Tour of California

Full disclosure requires that I admit I haven't been following this race like a good California cyclist should.  But I haven't exactly slacked off either.

As I write, Peter Sagan is likely picking the bugs off the front of his handlebars.  He's been single handedly providing vector control for the rest of the field in the vicinity of the finish line for 4 straight days.

Monday, Stage 2; Chris (My official TOC photographer) and I watched the start in San Francisco.  After a few hours in the office I headed for Sausalito and parked on the north side of the Golden Gate Bridge.  We cycled across one of the most recognizable bridges in the world and took up positions to see the riders come roaring through the 0km mark at around 11:15am.

 Um...that was fast.  They were gone in a blink.

What a draft...

So Chris and I toured the Presidio, grabbed a Starbucks, and eventually blazed back across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Note Chris the photographer on the left.  I think he takes good
photos so that he can stay out of the pictures.

Tuesday, Stage 3; there were 4 of us.  Mike, Matt, Chris, and I met to watch the race cruise through our backyard.  Chris, Matt, and I parked a few miles away from the base of the mountain and joined the throngs of cyclists already en-route.  Mike joined us later on the hill.

Over the course of 2 hours, cyclists steadily pedaled by.  I have no idea what the actual count would be, but I estimate 2,000 - 3,000 cyclists skipped work and joined the endless string of fans lining the road.

Then after standing for 2 hours...

We were treated to a split field, with 4 men in the breakaway rolling through about 8 minutes ahead of the peloton. If nothing else, it further justified the 4 hours of pedaling and standing.  From the time we saw the break away riders come around the first corner, to the time the last rider in the peloton rounded the last, elapsed time was about 15 minutes.  This is easily 30x the typical exposure for the typical spectator.

And then Mike pulled us all to Livermore - 18 miles away...

The heat affected more than just the racers.  We were all sporting distinct tan lines in spite of sunscreen at the end of the day.  This downtown Livermore fountain proved ideal for hot cyclists.







Eventually, after circling the extents of the far East Bay cities (55 more miles for them), the race roared back into Livermore.

The field had split into abut 4 groups over the last 55 miles, so we were again treated to a prolonged exposure.

Did I mention 18 miles?  ...And then we rode back into a stiff headwind, leading lengthening shadows.










Any day in the saddle is a good day; and this was a particularly good one.  It's not often that spectators get the opportunity to see the race twice in one stage.  It took a little work, but we pulled it off and had a blast doing it.

Thanks again to Chris for the great pictures.  Can you spot the photographer in the following pictures?

Where's Waldo?

Not the guy down by the road...

We're not sure...

No trees were harmed...

Just Pictures

Cycling season is back.  Actually it's been back for a while, but my season is just getting out of the shed.  I rode with House of Pain (HOP) Medium the other day and realized that I might still be in HOP Light condition.  The pack was being led by guys who race and wear their team jerseys to the ride.  I don't race and have no team jersey.  I was happy to just hang on near the back of the pack and only take my periodic turn pulling at the front when we got particularly organized.  I survived, but it was a long slow ride home.

Transitioning back into cycling has meant backing off my running.  And that has been hard to do.  Finishing the Mt. Diablo Trails Challenge (See the previous Post) in 15th place gave me more motivation to stay strong than it did to relax.  

Alas, something has to give.  Unfortunately it has been this blog that has been sacrificed.

So, I've simply posted some pictures from recent training runs - most of them early mornings done the injustice of being captured with the camera on my phone.  

Morello Ave. - Pleasant Hill

Nevada - High Desert

Briones Regional Park

Carquinez Shoreline

Briones

Mt. Diablo Trails Challenge 50K

Special Thanks to Brazen Racing!!

"Who trained for this heat?" I rhetorically quizzed the volunteer at aid station #3 as he reached to pull a water bottle from my hydration belt.  He tugged but couldn't pull it free, so I helped him with that one and then passed out the remaining 3 bottles to other eager volunteers.  "Water or sports drink?"  "Sports drink," I gasp between gulps of warm Coke, Mountain Dew, and water arrayed on a folding table in little Dixie cups.  Each cup is brilliantly sized to slug down in one easy motion.  "What place am I in?"  "We can check that for you...Well it looks like you are #7 - and #5 and #6 are still here," and she points across the table at 2 runners.  I snapped the bottles into place, grabbed a handful of Fig Newtons, expressed my gratitude then bolted down the first stretch of familiar trail in 20 miles.  Well, I bolted in a rather weary sort of bolt.

Mt. Diablo Trails Challenge 50K (31 miles) - 7000' of Elevation gain

This map and elevation profile was relocated from my office wall to the front door, 4 days before the race.

After weeks of unsettled, rainy, cool weather, the weekend of the Mt. Diablo Trails Challenge 50K was as audaciously hot as a Bay Area April could offer.  Weeks of training in the cold driving rain and slick mud provided me with a comparable misery factor, but absolutely no preparation for the blast that staggered us on race day.  Having seen the heat coming, I spent Thursday and Friday wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt while working out in the sun and driving with the heat on in my truck.  Highs on Thursday and Friday were predicted to be in the low 80's, but the days ended closer to 90.  When Saturday was slated for the high 80's, we knew it would be trouble.


My parents were in town from South Carolina with the dual goal of vacationing and seeing my 8-year-old daughter perform at her 2nd piano recital.  The fact that they would be around to help with race day logistics was an added bonus for me - especially since her piano teacher had chosen 4:00 pm on race day for that recital.  No amount of lobbying on my part was likely to change the schedule of 20 other families, so with 2 months warning, I accelerated my training - with attending the piano recital as my new goal.  More precisely, my goal was to finish in 6 hours - optimistic but not completely unrealistic.  Compared to finish times of years past - a 6 hour finish would put me in the top 20 - if not the top 10.

And here was the plan...

The race would start at 8:00 am; I would run for 6 hours and finish at 2:00 pm; I would clean up, eat, and my dad would drive me the 45 minutes to the semi-formal piano recital with time to spare.

Meanwhile my wife would leave the house at 1:00 pm sharp after our 2-year-old daughter finished her nap; she and my dad would separately drive the 35 minutes to the finish line; I would finish at 2:00 pm and kiss her both in jubilation and salutation as she drove my daughters and mother off to a final pre-recital practice session; Dad and I would follow along later as noted above.

That was a good plan...

And so I trained hard with the understanding that a delay of more than 30 minutes would leave me crossing the finish line into the arms of - my dad (not terrible, but not exactly the same).  Furthermore, I could easily miss the recital, or worse yet show up gloriously muddy and soaked with sweat to endure the condescending glares of 3 consecutive generations of women dressed up for a piano recital - if my race went badly.

15 minutes till start time - 70 degrees and rising

The first 8.2 miles went by fast - maybe too fast.  The race organizers had cautioned us to go out slow, but I somehow doubt that any of them were risking ostracism by 3 consecutive generations of women dressed up for a piano recital - like I was.  The first aid station at mile 8.2 was just beyond the hardest climb of the day.  I had walked / run up the majority of the climb slowly working my way past other racers till I knew I was fairly near the front.  The guys who took the lead early stayed away all day, and the 1st place runner broke his own course record at 4 hours 51 minutes.  They weren't my concern; I was going to run my own race and had to remind myself of that frequently as I encountered others.

A minor crisis was realized half-way to aid station #2, when I found I had dropped 1 of the 4, 8oz. bottles attached to my belt.  I actually stopped running to grasp the full meaning of this.  Going back was impossible, but moving forward through the rising heat with diminished capacity was frightening.  I breathed a prayer and kept running.

The second half of this segment was a long rolling descent through lush green hills with views of Mt. Diablo towering in the west.  A fellow racer pointed out the poppies on a distant hillside at one point and cheerily noted, "There's a trail that runs right through there!"  I was briefly reminded of at least one reason why we do this - the scenery from these perspectives is nothing short of stunning.  Running downhill brought relief to my lungs and kept my body temperature low, but my toes and quadriceps were taking a beating I would pay for over the following week.

I arrived at aid station #2 out of water but not dehydrated.  And, in my joy at covering half the journey, I forgot I was missing a bottle.  I chatted briefly with one of the volunteers as I began handing over empties. "Oh, this must belong to you," broke in a lady filling one bottle.  I looked over and stared dumbly at my 4th bottle which had somehow outrun me to the this remote corner of the Diablo foothills.  They had no recollection of who had dropped it off, but there it sat.  All I could say was "Thank you, God."

In spite of the fact that the steepest and highest hills were behind me, the hardest part was yet to come.  I checked my time only once all day and that was at this aid station, the halfway point.... Exactly 3 hours.  Stink. This was a little difficult to accept.  I knew I was fading, and was hoping to have reached halfway between 2:30 and 2:45 into the race.  I now had no buffer, and I was fading!  My hopes of reaching the finish line and seeing my wife and daughters died there.  I ran on with determination, but the objective had fundamentally changed - just don't quit.



127 racers started the day, and only 109 finished the race; the last finishing around 6:00pm, 10 hours on the trails.  The heat decimated the field.  Runners who had blazed past me miles back, were slowly reeled back in and complained of cramps as I staggered by.  By mile 20, no one was running up the hills.  This was amazing to me.  No one.  Anyone I could see in the distance ahead, anyone I would run with, anyone gaining on me - walked up every hill.  The flats and descents were manageable and I made fair time in spite of the array of blisters developing on my toes, but if the trail tipped up more than a few degrees I was forced to walk.  And, each time I was forced to a walk, I saw another kid climb behind the piano and play their song.

The longest stretch for me was between aid stations 2 and 3.  Much of that section was completely exposed to the sun and the breeze seemed to have shifted from cool out of the west, to warm out of the south.  I began setting short goals and forcing myself to run to a point in the trail, or alternating 20 steps walking with 20 steps running to keep me moving up the grades.  I drained all 4 bottles and praised God for his kindness as the last one went dry.  About 1 mile after the last bottle I began seeing hikers and it finally dawned on me that I was approaching civilization.  Aid station #3 was alongside Mt. Diablo's South Gate Rd., and I could hear the cars.

This is where they told me I was in 7th place.  Now I recognize 2 possibilities - 1) They were inaccurate in stating that I was in 7th place, or, 2) I was not counting the runners passing me very well as I covered the final 8 miles.  However, no matter, finding I was in the top 10 motivated me to put on steam.  I was also approaching familiar trails and a long sustained descent.  I had another mile of rolling climbing before I would start a descent that would trip me all the way down to the canyon in which we would eventually finish.  Eventually.  But, like skateboarders on a half pipe, the course took us back up the far side of the canyon for a punishing 500' climb before sending us screaming down again in the general direction of the finish line.  A final 2 - 3 miles of gradual descent splashed us across a meandering creek nearly a dozen times before we emerged into Castle Rock Park.

I left aid station #3 in high spirits and soon passed another runner.  Voices behind me spurred me faster yet as I realized there was a large group of runners gaining on me.  The descent was painful yet manageable, but truly, familiarity breeds contempt.  These are trails that I typically bomb down effortlessly on my bike.  Running them now with little breeze, and pain from the waist down tempted me toward despair, and the abrupt rebound at the bottom of the canyon nearly finished me off.  I was caught by a handful of runners there, and though we were all now walking up the far side - they were walking faster than I was.  After 200' of climbing I was flagging fast.  Coming to a complete stop beneath the shade of kind, old oak tree, I looked back to see the 2 runners from the aid station, "#5" and "#6", coming up behind.  "You ok?" called out the one with the hydration vest. "I just need to slow down for a while," I replied.  He caught me and asked if I had any water, and I told him no, just the sport mix.  He pulled a water bottle from his vest and said that he was a mobile aid station, instructing me to pour it on my head.  I obeyed.  He said he was a pacer for his friend, who had now come up beside us.  Hydration Vest wasn't actually in the race, he explained, but was signed up to pace his friend.  I expressed my gratitude and they walked on.  I walked on too, though they slowly gapped me.

Our path veered to undulate along a single track as we neared the top.  A rivulet crossed our path and I saw one of the runners stop to dump a hat-full of water on his head before jogging on.  Reaching the same spot, I planted my blistered feet in a pool then scooped hat-fulls of heaven onto my own head.

Hydration Vest at aid station #4 

The final aid station was at the top of that hill and 3.5 miles from the finish.  The lady that had been gaining on me up the hill, left the aid station before I did.  I had been chicked.  I followed her down the hill incapable of gaining on her.  Upon reaching the canyon trail and the cool creek crossings, my pace picked up, but so did hers. She ran ahead of me for a quarter mile before passing Hydration Vest who was limping.

I caught him too and he told me his calves were cramping.  I thought that strange, especially when he began jogging beside me and broached the topic of us getting chicked.  He didn't think it was acceptable, and asked my opinion.  "It's basically up to her," I replied.  "If she keeps up that pace, she can have it."  We ran a hundred yards or so and he said, "You just keep up with me. What good am I as a pacer if I don't have anyone to pace?"  I groaned and picked up my pace.  ...And we caught her.  ...And we caught the next runner - who happened, ironically, to be her husband.  And then I ran the last mile faster than I imagined possible - because I had passed those 2 and there was no way on God's green earth they were taking me back.  Hydration Vest pulled ahead of me and caught the next runner.  I ran faster too, over the final bump, around a bend and down into the last stretch.  I expected to see the finish line from there, but a bend in the road left me seeing nothing but more trail.  I kept running.  On the verge of implosion I saw the edge of the finishing arch, and then the full line came into view.

At nearly 2:00 my family had arrived at the finish line.  Having parked in a remote lot and ridden a shuttle to the finish line, they had arrived later than hoped.  With the recital looming as an immovable object in the day's schedule, my wife soon realized that their stay at the finish line would be short.  My young pianist began to cry, disappointed that she would be unable to see Daddy cross the finish line.  My dad offered to go back for the car, since Mom - unable to walk far - was not going to be walking back in the absence of the elusive shuttle.  Dad retrieved the car and was actually allowed to drive to within 100' of the finish line for Mom's sake.  Before driving off, they walked to the finish line to take one last look.

As I reached the final stretch I heard the music and the loud speaker announcing the name and number of the runner preceding me.  People were lining the sides of the trail shouting and clapping.  I heard my race number and my name, but then it all quickly faded into nothing but white noise.  Standing on the finish line was my little pianist with huge tears rolling down her cheeks.  "Daddy!"

Finishing a 31-mile race with 7000' of elevation gain in 15th place (6:29) is wonderful.  But, getting hugs and kisses from your favorite people on earth and seeing the gleam of approval in their eyes is nothing short of spectacular.  The only thing that even came close in comparison was the garden hose shower I took 10 minutes later.

I believe that Hydration Vest was the answer to the prayers of my family.  We had prayed openly that the day's events would work out favorably at both venues.  Our kind Heavenly Father saw fit to delay Hydration Vest twice, so that he would be there when I needed him.  I believe this with all my heart.

All of the kids in the recital played wonderfully and reflected very well on their teacher.  However, only one of them played her 3 pieces flawlessly.  She was 8, and made her daddy very proud.

So as I see it.....maybe next time I'm cramping I should look around to see who I'm being slowed down to help.

Thanks to all of the great volunteer photographers for some of the pictures above.

Best and Worst Run Ever

The first and last rays of an early morning touching the skirts of a pending storm.

My elevation chart for this run - totals 4300' in elevation gain.

The Alhambra Valley Rd. Train Trestle

The route started at Rankin Park in Martinez, and proceeded basically out and back through the Carquinez Strait Regional Shoreline, Mt. Wanda, and Briones - summiting the high points of everything along the way.

The run was 23 miles long and took just under 4 hours and 30 minutes. Actual running time was closer to 4 hours with me stopping to refill bottles and spending a good deal of time standing in the handicapped porta potty at the Briones Bear Creek staging area, trying to wrap my phone in a piece of plastic trash bag to keep it away from the rain.

My last view of the sun near the top of Mt. Wanda - a stiff breeze is pushing the clouds east.

Yeah, it rained. Hard. Winds were 30+ Mph at the summits and the trails went from fair to very poor in under an hour.

When I left Rankin Park the stars were dimming and those that remained were being snuffed out by a bank of clouds racing the sun for the eastern horizon. For nearly an hour the clouds piled in dropping slowly. As I began the ascent of Mott Peak in Briones, the pregnant clouds gave birth.

To that point, the run was much like a dance; avoiding the muddy hollows left by a week of unsettled weather. Now the choreography was challenged and dancing gave way to sloshing. The storm hit with such intensity that I was soaked within minutes. No longer obligated to avoid the mud, I enjoyed a few moments of freedom running straight through the marshy areas. Unfortunately that could not last, as soon the soil, liquefied by the deluge, could no longer bear my weight. Imagine attempting to run up or down a bobsled track - and you have the basic idea of what my run was converting to. With a total of 4300' of elevation gain, there were very few miles that were not either steeply up or steeply down. Eventually I was forced to abandon the trails altogether and run along the sloping edges of the trail, and when possible, through the shin high grass in the meadows.

And then there was the wind. Cresting Mott Peak I was facing rain driven by winds in excess of 30 Mph. At times I was blown off (or onto, as often the case was) the trail. Fighting my way into the wind or staying upright against a cross wind was dicey, but running down the steep slopes with a tail wind was harrowing. Imagine strapping on a jet pack and jumping onto a frozen lake wearing tennis shoes. Yeah, exactly. What your mind's eye just saw - was exactly how my arms were flailing.

I managed to not fall. Not all the way anyhow. If this tells you that my running was not as intense as it could have been, then yes, you are correct. I managed a 3 point landing on the way down Mott. My feet conspired against me and each headed a different direction - in the general direction of the bottom of the hill. Remember that image you conjured up a moment ago with flailing hands and wild eyes? Replay that now, and add a power bar in my right hand which I desperately want to eat without mud icing. I was doing a sort of skiing, but lacked the ski tails to provide counter force and allow a "center of gravity" correction. The sacrifice was unavoidable - I firmly planted my left hand backward into the mud. Alas, my glove turned brown, but I had forestalled the shame of sitting in the mud for yet another run.

I truly had fun on this run. None of the cramping came along for the party this time. With the help of good planning and a little osmosis, I was thoroughly hydrated for the entire run. As I neared the final hill, it was great to feel that I had more in the tank.

This was by far the hardest run I've ever faced. Even my soggy Marin Headlands Marathon last year didn't measure up to this. In one sense it was the worst run I've ever had. In another sense it was by far the best. And either way I look at it - I'm glad it's over.

Some Days are Great

The Lafayette hills with a storm sweeping in from the west

Some days are great...

...And other days you get cramps.

And Friday was a little of both.

But first...

A week ago, I paced Tim S. on his first Half Marathon. Nothing official, but he had been working up his mileage toward a run that would take him from his high school in Brentwood to his house in Pittsburg. An off week in my training happened to coincide with his personal event, so I asked if I could come along. He blazed out of the school parking lot, to shouts of encouragement and others looking on - obviously tipped off as to his intentions.

His pace slowed as we put some miles behind us, and a cold rain, that had been threatening all day, took action against us. The route, an undulating though gradual descent, stayed exclusively to East Bay Regional Park bike trails which double as access roads to the monstrous utility pipes that paralleled our route. The rain came and went, but Tim's pace was unabated.

We were both surprised to see familiar territory sooner than expected, and I checked the GPS on my phone to realize we were indeed nearly 10 miles into the 11.5 miles he had planned.

After running and cycling for many years, I have become pretty accurate in judging distances and the amount of time it would take to cover them. Judging from our mileage and the distance we still had to run, I knew the route had been measured wrong and would be much closer to 12.5 miles. 12.5 miles is very close to 13.1 (a half marathon) and as we entered his neighborhood, I veered from the path and told him he was going to run a little further than planned. He did not agree. After a short explanation he was coaxed to abandon the home stretch and extend the suffering a few more minutes.

Tim's first Half Marathon. It was just plain fun for me to help him accomplish this. We took his longest run ever and turned it into an event with credibility - in 1 hour and 45 minutes.

Almost exactly to the hour a week later I'm near the end of another training run and I'm cramping like I've never cramped before - and I know why. I'm rapidly dehydrating. It's been a long time since the last water fountain and all my bottles have been dry for miles. I've stopped sweating, my mouth is dry and instead of feeling exhaustion as I climb the rolling hills my head swims and I fight bouts of nausea. I'm trying to figure out what whacked out reflex in my body would want me to vomit what little fluid I have left in my stomach.

The first wisps from the storm racing up behind me

I crest a hill and see 2 huge crows in a budding tree silhouetted jet black against a lowering sky. They are watching me, and I read their thoughts. "Dinner." In my determination I actually speak to them pointing my finger up at the tree - "you can't have me" I say. I don't even feel foolish for talking to them. As I begin my ascent up the next hill I glance back and they are flying away - disappointed.

Over 3 hours earlier I had left the house on a mapped route cresting as many hills as I could reasonably stuff into 22.5 miles - over 3400' in total. My pace had probably started out too quick, but I was feeling good. I had changed my route and printed maps of the more unfamiliar areas from the office earlier in the day. The new route is approx. 1/4 roads and 3/4 dirt trails traversing and connecting several East Bay regional parks. All but about 10% of the roads (and civilization) are at the very beginning. In changing the route I added about 4 miles of trails and eliminated a water stop - there is little enough water in the quasi wilderness of the parks as it is. This was hazardously poor planning.

The wind is now stiffly at my back driving dark gray clouds, latent and foreboding. I've run 20 miles, and all that's left is a handful of turns before I descend into downtown Lafayette where I can spend my emergency $5 bill on a fountain Coke. I really don't think I can make it that far without slowing to a walk. This is probably not true, but my mind is messing with me. I think of water and Coke. The cramps, mostly in my calves, come in waves forcing me to walk a few paces every quarter mile or so.

I crest the last hill before the long descent and spot a mountain biker just resting his bike against a tree. I'm saved. Having purposed to swallow my pride and beg water off the first person I see, I waste no time communicating my need. He claimed to be minutes from home and offered me his entire bottle. I jogged straight to his bike and lifted it out of the cage. It was full and I nearly drained it in seconds. Regaining some propriety as the fluid surged into my body, I left a few ounces for my new friend. I couldn't stop saying "thank you."

The recovery wasn't instant, but it came soon. Through Lafayette I dodged traffic and stretched while waiting at crosswalks. Once on the Lafayette Moraga Regional Trail and minutes from my finish, I was back up to pace and defying the cramps.

My girls were at the end waiting for me. They don't often get to see me coming down the final stretch but there they were watching for me and smiling. I didn't exactly rush into their arms, though my oldest daughter nearly hugged me before realizing the mistake that would have been. We were all happy to have me done since dinner at Sweet Tomatoes was next on the agenda.

The cramps never came back, and Sweet Tomatoes lost money on me Friday night.

Moving Forward

Martinez and the Sacramento River Delta from the top of Mt. Wanda

A small retaining wall parallels the uphill side of the Mt. Wanda trail near Franklin Canyon Rd. An uneven assortment of rail road ties forms an abrupt set of steps leading from the sparse gravel parking lot up to the head of the main trail. Sufficiently warm and sweating, I had been looking for a good spot to drop my long sleeve jersey, now soaked and clinging to my sleeveless base layer, and the split branches of a miserable little tree peeking from behind the wall seemed perfect to guard the sweat-soaked shirt as I ascended for a round trip run to the top of Mt. Wanda.

John Muir, whose historically preserved home sits just across the highway, named this mountain after his daughter. With the dramatic prominence of Mt. Diablo within sight and the intimate knowledge he had of the Sierra Nevadas, I am perplexed at Muir's defining of this particular rise with the prefix "Mountain." The ascent is not easy, but neither is it particularly daunting.

Having abandoned the shirt and repositioned my cap, I began the steep climb on a muddy, rutted trail. The original plan for today was to cover a total of 11 miles on my systematic return from a debilitating shin splint. In mapping this route on Friday night, it somehow seemed reasonable to extend it to 13 miles. But now 7 miles into the run and climbing with relative ease, ambition began to gnaw at the edges of common sense. I added a loop at the top of the hill, not an original element of the route, and then detoured again to the summit for another quarter mile. By the end of the run, I would succumb to 2 more detours and cover 14.5 miles.

The descent of Wanda was quick, but controlled, as I can't afford another injury this close to race day. The ease of descending, the glimpses of the horizon through leafless trees, and the fresh rain-washed air lulled my mind into meandering. I had soon advanced to the end of my run and was planning the balance of my day based on that ever present mental checklist. High on the list was the bunk beds I needed to get started on before July and the arrival of the new baby.

Then the pain, a tightening in my chest, a hint of a tear mingling with the perspiration. The bunk bed isn't needed any more. Such a random thought had led back to the pain. But don't all of my thoughts eventually end up there right now?

Just 24 hours earlier in a hospital practically visible from the summit, my wife and I had cradled a tiny, lifeless form, no larger than my hand, our latest angel. Glorietta Janice was an unexpected addition to the upcoming summer events, and an even more unexpected absence.

When I jogged out of the neighborhood an hour prior, I had left my wife and 2 daughters at home to make waffles and give the house its daily thrashing. It was time for my weekend run, so I ran. I also ran in hopes of dulling cognition, or maybe to sharpen it - I'm not sure. Now as I ran I remembered what a miracle my girls are and looked forward to being back with them.

I stooped over the wall and retrieved the black lump of wet fabric and tied it like a sash around my neck and under one arm. The miles were racing past now, as if the world were rotating beneath me and I, merely lifting my feet, was standing still. I thought about the 2 lovely girls romping around and driving their mother nuts at home, and then about the 3 beautiful children waiting for me on the other side, and realized how spectacularly blessed I am.

The whole run lasted just over 2 hours but felt like minutes. An 8-year-old mop of blonde hair met me with the typical post run disdain and distance, but nevertheless condescended to tote my cap and shirt between 2 fingers back to the laundry room while I dispatched most of the mud. A 2-year-old fist began beating against the window through the blinds, and the little person it belonged to, perched atop the toy chest, giggled shyly each time I glanced her way.

I spent the whole day with them - and the next.

Sneak Peak and Preview

Mt. Diablo silhouetted by the fire of dawn.
Briones Regional Park - just south of the summit.

Tamalpais Island
The top of Mt. Tam as seen from the Sea View Trail in Berkeley's Tilden Park - above the fog.

How many times have I said "you can't get these kinds of views without working for them." Ok, so maybe there are roads to magnificent vistas that facilitate loafers. But, one certainly appreciates the views more when they are hard fought. Both of the above pictures were shot during my 23 mile run from Martinez to Berkeley and made possible by some rough climbing.

Sometimes you just have to slow down and take the picture.

Round Valley Regional Preserve

This is the sneak preview of the Diablo Trails Challenge I plan to run in April. I was in the Brentwood area and hunted around till I found this spot - the starting line for the 50k. It was exhilarating to gaze up that trail and imagine 31 miles.

Now all I have to do is get this shin splint to heal so I can get back to training. I haven't run in 5 days, and the down time is agonizing. Maybe 1 more week - then more beautiful vistas.

Matt's First Summit

Matt's First Summit via Bicycle

Way to go Matt. I never grow weary of taking people to the top of Mt. Diablo. It's a chance to vicariously relive that massive sense of accomplishment. We have put in quite a few miles together over the past few months, and even rolled up as far as the ranger station, half way up, a few weeks back. But in reaching the top at last, today's success was a great way to finish the year.

Total mileage for the day was right around 50 miles, so his first attempt at climbing to the top was not half baked by driving to the base of the mountain like some of the rest of us have done. The winds were variable throughout the day, but nothing like the gale force winds that beleaguered us on our last visit to the the mountain. In total, the weather was splendid, with temperatures topping out in the 60's and nothing but sunshine.

We discussed options for his first century coming up next year, and at this rate, he'll be ready by spring. Looking forward to many more miles in the next year. Ride on.

It Takes a Long Time

7:16 am - Day after Christmas - Briones

It sure takes a long time to train for a marathon. Yes it takes months to prepare, but I mean it takes a lot of time out of a week too. My training for the Mt. Diablo Ultra - a 50k - has brought my long weekend runs up to well over 20 miles and finding time to run those distances means more than flirting with creativity.

Thursday of last week, my wife and I sat at the kitchen table discussing the best time for my weekend's long run. I didn't want another out and back route and was hoping for a route that would reward me with an end point over the hills and far away from my start. That meant I needed some form of a ride home.

Friday night was an option, if my friend Jeremy was willing to chauffeur me home. With their home several hours away, he and his family were staying the night at our house so I could take them to the airport early Saturday morning. I suppose we could have squeezed it in Friday night, but Saturday morning was certainly out. Saturday being Christmas eve, there were all day yuletide preparations, so I didn't bother to mention it as an option. Christmas day? I've managed similar feats of courage in the past but have always been more heavily invested in emotional capital and had the doghouse better stocked.

That pretty much toasted the weekend. I had given my employees Monday off, so when I recommended that I finish at a Starbucks where my girls and I could have breakfast after the run, a compromise for Monday morning was signed.

My workout took me from my home in Martinez, completely across Briones Regional Park (bagging Briones Peak at 1486', plus another 1000' in accumulated elevation gain), through the Lafayette, Walnut Creek, Pleasant Hill corner, and on to the Railroad Starbucks in Danville - 22.5 miles.

Last week I took off - as a rest week - after the weekend prior riding 105 miles on Saturday and then Sunday morning running 21 miles with over 1500' of elevation gain. That cost me not only all day Saturday, but also Sunday and Monday in an irritable half-comatose recovery state. A week off was well-advised and inevitable since my wife was out of town for 5 of those days, and I had charge of our progeny. I managed to rest most of the week with only one slip-up on Friday, running 5 miles behind the jogging stroller.

So now it's half way through this week and I'm searching for that next block of free time in the vicinity of the weekend. Yet, somehow that block of free time isn't all that's required. Preparations begin a couple of days in advance by rearranging my sleep time to be sure I'm getting at least 6 or 7 hours of rest per night. The evening before the long run is serious prep time, with water bottles laying about the kitchen, tennis shoes by the door, and various layers of clothing strewn conveniently about for most efficient application in the dark of the next early morning. I'm basically lost to my family for small segments of time as I mentally check off the required items and lay them out where a 2-year-old won't purloin them, but where I can't miss them.

Then I run.

Home again, the process works in reverse. The ice bath, consumption of large quantities of breakfast, and shower take at least another hour. A load of laundry (because my wife flatly refuses to touch my soggy clothes) is also recognized as part of the weekend run.

All said, I suspect that the time spent running is less than half the time invested in the run. Add the reduced efficiency in limping about for the next 24 hours, and the inevitability of waking up halfway through a bedtime story with a 2 year old beating me with another book and an 8-year-old jamming her elbow in my ribs, and I would say my family is likely as heavily invested in my running (and cycling) as I am.

I wouldn't have you think that all is mission oriented though. Our happy little tribe is bustling with activity, so the integration of more is always taken "in stride." And, there is plenty of carefree time for all of the family. As a matter of fact, some of that free time has contributed to the recent expansion of the tribe. Well, actually only one of us is expanding currently, but soon enough we will be squeezing in time for another little member. I thought we had dodged the double jogging stroller - maybe not.

Happy New Year.

Ice Bath

People raise eyebrows and bystanders begin backing away slowly and quietly when I say that I will take, or have taken, or recommend that they take an ice bath. Otherwise pleasant and engaging conversations turn - well - cold at such an innocuous reference.

I mean what's the big deal? We converse fondly of going home to take a nice hot shower, or to soak in the tub. What is it about an ice bath that spins this in such a socially unacceptable direction? Like you've never settled into a tub of ice water? No?

So I ponder... What is the percentage of humans who have intentionally lowered themselves into a bathtub of frigid water? Probably a very small number. That small number is no doubt just a shade smaller than the percentage of humans training for ultra-marathons right now. Broadly recognized as bunch of self-destructive lunatics, both of those cohorts include me in their number. Along with other shorter runs, I am now consistently mapping runs of over 20 miles at least once per week - and after those runs I sit in a bathtub chilled with ice cubes for upwards of 20 minutes. I recognize that most Americans find it hard to understand why anyone would choose to run any distance further than that between security and their gate at the airport, and am thus likewise impelled to understand their similar aversion to an otherwise unlikely means of perpetuating the ability to run distances far in excess of the airport itself. What I just said was, if you can't figure out why we run, then you probably won't understand the ice part either.

My understanding of cycling, running, and endurance sports in general has developed over the years - in direct correlation to my list of injuries. A misconception I harbored for many years was that a sore muscle or joint (overuse related) should be heated to relax said muscle or joint. I have since learned that immediately after a workout, heat is the enemy. In the past I have inadvertently been exacerbating the inflammation in those sore muscles with heat and thus furthering the damage. To my chagrin science has proven that ice is the solution.

So, you see, contrary to popular belief a nice hot relaxing shower or bath immediately following a hard workout is not a really great idea. It seems really great - believe me - especially on those bitter cold mornings when the water I'm carrying has frozen and I've been running for hours alternating between sweating my way up hills and freezing my way down. A hot bath just beyond the finish is spectacularly motivating after the tears caused by the cold dry air have frozen my eyelashes together. Unfortunately a diabolical little interlude has become modus operandi.

After learning of my need for ice I began strapping on ice packs after a long run, and I thought that was torture. When I realized that our collection of ice packs stored in the door of the freezer was shy of sufficient, I feared I was missing something. My fears were realized when I learned of The Ice Bath.

OK, so I started out thinking they were nuts too. One website I read recommended letting your family and friends know when you are going to be entering the ice bath, lest they hear your howls, come running, and inadvertently rescue you. Oh boy do I understand.

Now my routine is typically along these lines:

• Finish running and lightly stretch all leg muscles.
• Remove all unnecessary clothing items (Hat, gloves, jersey, shoes) because everything is completely soaked with sweat. Steam rises in clouds from my body as the cooling begins. Yes even on those sub freezing runs, my body can't figure out that maybe shutting off the spigot would get me more lovin when I get home. Even my 2 year old has no affection for daddy when I waft in after a hard run.
• Fill mug with leftover coffee, place heating pad in microwave for 2 minutes, begin grabbing whatever doesn't move out of my way - and eat it. The cooling process has been effective and I begin to be more or less comfortable.
  
• Begin running cold water in bathtub while microwave is doing it's job, and add 2 trays of ice cubes. Goose bumps begin forming.
  
• Assemble my phone (To surf the web and keep track of time), phone charger, coffee, food, and heating pad near the tub.
• Place heating pad over shoulders. I'm now getting cold.
  
• AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
• I sit perfectly still, because after 5 minutes everything under water is numb. If I move...
• But it takes 5 minutes before I can sit perfectly still. I'm shivering so violently that the bathwater is trembling and my coffee is breaking over the edges of my mug. I don't touch my phone until I've regained fine motor skills lest I drop the phone and become famous as the first person ever toasted in a tub of ice water.
• 15 minutes pass and I'm struggling my way out. I've never made it all the way to 20 minutes.
• I cannot walk normal, but not being able to feel your legs after running 20 miles is sort of OK. My daughters know to steer clear of Frankenstein.
• More coffee, Breakfast, More coffee.
• Then at last, a long hot shower.

See that's not so bad. I strongly feel that folks shouldn't judge what they haven't experienced themselves.

The beauty of ice is that - it works. No it's not fun, but then so much of what we do can't be classified as fun or any other derivation of a good time. Sometimes we have to do things because they make us better. Not to mention, if you think a hot shower would feel good after a long cold run, just imagine how nice it feels after the ice.