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The 2 bridges - Carquinez and Benicia, which I crossed in turn, on my solo "Bridge to Bridge" Marathon.

We categorize people - face it.  There are the cyclists (guys) who shave their legs, and then there are the ones who don't.  (This may be true for women also, but I personally have not been confronted by nor looked for it.) Shaver and non-shaver, each falls into his own category.

There are the runners who have beards, and there are the ones who don't.  They each have a category.

Ok, so let's step away from the subject a few yards and address this on an even more basic level - there are those who run and cycle and any enjoy any number of other endurance sports, and there are those who simply do not.  Both, catagorized.

Like it or not, open minded as we may claim to be, we are similar in surprisingly few ways but love to lump each other into vast genres of humanity based on those limited similarities.  Often the most poignant discriminations come about based on the criteria of "those who are 'like' us" and "those who are not."  Alas, along with that comes the inevitable determination that those unlike us are more (fill in the blank with something negative) than we are.

Only a few days ago I inadvertently found myself in a sub category probably disdained even by non-athletes. But first let's get the record straight on what categories I belong to.  First, I'm in the bearded runner category.  This category is renowned for embracing the best long distance trail runners in the world, and in juvenile fashion, I feel that the best way to achieve similar results is to do my best to look like them.   Also, follicly challenged as I am, I'm a believer that I may be able to make up for the absence of  head hair by allowing it free range in other areas.

Thus, I am also in the "non leg shaving cyclist" category.  Yeah, I get it - It's a stretch to think that hairy legs are any sort of substitute for thick wavy locks - but vanity is desperate, and often misguided.  So unfortunately, while the beard puts me in company with some of the greatest runners in the world, the whole leg shaving thing puts me squarely in the cycling nerd category.  I'm outnumbered 20:1 on my weekend group rides.  When my friend Matt shows up we basically double our numbers.  There are a few others, but really the best riders shave their legs - and faces too for that matter.  One notable exception is the guy I met on this past ride who's electric shaver must have bogged down somewhere around his knees.  From the knee to the hem of his shorts was a dark forest.  I've never seen this before, and I suspect I will have to chisel out a little category just for him.

But my point is not that strategic hair placement is the basis for all categorization.  While hair certainly has always played a role in positioning a person in the sociological strata, we unfortunately create many other criteria which disqualify us from acceptance into any number of categories.

Blue jeans are one of those disqualifying attributes.  You cannot run as an athlete in blue jeans. Period.  As I understand it, even hiking in blue jeans is grounds for excommunication from the Sierra Club.  So this past Wednesday I gave the 3 Sierra Club candidates I met on the trail ample opportunity for ridicule.  Each of them gave me a sidelong glance being careful to avoid engagement, and wide berth to prevent contamination.  I powered past them in the foothills of Mt. Diablo on a short 2 mile loop.  By all criteria this run should have disqualified me from everything.

And it was my wife's fault.  No matter that we often share laundry duties - I blamed her for my being out of my customary work T-shirts, and begrudgingly pulled on the first white one I came across in the drawer - a sleeveless one.  So yeah, let's back up...

I just purchased a pair of hiking boots for my approaching Emigrant Wilderness Hike - an overnight 30+ mile jaunt in the Sierras.  Word of snow finalized my decision to purchase my first pair of hiking boots in at least 20 years.  I've been content with trail running shoes for backpacking - but the thought of slogging through snow and slush in running shoes was, shall we say, chilling.  So I've been wearing the boots to work in an attempt to find a truce between them and my toes  before the long hike.  Wednesday, my travels brought me in close proximity to one of my favorite trail heads on the north side of Mt. Diablo.  I briefly considered going off the grid for a few minutes and giving my boots a real workout - but my collared shirt, heavy belt, and worst of all - blue jeans - held the idea at bay.  After checking in with my carpenters on the job, I was again confronted with that random thought.  Hike in blue jeans?

Then it dawned on me - I was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt.  Somehow that singular thought brought resolution.  I would not hike.  I would run.  So without the requisite running cap, running shoes, or even shorts I set off up the trail at a jog - in blue jeans - and hiking boots - and my sleeveless cotton T-shirt.  As I passed the Sierra Club group (see, they've got their own category) I was just beginning to realize why blue jeans are a bad idea.  However, I was now on a mission powered by a purpose not too far distant from the purpose that likely motivated the hippies, not long enough ago.  I was doing something radical, I wasn't hurting anyone else in the process, and I was getting some attention.  So there I was clomping my way around the Diablo foothills.

Now, there are reasons why we don't customarily run in jeans and hiking boots - which should be self evident.  But it occurred to me as I ran, that no one observing me could have any idea what category I belonged in.  I basically looked like an idiot.  Just 2 weeks ago I finished a 3:32 solo marathon (Bridge to Bridge) with nearly 2000' of elevation gain.  But with my belt cinched up snug around my waist to keep the ever increasing weight of my jeans from dragging it all down around my ankles, my boots turning a practiced stride into a lumbering trot, and my pace somewhere south of spectacular, any causal observer would scoff or at best look sympathetically at the well intentioned poser.  "He's not fooling anyone," might be the comment.

And indeed - I was not trying to fool anyone.  I own several great pairs of running shoes.  I own running shorts in a rainbow of colors.  I can run up and down those hills all day without tromping.  But on that day I was having a great time breaking in my hiking boots.  I was in a category formerly undefined.  And what did it matter?

It mattered not at all.  I was proving again that fitting in is highly overrated.  I was content to be running, plodding, tromping, or whatever it was I was doing.  When nearing the end of my run, I spotted a kid in baggy shorts a sweatshirt and basketball shoes running toward me - I did drop him into his category.  But somehow it was huge.  His category included all of us - out enjoying God's spectacular creation that beautiful Wednesday afternoon.

Some photos from most recent Sunday Morning Run.

Fall has come to the Bay Area

New artwork at the John Muir tunnel.

After crossing under Highway 4 through the tunnel and then up the day's hardest hill, this is the reward...

And this is the view on the descent - with the Benicia Bridge in the background.

Tempo

With a modicum of timidity I launched toward the start of HOP yesterday morning.  I have been spending precious little time on the bike and my mid week ride around the Crocket Loop was a discouraging 63 minutes.  I have an unattained goal of 45 minutes with my fastest times in the mid 50 minute range.  The 63 wasn't easy.

So heading out to ride with 20 other race conditioned guys on a 54 mile circuit was psychologically daunting.  But they were mercifully moderate. The word "Tempo" kept popping up during the ride, and I relaxed just a little more each time I heard it. Riding 54 miles averaging 20 mph probably can't be considered exactly easy, but hiding away in the middle of a 20 soul peloton certainly makes it easier.

The promise of spectacularly clear skies and idyllic 70 degree temperatures brought out a fine group of well mannered cyclists.  For the first time in some time, the group really worked together, with us amateurs taking our short turns at the front and the real thoroughbreds pulling with remarkable restraint.  When the powerhouse cyclists decide to open the ball, it turns into a chaotic scramble for a convenient slipstream and the so called "slinky" effect easily rockets the less vigilant out the back of the group.  I've had my turn at success and failure on that slinky in the past, but our leaders omitted the chaos on this ride and offered sustained intensity instead.

A few weeks back I watched a cyclist cross wheels just ahead of me and leave a fair sample of DNA on the asphalt.  He rode away from the incident, sans half his shorts, but the rider directly behind him was left changing his tube and nervously riding on a tire scrubbed clear to the threads where he had locked it up to avoid dissecting our comrade.  That day the group chemistry was slanted toward chaos and chaos claimed a victim.  Those days stand in contrast to the more peaceful rides where we all work together and avoid the continual acceleration and deceleration of the slinky.

And all of that stands in stark contrast to last weekend.  Last Sunday morning my alarm roused me at 3:45am and I switched on the coffee pot at about 10 minutes before 4.  With water bottles filled on Saturday night, and lights, running shoes, and hat laid out by the door, I was pounding pavement by 4:15.  I knew I'd have the roads to myself, but wore my blindingly reflective illumiNite jersey nonetheless.  I carried a small flashlight which, once out of town, augmented the small light attached to the bill of my cap.

I then ran far out of town.  Nervous about attacking the remote trails with over 2 hours of darkness ahead of me, I pursued a 23 mile course which would take me primarily on roads. Once on the far side of Briones Regional I would briefly abandon pavement for packed earth - but only after the sun had illumined enough sky to distinguish a trail.  However, when my rural strip of asphalt winds through skyless forested canyons and I encounter the same deer, skunks, and turkeys as I might have seen in the park - it becomes dubious as to whether my choice to substitute the mountain lion risk with the drowsy motorist risk was truly a substitution or an addition.  I certainly pondered this as my pace was often accelerated by the snapping of twigs and the scattering of leaves.

I passed a small clearing where, frozen by a jostling spotlight, half a dozen eyes unblinkingly monitored my passing.  This proved to be a wary family of deer nested along a palisade of pines.  The light began to fail around mile 7 or 8 and I was reduced to momentary bursts aimed at an unidentified mass or unexpected noise.  The light on my cap was weakening too until I could clearly see only the area 5-6 feet ahead of me.  By this time I was running squarely down the middle of the road.  It seemed less than prudent to run alongside bushes and trees that all strangely resembled mountain lions and gargoyles. The cacophony and brilliance of a passing car so contrasted with the solitude that I feared surprise by motorist far less than surprise by wild beast.

I was not eaten or accosted by any beast.  And nearly as wonderful - it proved to be a tempo run.  With just under 3000' of elevation gain, the hills didn't dictate my pace, pain didn't dominate my thoughts, and I was thus able to enjoy the pace for the 3 hour and 23 minute duration..

It was by all measures one of my better runs.  I must admit however, that I later complained to my wife that I felt an irrational uneasiness about the run.  Such negative thoughts about a great run are not normal.  She played the part of shrink for a few minutes and explored my feeble psyche.  Some insightful probing finally established that I was concerned about having set an unrealistic expectation for future runs.  She promptly told me to get over it and went back to making dinner.

This morning I urged my recovering quadriceps up nearly 1800' of ascent during a quick half marathon before church.  They remembered yesterday's tempo.  And my unease did not go unfounded.  I had rather high expectations for this run, and frankly didn't meet them.  But then who (besides me) is keeping track of my expectations?  I rode 54 miles on my bike yesterday and then ran 13.1 miles at a sub 9 minute mile pace today.

Life could be worse.

The Project

One quick run was all there was time for.  Sunday morning I met my long-time friend Ben for a 6:30am run.  We sweated in the warm damp air for 6 miles together – which I extended to 11 before ending up back at my parent’s home. 

Everyone here in California kept calling my family’s trip to South Carolina a vacation, and I just couldn’t seem to get them to understand that it would be anything but a vacation.  It was a good time – but it was no vacation. 

My parent’s new house had a carport laundry room incompatible with Mom’s developing Parkinson’s, so several months ago we began laying out plans to move a wall, raise the floor, and thereby incorporate the laundry room into the rest of the house. 

In a word, the project was a success.  My brother-in-law Rich, 2 friends from my formative years: Josh and Ben, my dad, and even Ben’s sister Sarah put in countless hours over the 8 days we worked on the project.  Mom even got in on the action the day before we left by installing cover plates on the plugs and switches.  We decided that it was physical therapy for her  – which had perilous probability of transitioning to shock therapy. 

No single work day was less than 10 hours long, with the average closer to 12 hours, culminating in a 15 hour marathon on our last day.  Ben and I jetted out in the dark on that last evening to pick up lumber for the entry deck and get away from Lowes before they closed.  I suspect the neighbors were on the phone with the sheriff as Rich, Dad, and I finally cut the last pieces around 11:30pm.  Eat dinner, pack the tools, shower, and set the alarm for 4:45am in order to make our flight home from Charlotte. 

A notable exception was Sunday, which was my “rest” day.  I woke at 5:30, pulled on running shoes after a cup of coffee, and plunged out into the damp blackness wishing it would rain.  The rain would have pushed the humidity up from 95% to 100%, but at least it would be refreshing instead of the stagnant cling that my scant clothing assumed within minutes.  I met Ben at mile 3, and we reminisced down vaguely familiar cycling routes from many years ago.  After 6 miles of rolling hills, I left him to get his family ready for church, and I finished the loop back to my parent’s house.  I showered and joined the Sunday morning rush for church.

Sunday afternoon was highlighted by southern BBQ at a local haunt, finishing drywall, and a “candid” family picture event.  I’m no fan of family pictures, but this was pretty close to worst case possible scenario.  We had 8 adults, 6 children under 10 years old – each with abbreviated naps, 1 very patient photographer, and a half billion mosquitos.  If our photographer managed to frame a single shot through the haze of bug repellent without at least one person swatting mosquitos or screaming (The screaming was mostly done by adults) it was a miracle.  My wife and oldest daughter are spectacularly affected by the South Carolina state Vector, and were both dressed to hide the optimum number of welts, irrespective of coordinating colors.  My wife was sporting 2 bites on her jaw – disconcertingly suggestive of a domestic violence incident.  By the time we were done, domestic counseling wouldn’t have been out of the question.  Monday was back to work.

And, no construction project can be complete without a few hours in a spider infested crawlspace.  Our plans of installing the HVAC “down the road” came to a screeching halt when the inspector quizzed us Thursday morning about our intentions for the heating and air on his first visit.  Whereas I had intended to just “rough in” a vent that they could open up at a later date, I was now crawling around under the house choosing which duct to tie into.  The laundry is conveniently located at the furthest point from the crawlspace access – a short 2 minute slithering crawl through dead arthropods, 5o years-worth of fireplace ashes filtered down through the floor, and ubiquitous fiberglass insulation.  A typical late afternoon run to Lowes accumulated for us the necessary supplies, and I dove under the house again to finish the task just before dinner. I cut into a 6” branch line and wrestled my “T” into place.  “Hey, send down one end of the flex duct,” I called out from my lair.  Silence.  I was either being ignored, or had not been heard.  I repeated my request, but as the words were still vapor in my larynx, a dawning was occurring in my understanding.  They couldn’t find the duct that we had picked up at Lowes.  I vainly grasped at recollection which didn’t exist.  My mind’s eye could see my brother-in-law hauling the box through the plumbing department, and I vaguely recalled it again somewhere in the vicinity of lumber, but somehow not in the back of Ben’s truck. 

With our rough inspections occurring the next morning, dad made trip 34 of 378 to Lowes for that wayward flexible duct.  Back under the house, I lay on a blue tarp with my head resting on a scrap of 2x4 realizing that the now sagging duct would never pass inspection.  The only good option was to crawl back out and find some sort of strap.  In turning around I rested my hand on a rat’s nest of old tie wire.  Hello. That will do the trick.  So I tied up the duct and thrust the live end under the new addition.  Now, to haul myself and all my stuff out.  With my hands full I eyed Ben’s tarp and considered it a reasonable sacrifice in order to avoid a return trip.  Again twisting around to head for the exit my foot met resistance and I found it securely duct taped to a corner of the tarp.  Hello.  That’ll work.  So I crawled out into the starlight with a large blue tarp hot on my trail. God in his beautiful heaven knew I needed a break.  The next morning we passed all of our rough inspections and were given the green light to get it done. 

And for all intents and purposes we did:  The bright orange paint, the cabinets, the mop sink that nearly cost me my sanity on that last marathon evening, and finally the wooden deck and steps.

Mom and Dad’s appreciation was palpable, and I understand the sentiment.  But truly I wouldn’t have had it any other way.  My sisters who live local are a solace to me as Mom bravely confronts Parkinson’s.  So, I was honored to do this small thing for my parents who continue to be our heroes.

Thanks to Ben, Josh, Rich, Sarah, and all those who donated tools and labor, and most of all -  the cooks who kept us fueled and functioning.  

The adults weren't the only ones exhausted after a long week.  G made it  to Dallas -  and then crashed.

Top of Mt. Wanda - We found out near the top that Chevron's refinery was on fire.
Made for  a sunset reminiscent of Tolkien's Mordor.

Life in my little universe has been crowded and somewhat erratic.  The orbits of planets Work, Family, Church, and Sleep have been so volatile that planets Cycling and Running have sat cautiously in high orbit awaiting an invitation into the melee. Not that they don't get sucked into the mix on occasion; as a matter of fact I've had some of my better adventures in those brief close encounters.  So fortunately, where consistency has lacked - random excitement has filled in.

Running picture of cow silhouetted by rising sun in Carquinez Highlands.

3 weeks ago I arbitrarily decided to revisit one of my 50k training runs.  The route starts in downtown Martinez at the Rankin Park Pool and immediately climbs to the top of the ridge overlooking the Carquinez Strait. Starting at 5:00 am, it was a slightly spooky twisting climb through the trees.  Summiting onto the ridge, I flashlighted a skunk, and chose to catch my breath as he hopped and trotted across my trail. Back on task, I crossed the highlands and descended to cross under Hwy 4, and then climb and descend Mt. Wanda, Mott Peak, Briones peak, and then return back up over the Carquinez highlands.  A few unexpected detours (Got lost on familiar trails) lengthened the route by almost 2 miles.  I ended up with a 24 mile run and over 4,000' of climbing - in better form and faster pace than the previous trek.  I was stoked.

Most of my recent bike rides have either been a quick 50 mile loop with HOP (House of Pain) Medium, or a 5am Sunday morning ride with Matt up into the Moraga / Berkely hills.  My latest HOP ride was unique.  I bolted out of bed at 8:00am having overslept my alarm by an hour.  Bec kindly rolled into action flipping the switch on the coffee maker and starting toast, as I scrambled around pulling gear together and putting the bike on the back of the Pilot.  25 minutes later I was racing down the highway to meet the group before they left at 8:55.

In my rush to get on the bike I forgot to start my GPS.  When I finally remembered, I was going 20 mph shoulder to shoulder in a double pace line and decided to skip it.  The roads were generously littered with ubiquitous gravel and debris due to... well we couldn't quite tell.  I flatted 5 miles into the ride - and watched the pack diminish toward the horizon.  I wouldn't be seeing them again till next weekend.

I patched my tube and was just getting back on the road 10 minutes later when a gal rolled up and asked which way to Livermore.  Turns out she missed the HOP Light and HOP Medium start and was trying remember the route from a previous excursion with them.  I had been considering waiting for House of Pain (the last and fastest group), but they are frankly out of my league, so I told her to follow me, and we rode the next 45 miles together.  The psychological boost was good, and I did get a few minutes break drafting periodically, but for the most part I worked hard trying to stay ahead of the racers while towing her around Livermore and back.  19 mph average speed without the help of a peleton was satisfying though exhausting.

Her boyfriend and the rest of House of Pain finally did catch us as we were leaving Livermore, but we only rode with them a half mile, then skipped the customary water stop and got a head start up Collier Canyon.  Having now been caught once, my objective was to ride ahead of that freight train at least to the top of the last climb into Danville.  Success.  More than success, we never saw them again.  We got back to Peets Coffee without a glimpse of the train on our tail.  I left her there filling water bottles and thanked her for the help.

The excitement hasn't been limited to running and cycling though.  Tuesday Bec and I took the girls up to Briones Peak to watch the sun set.  I managed to get 2 of the three of them car sick on the winding drive up to the parking area, and thus our pace for the 2 mile climb was a bit relaxed.  We topped out with only 2 or 3 minutes to spare.

And then on the way back down we encountered 2 rattlesnakes.  One was hiding in the grass along the side of the trail.  He rattled as we walked by giving us quite a start.  Piqued, we were on full alert as we walked 4 more steps where we found a second, looking frighteningly like a large branch lying in the trail.  Ella spied him first and pulled up short causing a brief train wreck as the rest of us, each occupied investigating the grassy shoulders of the trail, slid to a stop.  Upon seeing us, the reptile began his warning.  But instead of slithering off to safety, he decided to stand his ground coiled up in the center of the trail.

You have got to be kidding me...  Not trusting the grassy meadow, and not able to pass on the trail outside of his strike range, we contemplated the most dangerous threat in the east bay parks through the diminishing light.  A hand-full of gravel was all I could garner, and the direct hits I managed to score brought nothing more than determined threats.  With the light fading fast and our nemesis apparently content to hold vigil all night, I resigned to jog back up the trail for some heavier ammunition.  I'm no pitcher, but I did finally convinced him of my intentions to bury him alive, and after some animated and vicious protestations, he skated up into the rocks.

You can imagine the completion of our hike down the hill in ever deepening shadows.  I guess there is still some mischievous little boy in me, since I couldn't resist covertly tossing a rock down the hill beside our little company.  Yes, scaring your daughter and wife is about as fun as doing the same to your sisters...  But it was Bec that brought up the lion movie - not me.

And the randomness continues.  A couple mountain bike rides here and there, a 5am half marathon, and another quick Sunday morning ride before church, pretty much brings me up to date.  No substantive change appears to be on the horizon, but that's ok.  Even though it's not the most efficient training method, I think I enjoy the variety more.

Rest Week?

Matt just sent me this link.  http://trailrunnermag.com/races/featured-races/article/387-no-record-safe-at-western-states

Timothy Olson just ran the Western States 100 in under 15 hours.  Do I have a new hero?  George Hincapie step aside, Timothy take the podium.  (Yeah I know - different sport and heroic in different ways)  But, all I could say after reading that Trail Runner article was - Wow.  That's better than a 9 minute mile for 100 consecutive miles.

I have just come off a "rest" week and am itching to be back out in the sun.  2 weeks ago I rode the double metric (120 miles / 10,000') with a few friends at the Sierra Century in Plymouth, CA.  It was bar none my hottest ride ever with the high over 110 degrees. The following week was a bit full with a couple long runs pushing a total of nearly 30 miles, and a weekend ride of 80 miles and 5,000'.

A rest week seemed like a great idea on Sunday morning when I rolled out of bed onto tired legs and sore feet.  But I had forgotten I don't know how to rest...

I decided that this would be a great week to toss in a quick bathroom remodel.  The bathtub has been asking to get replaced, and this was its week.  By Friday afternoon my legs, back, neck, arms, etc. were not registering "rest."

So Sunday morning I took a break from my rest and met Matt for an early 35 mile ride around Briones.

And now he sends me this link about the most seductive of all races for the little trail runner inside me.  With the adrenaline flowing, it's tempting to consider resting slightly overrated.  You probably understand.  Yet I have to admit that a little distance does make the heart grow fonder.

It's time to get back out there - right after I finish sealing the grout.

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.