aside, the most important thing I've come to learn is to respect the distance. Running 42.2 kilometres is no easy challenge and should not be taken lightly. It involves a lot of time, training, sweat, injuries and healing to prepare your body and mind to tackle the distance on race day. The journey was long and hard. It was a valuable experience not about how much you can run, but how much you can endure when you can no longer run.

Around the Bay 30k Race

Meg "leads" the pack around km 5

After four months of training in all weather, the race day has come. Meg was acting cool, but it was obvious that she was excited. Her eyes glow and she can't stop smiling when she's excited about something. She had all rights to be--this was a 30 kms race, her longest one by far.

We won't go into details about the race, let's just say that it was well organized and well ran. The weather gods were smiling on us, the rain stopped early in the morning and we had fresh and sunny day to enjoy.

Waiting for start

There were many memorable moments, and we even managed to catch some on camera. We crossed the finish line holding hands and smiling in 3 hrs 6 min and 2 sec.

As soon as we got home Meg asked me to register us for Goodlife Toronto half marathon in May. She's hooked on running!

Before the start

Zoran around km 5

Meg approaching the bridge

This guy must have wished that helicopter could fly

Meg in hands of Grim Reaper who always waits after the last killer hill, on km 27

Can you tell we loved it?

Meg's pic of the bling. Nice!

How we ran into the New Year - literally!

Party music was coming from all sides. We walked out from the building just before midnight and lined up in the alley. From a terrace overlooking the alley a group of revelers were having a smoke. They looked at us, and a fit-looking young man in white shirt shouted “You guys are amazing! You’re all my heroes!” There was strange longing in his voice, as if he’d prefer being down here with us, in his sweat pants and running shoes, rather than partying up there.

Music from different parties was mixing together in a cheerful cacophony over our heads. The word spread like fire—from all sides people dressed to party poured out on terraces, balconies and windows. Down at the ground level they stepped out in the alley, keeping to the side, giving us space. They streamed from the pub in the alley, from the restaurant with the terrace, from a gym. It seemed that every shop in Liberty Village held a New Year’s party, and now curiosity drew people out to see what is going on with these two hundred party-goers dressed as fairies, angels, clowns, cartoon characters, and mostly—as runners.

Meg was standing next to me in her pink running jacket, with outrageous-blue feather-scarf. There was a headlight strapped on her forehead, and a blinking light on her ankle. Around us runners of all kind, age and size shimmered with blinking lights and mismatched loud colors of their outfits.

Then sparking sticks were lit at the start line, and the countdown started, shyly at first 10...9...8...then the voices from everywhere picked up...7...6...5...the spectators chiming in, turning their backs on their own parties and joining our crazy countdown...4...3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!

There was barely time for a quick kiss, Meg and I wishing something to each other, our voices drowned in the tumultuous cheer of the group, and we were off to the first-ever midnight 5k race in Canada (or so we were told). The course itself was dark, with some muddy patches, but the mood was so festive that no mud could tarnish it. On a stretch heading straight toward the CN Tower, Toronto’s landmark, the organizer surprised us with fireworks, sending flowers of fire right above the tower into the new year’s sky.

Although we decided when we registered that we were not going to race, the excitement pushed us faster than intended. I stayed with Meg and she made it in just over 26 minutes. Considering that we were NOT racing, that was fast. We finished with the first 50 runners.

After race with medals

The organizer brought Canadian long distance superstar Reid Coolsaet to run the race, and I guess it gave the whole race more of an official air. At the end though, he was the only one running fast, the rest of us jogged at a party pace far behind.

Along the way spectators and volunteers wished us happy new year, and we laughed and shouted our wishes back. Back at the gym the party was in full blast. We changed—well, some did—into dry clothes and wiggled on the dance floor with a sandwich in one hand and a drink in the other. This was the best spent New Year’s eve in a long time.

In the race kit, along with the race number which oddly had our LAST names printed on, instead of first, we got the usual number of swag items - flyers for other races, chips, candies, Red Bull, and—a bottle of Prosecco each! Now, which race do you know to do that? And the finisher’s medal at the end was equally inspired, as you can see in the photos.

If you find yourself in Toronto for the New Year’s party next year, you may consider active partying at the Toronto Midnite Run. I would highly recommend it.

Meg: My Angus Glen 10k race

It was a beautiful crisp day with clear blue sky. Zoran and I were running side by side. I lengthened my stride to pump each and every step toward the finish line. We passed several runners and trotted on.

Ten meters to the finish line, a runner in green shirt sprinted by us. I then realized it was the same runner we just passed, who now broke out into a frantic chase. The spectators were cheering and clapping. It was a moment you know that you've outdone yourself. A moment that you've caused someone to feel intimidated, which I didn't intend to, and started to catch up with you. Actually, I think I've done something good to help push others through the finish line. I couldn't help but laugh. The laugh concluded my race. My first long distance race.

Endurance sports was never my thing during my track and field days. I've never thought I could run 3 kilometers, let alone 10! But the idea started to bud when I watched over and over again the video we made for my husband Zoran's Boston Marathon last year in April. Zoran was running the final stretch of the course. When I spotted him, I shouted his name. He saw me and blew me a kiss with a big smile on his face. He then proceeded to cross the finish line carried by the sound of people cheering, clapping, and ringing bells. All the runners were enjoying their moment. Among them a runner pushing a quadriplegic in a wheelchair, soldiers in full gear carrying a 20-plus-pound rucksack. It was empowering. Zoran whispered in my ear, "I wish you could feel what I felt during the race." So in May 2010, I started running.

It was going good until Fall when I've built up my strength to finish 8 kilometers. I started experiencing pain in both of my knees. And almost at the same time, an old injury in my shoulder came back to haunt me. I ended up with a frozen shoulder, which couldn't be cured even after 12 sessions of physiotherapy. That winter was not a happy one, with all these little aliments reminding me that I'm turning older. I rested and did nothing.

March 2011, Zoran and I tried out a short run to test my joints. It went well, and they got stronger over time. I managed to climb back to 8k and then 10k and then 12k with no problem.

In late September 2011, Zoran did his Berlin Marathon. Fall is a road race season. All small and big towns have their own races. When we came back from Berlin, we registered for the Angus Glen 10K, unplanned. We were lucky to get in, since there were just a few spots left.

The two fresh plain bagels were my fuel. And they kept me going without a hitch. Sitting there waiting for the start turned out to be entertaining—we made two new friends during the wait, and joked and laughed until shortly before the start. There were only 800 runners participating in the race and everything was well organized, including the pre-race warm-up, which was not a bad idea.

Then it started! Zoran was pacing me and reminding me I have to slow down to save the strength for later. But somehow, the atmosphere and the runners just kept me going faster than I should have.

The course went through some beautiful communities before winding its way out back to the main road. Zoran and I were chatting and joking. I was trying to relax and didn't pay too much attention to my breathing. Then I got a stitch around the 4k mark. With Zoran's advice, I pulled aside and stretched. It did the trick, the stitch eased and was soon gone.

There were hills along the route, but the last 2 kilometers were all downhill. That's a nice treat when your legs are tired and just want the race to end fast. The wind was blowing against us and it was acting as a cushion to buffer us from going too fast downhill. I felt like I was in the air. Floating.

When I saw the finish gate, I started pumping, lengthening my stride and passing people, while all the while being chased myself, and eventually, finished, with a medal on my neck.

Taper Thoughts

I'm at work, the newsroom is almost empty at this hour, only a few reporters on duty staring at the news wire screens. The best part of the day, when I unwind from the commute with a coffee, catch up on the news, browse the paper and go through the emails. Feeling anxiously relaxed. I know, an oxymoron. Let me explain.

I'm at the stage of the training, when all the hard work is done, and the taper is on. "Barely" running - meaning the training distance dropped from over 36k to merely 10. That's the point when I should trust my training plan, and let the body recover, regenerate, re-energize for the race. But, since there's so little running, I feel like I'm not doing enough. Every time I tie the shoelaces, I fight the urge to go somewhere far, over the horizon and back. Standing still is killing me. I know, I've been through this phase time and time before, but it's still unnerving.

Why am I writing this? Because, in a way, it feels like I'm at the same stage in life. A taper age. When most of the learning and training is done, and all I need to do is cruise to maintain what I've become. And, just like taper, there's that nagging feeling that I'm missing something, that I'm not doing enough, that at the main event, a race, I will somehow bonk and fail. But, there's no race in life, because the whole thing IS a race. Instead, I'm forcing myself to relax - another oxymoron, I know - and trust the training. Trust the small victories and always bigger failures, trust what I've learned so far will take me safely to the next leg of the race.

Maybe that is why I love running so much. It's not only a metaphor for life, it is a life-training. And taper, maddening as it is in its apparent inactivity, is a very important part in winning one's goal.

Running (and singing) in the rain

The post I wrote for my running blog, re-posted here on M's request.

- A message for wet runners -

Photo credit: brokenheartedrunner.wordpress.com

There was a drummer outside the bedroom window this morning. As I woke up, there was a constant drumroll of raindrops against the glass. I confess, I love to sleep in the pouring rain, as long as it's outside and I'm inside. But, sleep isn't what I was about to do. Running was!

Margaret, my wife, was surprisingly cheerful while we dressed for a run. She's the sleeper in the family, the one who has to be dragged out of bed, especially at 5 a.m. But not today! She hummed and sang the old cliche "I'm singing in the rain". And so we stepped out.

Huddled under the awning, we synced our RunKeepers and stepped into the shower. Here I must explain that Margaret is a fairly novice runner—she was a sprinter and a hurdler in high school, but joined me on my long distance plodding only recently, and has yet to run through the elements. It was pleasant 22 degrees Celsius (71 F) and the rain was more refreshing than hindering.

Margaret dashed out like a bullet, with a gasp and a little yelp when the drops hit her. I sprinted after her, calling her to slow down. She slowed a little, but was still going too fast. I had to explain that we are going to be out at least 20 - 30 minutes and we are going to be soaked, there's no outrunning the rain. The only difference is that she can relax and enjoy the run, or she can run as fast as she started and be miserable. That finally slowed her down to normal pace.

I watched her form and laughed. Her shoulders were hunched and arms were barely swinging, kept up high at her chest. She looked at me under the bill of her hat, rain dripping from it.

"You know," I said, "hunching shoulders will not keep you any drier. You'll get just as wet as if you're swinging your arms normally."

Then I witnessed the transformation. Margaret laughed, dropped her shoulders, swung her arms and splashed on. Like kids, we ran, wadding through the puddles, splashing, spouting the rain pouring down our faces, joking, laughing. Once we surrendered to it, the rain was amazingly liberating. It was such an unusual sense of freedom, we were like children finally allowed to play in the mud.

When we finished, still laughing and dripping water all over the floor, Margaret confessed that she really liked running in the rain. Once the first panic subsided, she said, she loved every step.

And that is our message for all you wet runners out there—there's nothing so liberating as summer rain. Don't fight it, leave the rain-coat at home. Instead, embrace it, surrender to it, and enjoy the run. It will cool you down, leave you feeling refreshed and make you feel alive, like a child you used to be.

Toronto doesn’t deserve a marathon! Well, maybe only one.

What I Think About When I’m Running...

Last weekend there were two marathons in Greater Toronto Area - one went along Yonge St., Toronto’s main street, splitting the town in half. The other one temporarily disabled traffic in Mississauga, a community of half a million to the west of Toronto. It created a traffic mess of proportions intolerable to most Toronto drivers.

Here I must say that Toronto is by far the most runner-unfriendly town I know. I’m not going to sugar-coat it. Torontonians show no support, or even understanding for the marathon running, especially if it crosses their path. They honk annoyed at the road blocks, flip the finger to the runners. Last October a car swung around a police officer blocking the road, and cut through the runners (right in front of me) in downtown Toronto. Accordingly, the town’s many media outlets only reflect the hostility to the sport, as it’s nicely pointed out in THIS article. And it doesn’t help when competing organizers try to squeeze not two, but three major races annually, and when two of them happen on the same day. As a result, the attendance in all three marathons is low and I could almost understand Torontonians grumbling about the road closures.

For last weekend’s marathons, a friend and avid marathoner Yumke crunches the attendance numbers in his BLOG. Even the third, and arguably most popular Toronto marathon, the Scotiabank Waterfront Marathon, while boasting about attracting upward of 15,000 participants, rarely admits that this number consists of joint attendance numbers for 5k, half AND full marathon races. Its flagship race, the Waterfront full marathon, had only 2,719 participants in 2010, according to the Sportats.ca

As someone who ran in all three events in town (though not in the same year), I was greatly disappointed with the fan support and spectators, which were few and far between during each of them. It’s preposterous to compare Toronto with Boston, or New York marathon, both of which are packed with crowds stretching the whole length of the course (and bringing millions in tourism dollars to their cities). Still, Toronto likes to think about itself as a “New York of Canada” (to dismay of the rest of the country), but its populous can’t muster even the basic courtesy toward runners. Heck, even if they only stopped complaining AGAINST the race would be a major step forward.

That is why I think Toronto doesn’t deserve a marathon race. But, if there needs to be one, why not focusing on creating a SINGLE ONE, respectable race, which will attract runners and tourists from around the world? As a bonus, if the roads are closed for only one race and only once a year, maybe—just maybe—Torontonians would stop grumbling about it. And, who knows—they may even come out in numbers to watch the race, to cheer the runners on.

Sporting Life 10k Toronto, the race report

Chilly Toronto morning, before
the start of the 10k race

I’m not quite sure how and why I registered for this race. Maybe because I never ran a 10k race, and was curious to see how would that go. So, here I was, on an early Sunday morning, shivering in the wind under a cloudy sky on Toronto’s Yonge street, and waiting for the start. Thanks to my humble prediction of finishing between 40-48 minutes, I was in the second coral. Those brazen enough to put their expected finishing time under 40 minute were strutting in the coral ahead. In the meantime, on the recent test runs I realized that I can run a 10k under 40 min, but it was too late to change anything. I would have to zigzag around slower runners, until the route is clear.

Self-portrait, 10 min before start

Just as we pushed forward at start, I noticed a colleague from work running from the fastest coral, and leaving me quickly behind the layers of runners. I decided to catch him, and flew ahead. Well, ‘flying ahead’ was just a metaphor - I ended up adding to my mileage by running around a few groups of teenage girls who squeezed ahead of me, and several guys who were already hyperventilating, although we barely started. I had my headphones on and cranked the music up - I hate listening to myself (and others) breathing when running, for some reason it throws me off the rhythm. I learned long ago that, if I don’t pay attention to it, my breathing magically matches my strides. So, I locked my eyes on the bright yellow shirt the colleague was wearing, and kicked the heals. Boy, but did he start fast!

My splits for the first 5k are:
1k - 4:04
2k - 3:32
3k - 3:57
4k - 3:11
5k - 3:35
The pace is quite inconsistent, with surges whenever the road was clear enough. By this time I was still about 20-30 steps behind my colleague, all my body signs screaming alarm, knowing I am going too fast, but unable to give up the chase. Luckily, the man I was chasing overestimated his own strength and started slowing down after 5k. After a couple of strategically used downhills, I was behind his back by 6k, too breathless to say ‘hi.’ We turned off from Yonge street, but surrounding was a blur. I wasn’t able to pay any attention to the neighborhood we were running through, too busy trying to catch my breath and loosen the legs for finish.

The next 5k splits are:
6k - 3:32
7k - 3:46
8k - 3:56
9k - 3:48
10k - 4:06 (this last one was probably faster, but I lost time fumbling to stop my iPhone’s RunKeeper app, which was tracking my race).

It’s obvious I slowed down as soon as I caught my colleague and surged only in the last 1.5k, when I realized that I have some strength left for strong(er) finish. As we ran shoulder to shoulder, he looked quite spent, but managed another little burst of speed about a km before the end. I knew I had no strength for a long finish, so I fell behind him and waited for the last 500 meters, then accelerated and left my poor colleague behind.

My official result is:
Chip time: 37:25
Overall placement: 115 (total participants: 12,157)
Age group: 7
Gender: 100

Finishers’ medal is really nice - check the picture. The nightmare began when we went to claim the baggage. Our bags were sent from the start in trucks, and since the race is so short, the volunteers didn’t have enough time to sort out the bags according to the race bib numbers. I was freezing for about an hour, looking for my backpack, which soured the whole experience.

Meg was there to take pictures, also freezing and wondering what is taking me so long. She dropped me off at the start and drove down to the finish, so we can have the car near by for speedy retreat. It was a nice race, but somehow organizing logistics is not among its strong points. Toronto, despite its size and population, seems unable to learn how to cope with crowds, whether it’s in traffic, or public festivities, or footraces.

Around the Bay 30k race

Hamilton, Ontario

Happy with my silver medal.

Although I haven’t been blogging about running lately, that doesn’t mean that I stopped. Or slowed down, for that matter. It just means that I’m trying to spare the reader from the runner’s rumbling.

But, this time I have an excuse: another historic race, which claims to be the oldest race on the continent. Hamilton’s “Around the Bay” race is three years older than Boston marathon, and proud of it. Even the shirts we runners got in the race kit has written on the back “Older than Boston”. Someone joked that it’s also colder than Boston.

Well, it was cold for the start of the race, -10 C, but gorgeous sunny day, and we warmed up quickly. The race was nice, the course great, especially first 17 flat kms. Then the hills rolled in, but I’ll get to that in a moment. The beginning was uneventful - I decided to try to run under 2h 15min, because this race has the scaled medal system, unlike the other races - the finishers faster than 2hrs get gold, between 2-2:15 get silver, and the rest get bronze medals. I figured running 30k under 2hrs would be a little too much to ask of my old legs, so I aimed for the silver.

Friends who run the course before warned me about the last 10km of rolling hills, so I decided to run a bit more aggressively at the first two thirds and bank some time in case I choke on the hills. But, when the hills did come, they weren’t as bad as I thought - gentle bumps which I actually enjoyed. There is the one really steep incline on 26th km which made even the strongest runners slow to a crawl, but even that didn’t set me off too much.

It was funny to see quite a few strong runners who passed me earlier, struggle on that climb. I held onto my mantra - “short stride, pump the arms, keep going”, the music in my headphones lifted my spirit and made legs feel lighter. Slowly, I gained and passed the “fast” runners, some of them walking, cramping and suffering on the hill. After a few strides at the top, I caught my breath and sped on to finish strong in 2hr 10min 56sec and got my silverware!

A few details I’ll remember from the race - first the headphones confusion. I love running with my iPhone - its GPS not only tracks my runs, it also gives me audio cues on my current speed. Plus, there’s the always motivating factor of music - the right beat can get me over any hill. When the night before the race in the official race guide I read that headphones were not allowed, I was shocked. I remember reading the race rules on the web site and it didn’t mention anything about headphones ban. I checked the web site again, and right I was - it doesn’t mention headphones. So, I decided to ignore the race’s leaflet and packed my headgear on. No one said a thing, and there were many other runners with headphones.

At the first aid station I grabbed a cup of water, tilted it into my mouth, and - nothing! Strange. I looked at the cup - there was water. I shook it, it sloshed. Then I squeezed it, and the layer of ice on the surface broke, so I could drink. Yes, it was that cold.

The spectators were friendly, supportive, but few in numbers. I can’t blame them, on such a bitingly cold morning, who’d stand outside to clap at the runners? I expected more of a scenic route, but there wasn‘t much to see. Most of it ran through the neighborhoods, with houses on both sides of the road. On some traffic arteries, only a lane was blocked off for the race and we breathed exhaust fumes of the traffic running next to us.

Like in some other big races, the kids were high-fiving us from the side and people were offering their own refreshments - sliced oranges, banana halves, and similar.

Another well known race-attraction was the Grim Reaper standing on top of that steep climb I described earlier. He had Mrs Reaper with him this time, waiting for the runners who didn’t make it to the summit, I suppose. I told them they look too spooky, and they called after me to get closer so they can kiss me. Even though it was all just a joke, I gave my heels some wind and flew into the last 3k stretch home.

The finish of the race was inside the Copps Coliseum arena, which made it fantastic for both, Meg and me. She didn’t need to freeze her behind while waiting until I arrive, and I could enjoy the warm indoors after the race, without worrying about catching cold. It was a beautiful race.

Stats:
Gun time: 2:10:56
Chip time: 2:10:45
Total placement: 238 (of 7000 runners)
Gender placement: 210 male runner
Age group (45-49) placement: 27

New York Marathon, behind the scene

This is part 2 of the NYC marathon recap. You can find Part 1 HERE.

When I submitted my text on NYC marathon for the monthly column I write at the National Post, it was too long. The editor and I decided to split it in two, because she liked the behind the scene description. However, too much time has passed since the marathon, so my “behind the scene” scenes are ditched. Since it’s now certain it won’t be published, I decided to post it here, so my writing effort wouldn’t go to naught:

I’m typing this entry carefully—my hands are sore from the snow shovel. I’m afraid there’s going to be a blister or two nesting in all the redness of my palms. Winter wonderland in Canada is back. Shoveling aside, I’m looking forward to my snowy run after work. It’s difficult to describe the feeling, one must try it for himself: muffled sounds of my own steps through the softened din of the neighborhood, as if the whole town is covered in cotton; early Christmas lights reflecting off the snow in the evening; the solitude and peace of being out in sub-freezing temperature, while everyone else hunkers in warmth of their homes; my breath trailing me in a cloud, like a steam-locomotive plodding through the fresh snow. And, although the signs of life are all around me, I’m the only person out alive, feeling like this whole white, sleepy, fairy-tale town belongs to me.

The problem with running through the winter is—it lasts too long. After the virgin snow turns into grey slush and ice creeps on the sidewalks making each step an adventure, the feeling of owning the world is quickly replaced by the gloom of it all. Knowing that there’s five months of it doesn’t help either. Some runners switch onto indoors mode and mount the treadmills and stationary bikes. I prefer the outdoors, no matter how grey it is. To help me through the winter blues, I set the goals for the Spring—’Around the Bay’ 30 kms race in Hamiton in March, for example—and I run thinking happy thoughts of the past races, like the New York marathon I described in the previous Black Toenail.

I told you about the thrill of it, the rush of wind, the racket of the crowds, the sweet pain of the effort. But now, at Winter’s threshold, even the memories of the long hours leading to the starting gun make me smile and pick up my pace on the slippery sidewalk. Let me take your mind off the winter blues, and lead you behind the curtains of the world’s biggest race...

...It's 4 a.m. on Sunday morning November 7th, when my alarm clock screams its waking tune. I stumble in the dark, tripping over objects which always seem to be where they aren't supposed to be, and swallowing the yelp when the toe stubs the bed-frame. Slowly, blindly, painfully, I dress into my running gear. A goodhearted relative is giving me a ride at this ungodly hour to the Staten Island ferry.

The traffic doesn't exist this early. The city that never sleeps seems to have dozed off for a while. That changes as we approach the pier. Line of yellow cabs and cars crawls by, spitting out stumbling, half-dormant runners at the bottom of the stairway leading to the ferry building. They are promptly shooed away by the traffic cops -- my first glimpse of the organized chaos that is New York marathon.

The waiting area is already packed, half an hour before the departure of the first ferry. People stand, sit, and mostly lay sprawled all over the floor. I make my way tripping and stepping on a bag and a few limbs. My advance is followed by choice curses in a variety of languages. A short wait later the gate opens and the sprawling tangle of bodies comes to life, streaming through the gate and onto the boat. There’s little conversation at this hour, only an occasional excited exclamation, mostly in a foreign language.

Trip to Staten Island takes us by the Statue of Liberty, illuminated in the night by dramatic lights. Some runners get to their feet, the excited murmur grows louder in a stew of global dialects, cameras are drawn, pictures are taken. Soon after, the ferry docks and we pour out onto the buses which take us to the athletes' village.

In the village the wind is relentless, it blows the chill through the bones. A few tents with hot drinks and bagels provide no shelter and little comfort. The more resourceful among us take anything that can be wrapped around the body to preserve some heat: cardboard boxes, plastic wraps, garbage bags. I brave the elements sitting on the grass. Behind me a huge metal column of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge towers over us. Soon, we’ll be running across this enormous, double-decked suspension bridge connecting Staten Island with Brooklyn. Right now, however, my excitement is dampened by the chill of the morning. The dawn is grey, the sun still slow in rising. The time has changed over night from daylight-saving into daylight-wasting time, and while that gave me an extra hour of sleep, it also delayed the badly anticipated heat of the sun.

Near me, a group of Norwegians huddle together under the tarpaulin, gnawing on their bagels. A contingent of Mexicans make a quick shanty-town of cardboard boxes. Italians run around wrapping everything and everyone in Tricolore flag and taking pictures, laughing and bantering loudly. Lineups in front of thousands of port-a-potties grow steadily. I join one too, the lesson learned the hard way on one of the previous marathons - even if you don’t need to answer the call of nature, do it anyway, or the nature will catch up with you during the run.

Finally, the sun climbs over the shadow of the bridge and everything becomes warmer. Loudspeakers crackle with announcements, inviting us to leave our outer layers in the baggage trucks to be transported to the finish. We undress, shivering, and make our way to the starting corrals, still an hour before the start. Each corral is supposed to contain a thousand runners. They are separated by ropes, but the ropes are not an obstacle for some eager runners, who duck under to get into the faster, front corrals. With another bark from the speakers, the ropes are removed altogether, and we walk forward. The purpose of corrals is completely obliterated in the mix of the bodies pushing forward. It leaves me baffled -- why pushing forward at the start of a 42.2 km race? It’s not a sprint, a better start position doesn’t mean a thing on the long run. Besides, we all have timing chips tied to our shoelaces, and the time is measured from the moment our feet cross the timing carpet. Still, I’m pushed and shoved aside, where I bounce into men emptying their bladders at the roadside. So much about the thousands of field toilets being provided!

At last the pushing stops, the elite runners are introduced—they include the World Record holder Ethiopian Haile Gebrselassie—but I can’t see them in the ocean of people which keeps me far from the start line. The Star-Spangled Banner is sung. A few more seconds of shivering—I’m not sure if that’s cold or anticipation shaking my body now—and the starting pistol is fired. Human tide moves forward, slow at first, but picking up the pace quickly as the head of the line is released onto the bridge. My chip crosses the timing carpet about a minute after the gun-start. I start my wrist chronograph when my foot lands on the carpet, and off I go in this giant snake of people, this single living organism in which I’m but a single cell...

...as I dust off the snow and rub my chilled fingers, my eyes find the NY marathon finishers’ medal on the shelf. I smile, warmed by the memories.

New York, New York

We had a fabulous week in New York. First, I ran the NY marathon, and although you may think that's a hard work, I actually enjoyed every inch of it! It was a running experience like no other and I am really happy to have had a chance to participate.

After the race, it was time for lazy pleasures. We strolled around the Ground Zero and Wall Street, went to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, checked the Brooklyn Bridge and Metropolitan Museum of Arts. We also took a lot of pictures to share, and here is the slide show.

The party that is the New York marathon

In the story of my running life, year 2010 is going down as the golden year, the year of great personal accomplishments, the year when I experienced two of the arguably most prestigious marathon races in the world — Boston and New York.

The difference between New York and Boston marathons is apparent from the start. In Boston, everybody was serious about running. New York, which I ran this November 7, is more of a running party. Most of the people registered thanks to the lucky draw; only a choice few, myself included, qualified for the guaranteed entry. To run in New York, you either have to be very fast or very lucky. I could tell from the beginning that there were far more lucky ones than fast ones. Here's how it went for me.

Read the whole story at nationalpost.com

This is part 1 of the NYC marathon recap. For Part 2 click HERE.

Map of my run in NYC marathon 2010 - for detailed stats, click on "view details on RunKeeper" link

Toronto Goodlife Half-marathon

That's me on the right, sprinting through
the finish line.

 I ran the Toronto Goodlife half-marathon today. When I ran it in 2008, it was my first real race, and it remained in such a nice memory that I simply had to run it again. It comes only 3 weeks before the New York City marathon, and I’m happy to boast that I’m in full training and pretty much on target, ready for the world biggest marathon.

Although much smaller than the Scotiabank Waterfront Toronto marathon in September, this one had much nicer medals – this year they are even curved, resembling the Vancouver Olympics medals, as you can see in the pictures.

I’m very happy with my race – finished with the chip time of 1hr 28min 7sec. You can see the map and my pace splits. Altogether, out of 5,000+ half-marathoners, I placed 101st; I’m 90th in men’s competition and 13th in my age group (45-49). Although I ran faster last year (15 sec faster), this time I felt full of energy and wasn’t exhausted after the race. After disastrous spring when I struggled with the hamstring injury, this finally looks like the good old me again.

As for the marathon – I wish Torontonians were more cheerful. There was only a handful of people cheering on, the whole scene was slightly pathetic. I’m not sure who is to blame – the town, which doesn’t promote the marathon, but rather works against it, because the drivers complain about the road closures. Or the organizers, who did a poor promotion job and, instead of finding content and reason for people to come out—like live music and other performances along the route—they looked as if trying to stay under the radar and not agitate the complainers. I believe, if most of the town embraces the race, as it is during the big marathons in Boston, Chicago, NYC, etc., no one would dare to complain about the road closure. As far as I know, nobody complains about the closures for the Gay Pride Parade in June. But, I’m afraid I’m wishing for impossible—Torontonians never fail to justify what the rest of the country think about them, and it’s not at all positive. Today, I was leaning that way too.

Team in Training

Meg and I went for the informational meeting yesterday with Team in Training, an organization which trains ordinary people to do extraordinary things (sorry for the pun): run marathons and raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It was a good meeting. As a charity organization, TiT has guaranteed spots in some big world marathons, which are really hard to get into. The problem is – they pick the events and set the fundraising goal for a member to be eligible to run in those events. For example, they have a marathon in Rome, Italy, (a mouthwatering race) planned for March 2011, and a local ‘Round the Bay race in Hamilton, Ontario.

In order to qualify for Rome, I have to fundraise $6,000. Or, $1,700 for Hamilton.

I really suck in fundraising. I suck in asking people for money, even when it’s for myself. I’m just bad, I’d rather pay it myself, than have to ask for money from someone else. That’s why I’m not in sales.

Therefore Team in Training is not for me, for two reasons: I’m too lousy a fundraiser, and too good a runner. Let me explain, before you judge this brazen statement. I doubt that I can raise $6,000 for Rome. It just goes against my character. And, I can register for Around the Bay race for $75, without having to beg people to donate. As for the second statement – TiT focuses on the beginners. They function more like a support group, such as weight-watchers, than like an athletic training group. I have been a beginner, three years ago.

True, they have some really fast runners, but the thing is – you train alone, and go for a group run on the weekend. The group run is in midtown Toronto. Alternatively, you could try to find a runner-mentor closer to your neighborhood.

To sum up – I won’t get the benefit of a good training with a group, save for once a week on a long run, which I prefer to do alone anyway, because it’s so difficult to find a running partner with the same speed. I won’t get to choose the races the organization can get me into. And, I’d have to break my own character and go out there to find money. A lot of money.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I think TiT is a great way to go about it if you’re new to running and need a support group to keep you going. For me – I don’t think so. And Meg – well, I think I can train her just as efficiently, or better. She could have a benefit of her own, personal trainer, the one she can curse at when it gets hard.

From a case of bad back to Boston marathon

My column on the National Post's website talks about how it all started. As you will see, there was pain long before there was running. Still, I can say it was worth it. Click on the picture to read the article.

Born To Run

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen by Christopher McDougall

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

(I’m not going to describe the content, this is only what I took from the book)

What can I say – for a serious runner like myself (if “serious” means running six days a week), this book is a fantastic motivator. The cast of characters is colorful and the best part is – they’re real (although it’s sometimes hard to believe, but they are all Googlable). McDougall takes us through his search for the Mexico’s Tarahumara’s secret of long and healthy long-distance running. Even his detours into the invention of the first Nike running shoe (which he all but blames for the subsequent running-related injuries), barefoot running and his theories of human evolution into a running man, are entertaining to read.

I can’t say I agree with everything presented in the book, but I did squirm with unease while reading about the grueling endurance races. It was very difficult to pick exactly who to cheer for from many likable characters who, at the end, had to race against each other.

There are many moments in the book that’ll make you wanting to lace up the running shoes and give it a try. The author takes us skillfully on a search through the most inhospitable parts of Mexico’s Sierra Madre for a tribe of the Indian runners who, through the centuries, could thank their survival to the fact that they can outrun any pursuer, and their villages are almost impossible to find. Add to that the rugged canyons they live in, and Mexico’s drug cartels keeping the unwanted visitors away, and there’s the material for a real thriller. Yet, this is a book about running, and discovering the true technique and joy of running. The only thriller exist during the several amazing races described in details.

To sum it up – if you’re not into running, you’ll like Born To Run as a sports book. However, if you are a runner, you’ll treasure it like a running bible.

View all my reviews

Daymare

Talk about living through your worst nightmare—or one of the worst:

I was out for a 16 km run yesterday, it was my hill training, so I went to the farmland where I found my hills to run up and down. After 6 km of hills, I continued on my regular route. That’s when I happened to pat my shorts pockets where the house-key should have been. They were empty.

I can’t even begin to describe the sinking feeling in my stomach. Meg, who has another key, is half a planet away, in Hong Kong. The only other person who has the key to our house is Meg’s brother, who lives in New York. And there I was, in my shorts and t-shirt, sweaty and stinky, with no access to the house.

The pictures went through my mind of me knocking on the neighbor’s door and borrowing the drill to drill through the lock. While I thought those practical, dreadful thoughts, I retreated my steps, and after 2 km I saw my key laying in the middle of an intersection. I remembered running across that intersection in full sprint, catching the light. My sprinting must have bounced the key from the pocket.

Okay, I admit – the pockets have no zipper, but they are really deep. I had these shorts for more than 2 years, always kept the key in the pocket and never had anything fall out. But, lesson learned. From now on the key always goes into the pocket that can be closed. Phew.

Little moments: a smile

A curious thing happened this evening. I went for my usual 10k run. It rained when I started, but stopped soon after, yet it was wet enough to chase people indoors. Can't complain--I prefer deserted streets and sidewalks, rather than jumping over the dog leashes and around people unwilling to give me some space.

I realize I'm turning into a grouch, always expecting--and finding!-- the worst in everyone. I lost faith in people quite a while ago, exposed to the daily dose of egocentric behavior in all spheres of life: traffic, work, shopping, even on the nights out. The common courtesy is all but extinct, and people constantly invade my personal space, whether it's pushing in front of me in a lineup, trying to get over me at work, or cutting me off in traffic. It all puts me in a miserable mood by the end of the day.

Tonight, however, I felt hope. I was running on the sidewalk when I saw in front of me an old lady bent over her walker. I moved on the road to pass. As I came next to her, she stopped, straightened and her wrinkled face lit up with the broadest smile it was capable of. She waved at me and I couldn't help but smile and wave back. Little moments like this could make the world a better place. I'm smiling even now, when I think of that silver-haired grandma with the warmest smile.

Mid-life crisis?

According to this article in British Daily Mail (quoting a recent study), I suffer from a serious case of mid-life crisis. How do I know that? Because I run marathons, and I like it! Funny me, I thought I started running to keep in shape and re-gain strength after a bad case of herniated disk. I also thought I am doing races because I like the atmosphere and the challenge. But no--the Daily Mail set me straight. Apparently, I can't afford to buy a convertible sport car, or some other visible sign of mid-life crisis, so I opted for marathon exhaustion and bruised toenails instead. Who knew?

By the way, here's the definition quoted from Wikipedia:
"Midlife crisis is a term coined in 1965 by Elliott Jaques and used in Western societies to describe a period of dramatic self-doubt that is felt by some individuals in the "middle years" or middle age of life, as a result of sensing the passing of their own youth and the imminence of their old age. Sometimes, a crisis can be triggered by transitions experienced in these years, such as extramarital affairs, andropause or menopause, the death of parents or other causes of grief, unemployment or underemployment, realizing that a job or career is hated but not knowing how else to earn an equivalent living, or children leaving home. The result may be a desire to make significant changes in core aspects of day-to-day life or situation, such as in career, work-life balance, marriage, romantic relationships, big-ticket expenditures, or physical appearance."

Hmmmm, is that something telling me it's time to make some changes on the career path?