"I Run Because _____"

In the zone - chaneling my inner Fast of the Mohicans before the Flying Pig

 The elders say we must let go of the shore, 

push off into the middle of the river, 

keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water.

 

And I say, see who is in there with you and celebrate. 

At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally, least of all ourselves. 

For the moment that we do, 

our spiritual growth and journey come to a halt.

The time of the lone wolf is over. 

 Gather yourselves!
Banish the word 'struggle' from your attitude and your vocabulary. 

All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the ones we've been waiting for.

- Hopi Prophesy

The birds are chirping on this beautiful Saturday morning. The clothes washer and dishwasher are running. Oddly, I am not running. It’s my first Saturday since November that I haven’t. And it’s OK. Sure, there is a runner’s high that I’m missing out on today, but there is a not-giving-a-fuck-high that others are missing out on, and I’d like to talk about that.

“I run because _______________.”

(Fill in the blank)

The blank in the statement above is our own answer that coach Susie challenged Team S to search ourselves for in the weeks building up to the 2014 Flying Pig Marathon. My wife asked, “Do you have a response for that desperate moment in the marathon [life] where our bodies beg us to stop and our legs ask, ‘WHY DON’T YOU JUST CHECK OUT?!’”

Blank is the nucleus of that thing we run for. Why we trip, limp, and shuffle over hills. Why we rush home from work, foam-roll our hips, set alarm clocks for 4:30am, skip happy hour, do laundry, talk with strangers about cancer and lame jobs, freeze our butts off, get chaffed balls, and eat packets of slime and ibuprofen. Truth be told, I like this gig better than what those other guys are peddling.

Matching sub-zero eye lash icicles with my honey at 6 AM

Probably one zillion times, we've had an answer to a different question that goes something like this:

"I don't run because ___________."

Like an AK-47, our past experience has been able to fire blanks at machine gun pace-- BLANKITY BLANKITY BLANKITY BLANK!!!!  

I'm too tired. 
I'm not good enough.

I need to vacuum. 

My knees aren't built for it. 

I don't own technical fabrics or neon shoes. 

I need to save my energy for work tomorrow. 

My headphones pop out of my ears when the wiggling gets intense. 

My kids need me to supervise their TV watching. 

I don't know where I'm going. 

I'd rather do yoga and meditate. 

This is all just the hilarious strategy of the Resistance Mosquito buzzing around our ears and neck, trying to make a big deal out of the most trivial things. I'm not immune to it. But I found that the most effective bug spray to deal with my own internal Resistance is to move immediately to DEFCON 1.To always be in a posture of preparedness for Operation Dwy-raqi Freedom.It's least of all a matter of pent up aggression, but, as strange as it sounds...

I run because… 

fuck those motherfuckers!

I’m sorry…I mean—I’m just not sorry. My answer is not Chariots of Fire. It's more like Hell on Wheels.

We can all rest easier and thank the Lord that I have a trillion happy smiling cells inside my glorious body when I run. I certainly enjoy a delicious runner’s high as much as the next guy. That’s all fine and dandy. But we also owe it to God’s sense of humor, that there is a disillusioned, disgruntled particle inside of me who is sailing his ship toward a navigational beacon named FuckThisUtterNonsense North Star. I’ve come to believe it is my vocation-- that I have "a Calling" to be done giving a fuck about the big hairy bullshit that we pretend is important.  

What’s the alternative? To be giving a fuck? Because that’s just it—I really do, too. Running is somehow, for me, a spinning centrifuge, distilling life’s chaotic soup into purified essences—encounters with that which A) I deeply care about and want to fight for, and B) toxic sludge which is easily identifiable as total bullshit. You don’t need me to name the utter nonsense for you. For too long, I’ve puttzed around, spinning my wheels, half-caring about Super Bowl commercials and other people’s opinions, waiting for a Rescuer to arrive. Running, however, is the necessary agitation of the rabbit ear antennas on the old school TV, tuning into my own inner arrival. 

When I say "Fuck those motherfuckers," it's actually a joyous moment for me, conquering my inner paralysis. For whatever reason, I was born with a metaphysical mouthful of sand- a sensitivity to feel life's grist in a sharp and chronic way. I am a hopeless idealist, burdened by disappointment with the state of the world. So, when I say "Fuck those motherfuckers," it effectively re-programs the moment, snowballing my paralysis into affective action. I admit-- it comes across as a bit uncivil. But faith in this civilization is definitely not where I'm betting my money. F those MF-ers is the stoney seed from which so many of my life's fruits have come. It's a take-no-prisoner, make-no-compromise, convertible energy.

A couple years ago, I watched my quasi-nephew, Brady, be born dangerously premature, and the NICU nurses basically assured his worried parents, “You’re lucky he’s a rambunctious little bastard. He’s obviously got something he’s fighting for. His kicking and screaming are GOOD. He’s gonna be OK.” Brady is a sign of hope for me that my own inner-trauma can be fuel for my own life force.

On any given run, I have sober moments of clarity, where I realize that this fleshy skeleton sandwich I’m lurching around in is essentially cosmic dust whirling through a universe that is evaporating at the speed of light. That alone induces a runner’s high—the awareness of how non-essential my mortgage is. How cool is it that in this unfolding drama, I get to be a tiny pixel in the universe’s pressure relief valve, blowing off steam from the engine of her own creative process? I feel like a piece of sand, bouncing on a bass drum, on which the Milky Way Galaxy vibrates a pulse called rock n roll.

In the face of such awesomeness, what am I supposed to do –  NOT run with a Kid-N-Play-Mullet-Mohawk?

NOT anymore.

HERE is the mullet-hawk.

EVERTHING is in question.

NOTHING is a given.

LIFE is too short.

FUCK cancer.

FUCK the war on cancer.

FUCK the fucking of the war on cancer.
DEATH is inevitable.

THE TATTOO has arrived.

SKIN is not so serious.
LOVE is getting bigger. 

BOSTON is in the bag!!!

A happy 10 yr anniversary "Team S" tattoo never hurt no one. My wife wanted one with a "C", but it actually hurt like hell and I vetoed her romantic gesture.

Flying Pig Race Report - All the Deets, ONLY IF YOU'RE THAT BORED

After coming up just shy of my Boston qualifying time at the Pig last year, having to run the last two miles without shoes, getting ushered to the medical tent for dehydration - I really wanted to train and race smart for the Pig this year. Almost as soon as last year's race was over, I set an aggressive goal to run it in 2:50, which would be a 15 minute PR over my 2013 time. That's pretty bone-headed irresponsible. But fuck those motherfuckers, right? Bone-headed irresponsible is fun. I was busy playing Monday morning quarterback, kicking myself for high-fiving singing Elvis at mile 6 in Eden Park, mooning Harvey's 3:05 pace group, chatterboxing with Franklin all dang day, and not scouting the course better. 

If 2013 was a clown parade, 2014 would be many times more calculated and down to business. I started building a broader aerobic base in October, basically kicking off training with the famous Mt. Airy Stone Steps race. I ran more quality miles (and more junk miles), averaging 50-60 per week, peaking in the 80s. I asked for coaching help from my good friend, The Professor, Matt. I was religious about speed work, building gradually, even through the iciest winter in my memory. I supplemented running with mid-week weights sessions with Susie. I converted my desk at work to be a standing desk. (I'm not convinced the standing desk was a net positive contribution, although there were days where I know it helped keep me from getting kinked up in knots and injuries. Mostly, it seemed to fill me with lower back fatigue. It is definitely more race-specific to doing ultras, so I'm thinking it will pay dividends come June when I run the Mohican 50 and Hallucination 100 in September)

I never slept so well before a race as I did the day before the Pig. Waking up at 4:30 felt like just another Tuesday or Friday morning with the team. I had a small 4 banana green smoothie and carried a bottle of water with me to the team meetup at Paul Brown Stadium. I felt very good. Running 6:30/mi pace had by this point become very comfortable. In November, when all I had to do was run one 6:30 mile, I never thought the 2:50 possible. By the time I ran the Heart Mini in March, though, 2:50 never seemed so surmountable. I was very excited for seeing what the race gods would deliver. Unlike at the Heart Mini, I would triple check the course directions so I didn't take any wrong turns.  

Unfortunately, my buddy, coach Matt got a respiratory infection the week of the race, so Matt decided to drop out and put on an epic cheering performance with his sweetheart wife, Shelly-- finding me at 6 or 7 spots on the course. Meanwhile, our bud and training partner, Franklin, got a stomach bug the day before the race, so here I am thinking that I will be flying this Pig solo, rather than in their slipstream. Luckily, Franklin is no stranger to GI issues. He toed the start line in typical smiling fashion and put on an incredible performance despite his circumstances.

Susie rallied the Team S runners together in a circle for a final huddle of power, where we set our intentions and wished each other safe travels. Then we disbanded into our mental zones, where Eminem perpetually plays a joint soundtrack with Enrique Iglesias. Franklin and I did a short warm up and a ritual visit to the edge of the woods by the Ohio River for one final pee. 

Last year I miscalculated the gravity of the food shortage situation on the course. FYI- There is NO food on the course (unlike at Ironman or an ultra). The Pig has only one gel station at mile 18 and an orange slice doesn't count as food in a race!! So, this year, I decided to run with 10 gels tucked in my spandex shorts. This is very stimulating until you accidentally give yourself a paper cut with the package when you pull them out of your shorts. My butt cheek got a huge cut. Note to self-- calm down when fishing down your butt crack for food.

Almost immediately, Franklin and I linked up behind what we thought was the 1:25 half marathon pace group. They held a pace balloon-on-a-stick, that of course was illegible without my glasses. We didn't realize we were going 10-15 seconds/mile slower than our goal pace until crossing the bridge back from Kentucky into Cincinnati. So, we knew we had to disengage from the pace group and start busting ourselves out of a time hole, catching up to the right pace group.

At mile 4, near Dalton St. the traffic duty cop came barreling down towards me and Franklin, waving his arms and shouting that we turn left. Meanwhile, the 50 or so runners ahead of us were all pulling a Dwyer -- GOING THE WRONG WAY. If I've learned anything at all from my past race mishaps, it's your own darn fault when you go the wrong way. So there we were, Franklin and I.... IN THE LEAD of the Flying Pig while accidentally going slower than our goal pace! Is that karma? 

Then I saw my Dad and brother Matty cheering me on. But, now that I think about it, they weren't nearly rowdy enough considering for all they knew I was in first place, legitimately, this time. Haha. That's OK. It's always a boost of spirits to see your loved ones on the course. We couldn't do it without them. Today would be a day of deferred love. All my family and friends were showing OVERWHELMING support for me with their cheers, but I was deliberately trying to be very stoic about exerting even the slightest morsel of non-running energy. 

In less than a mile, the front runners and us had merged back together on the course like cyclists in a Tour de France roundabout. We instantaneously went from 1st to 50th place. There, we heard the bitching of the first place female who was clearly thrown off her game by the course mishap-- HER course mishap. I silently reprimanded her. She didn't win, of course, probably because her team morale was shot and she was not prepared to adapt mentally. I know which female did win, because unfortunately, she was not my friend Kerry whom we all (perennially) hoped it would be, and because the eventual winner was right on my heals all darn day. Apparently, my default race strategy always seems to be the exact same as the fastest female. So, accompanying me on both races this year are cheers from spectators screaming, "You go girl! You beat that boy. Get that mohawk! Girl power!" ALL day. Talk about keeping your ego in check.

Going up from the Casino through Eden Park is what I consider the most strategic part of the whole race. Going up the hill too fast can destroy you later in the day. We backed off the pace down to 7:00-7:15/mile pace, taking turns to block the wind for each other. Once you get to the top, you get excited because it's net downhill from there and there are plenty of descents where you can make up time, and already I needed to make up a lot of time.

What's tough about the Flying Pig is that it is one of the funnest races to watch. It's such a temptation not to race. If you could watch AND run at the same time, you'd really be on to something. You've got Elvis, the naked running man, DJ Westrich, your neighbors, etc. I'm thinking that next year, I really want to be a pace leader and carry the balloons, teach runners how to run through an aid station, tell them about how awesome Cincinnati is. I think there is noone better in the business, no better ambassador for running nor the city than my friend and fellow coach, Harvey.

One way to make up time is to be surprised by the girl holding your water cup at the aid station. It was our good  friend coach Alicia! Then you see coach Nicole, the Lulu Lemon girls, your mother and father-in-law, your former students.The support fills your veins with gasoline or something. It's an awesome pick-me-up.

Mariemont is always the highlight and a bitch. It's the farthest from the city you go during the race. You enter the bucolic neighborhood feeling one way and by the time you leave your body feels 180 degrees worse. This is where it gets really hard. This is where Franklin was smitten with his belly falling out of his body and I thought it was curtains for his race. I plodded onward, in no man's land (in one woman's land) through the annoying part of the course on Columbia Pkwy. I couldn't wait to get down the final stretch on Riverside Dr.

Matt found me on his bike at this point and encouraged me to "Leave it all on the course, man." I ran as hard as I possibly could up to the until the point where my stomach would heave and cramp. I was getting slower and slower, registering flat land miles that were 30-45 seconds slower than my goal pace. I passed a few runners who were cracking hard. That should have felt more awesome than it did. But simultaneously, I got passed by several who just ran smoother races than me. I only found out later that the guy I had been yo-yo-ing back and forth with, and who I final beat was the former Leadville 100 winner!

I thought I could keep first female at bay, but Matt took a great video of her passing me, that was incredibly beautiful and humbling. I obviously have a long way to go. She was in complete control! I think she Crocodile Dundeed me into submission or something.

In the final 1.2 miles, all I could think of was my amazing brother-in-law, Mike, who was also running the race, also leaving it all on the course. He talks about how finishing a race is like wringing out the sponge-- the goal is for the sponge to give up its last drop of water at the finish line. There should be NOTHING left. That's what I did, hoping to clock my fastest mile. It definitely felt the fastest. I thought sub 6 for sure, because I was swinging my arms at hard as I could like my track coach in grade school told me to do. Perception is so funny, because when I checked my Garmin GPS file at home that night, it was actually one of my SLOWEST miles. Haha!

The finish line was a glorious sight. As soon as I crossed, I dove into large volunteer's boob. It was the most padded cushion I could find, because I was crashing HARD. Than I landed on the pavement and the medical crew, (according to my tradition, I guess), rushed me to the medical tent to re-hydrate me. It was AWESOME. I mean, you pay so much for a race. You might as well use the amenities, right? The volunteers are the best I've experienced in ANY race across the country. Hats off to the organizers.

It wasn't 2:50 as I had hoped and trained for, but I still clocked a 2:57. So, I achieved
A) my goal to finish,
B) my goal to PR,
C) my goal to qualify for Boston,
D) my goal to break 3:00,
E) my goal to live to tell the tale.

I know I could have told it better and run it better, and for that reason I almost didn't run or write anything. But then I told myself "F those MF-ers."