Story of a Marathon

I barely slept the night before my first marathon. I managed two hours of sleep at best. That’s typical for a night before a race. As a college swimmer, I rarely slept before the first session of NCAAs. The good news is, a sleepless night before a race is so routine for me now that it doesn’t phase me.

I woke up at about 4:00 am and quickly made myself a smoothie with some banana and pineapple. I stretched and foam rolled for about 30 minutes, made myself a pour-over coffee, and left for the metro with my girlfriend, who was going to run her first marathon with me.

We arrived at the race start about an hour early. It was still dark and about 37 degrees Fahrenheit. I had a long sleeve tee, a hoodie, and sweatpants over my racing apparel.

Time seemed to be moving at breakneck speed. Suddenly I was standing behind the inflatable arch where the race was to start. I was in “Corral A” because I entered myself at an optimistically fast time. Thousands of runners were lined up behind me. Better prove you belong in Corral A, I thought.

I moved around and tried my best to keep my mood jovial. I did some mock “dance moves” and smiled. It’s important to stay relaxed before any sort of race so that the muscles and lungs work as they’re trained to. I took off my hoodie and long sleeve tee so that I was only wearing a singlet, racing shorts, and a hydration belt. I tossed the hoodie and tee aside. Some lucky person will have those now.

In that hydration belt, I managed to stuff seven energy gels and two 500 mL water battles filled with electrolytes.

Suddenly the race started and it was as though I was moving in a current filled with thousands of fish. I told myself that I’d be conservative for the first few miles. I passed some runners and I was passed by others; I paid no mind. The first mile, in particular, felt like I was just stretching the joints through the act of jogging.

My watch suddenly beeped to signify that I had crossed mile one. My first mile was 6:47 (4:13 km) and I had plenty of energy to spare. That pace was much faster than my goal pace of 7:30 per mile. I removed my cheap gloves; my body was heating up quickly.

Mile 2 was uphill and I eased my effort a bit more to conserve energy. My game plan involved being conservative for the first 18 miles. I had never never run a full marathon, after all, so I needed to ensure that I finished. My watch beeped and mile 2 ended: 6:51. I knew then that I was going to hit a good overall time, barring an unknown setback.

Miles 3 through 12 involved a series of loping hills through downtown Saint Louis. I accelerated a little while running downhill and slowed while going uphill. My overall pace actually quickened. I was often talking to people, giving spectators fun gestures, and smiling. It felt like I could go all day. I figured this was how I should be feeling for my first marathon.

At mile 12, the half-marathon runners diverged from the marathon runners. This was one of the main challenges of the race: there was no way to really tell who was doing what. We all started together.

If I was initially swimming downstream with an army of fish, then it was as if I and a select few other fish diverged into a much smaller tributary, leaving the half marathon group behind.

Suddenly there were much fewer runners and spectators. What once felt like a festival suddenly got lonely.

Miles 14-16: I had a back-and-forth race with a larger and more muscular man wearing a hydration vest. This is the odd thing about the marathon there are races within the race (makes me think of the movie Inception and its premise of people having dreams within dreams). In t his showdown I would speed up, then he’d speed up, then I’d speed up. Neither wanted to give way. This was probably my biggest mistake of the marathon. Eventually I overtook him and never saw him again, but my victory came at a significant cost that I wouldn’t realize until later.

Miles 17 and 18 were mostly downhill and I accelerated my pace even more, thinking I should take advantage of the downhill miles. This was the second mistake of the marathon. Parts of the legs actually have to work harder to run downhill. Between this move and the race I had with the muscular guy earlier, I would soon be much more fatigued than I planned. My initial plan was to keep my feet on the brakes until after mile 18.

Mile 19 hit as I entered the Saint Louis Arch park. It began with a steep incline into the park. My hamstrings seized almost immediately as I went uphill, and I was shocked that they started to cramp. This can’t be, I thought. I’ve been feeling so good all day. They can’t give way now. In fact, I had never had a leg cramp during a run. I can’t be sure, but I think that my hamstrings paid a price here for my earlier race with the muscular guy.

My stride shortened, my legs tightened, and a runner passed me. I kept running, but my form was deteriorating. I weighed some options in my mind: I could either stop and stretch the legs before continuing, or I could just keep running and hope that the cramping eased.

I decided to keep going. I felt that stopping ran the risk of not being able to start again.

I ran past a large crowd, where several members of my running group cheered for me. This gave me a boost of momentum. I drank a large amount of electrolytes from my hydration belt. Minute by minute, my cramping subsided. I was in the clear. My pace quickened a little. I was okay.

Miles 20 through 26 would be on the Riverfront Trail, where I run every week.

Though my legs never fully regained their freshness, they managed to keep running at a desirable pace. Even during the race I was regretting that earlier battle with the infamous muscular guy. The cost of that small victory was a significant amount of pain in the final miles.

The Riverfront Trail went 3 miles north alongside the Mississippi River, then took a roundabout before returning south, where the marathon finish line waited.

I checked my watch. I was on track for a marathon time that was about 20 minutes faster than I thought I could go. I had to keep running though, and my legs already had one close call.

Another brief-yet-steep hill caused my hamstrings to seize again. I felt the early signs of cramps return. Please, universe, I thought, don’t let me cramp. I want this finish too bad. My range of motion lessened and I felt like I was trotting without bending my knees. I couldn’t stop though; I was too close to the end.

I drank the last of my electrolytes and had my final gel. My pace slowed further and my legs kicked up less. But, after a few minutes of slower running, the cramps somehow eased again. My pace quickened a little and I felt that I was in the clear.

I passed a crowd of volunteers working an aid station. One of them told me I only had two miles to go. I nodded, but refused a water. Hell, I thought, I only have fifteen more minutes. What good will another water do at this point?

I regained a little form and managed to pass a runner with one mile to go. I knew by this point that I was going to make it. I was going to run the entire marathon without stopping. I could feel a burgeoning excitement.

I heard a steady crescendo of cheers as I neared the finish. I left the Riverfront Trail. I was minutes away. The finish was on the other side of an abandoned cluster of buildings. I ran past the buildings and my pace quickened a little more. Some energy returned to me.

I had to continue straight ahead for another quarter mile before turning right. Then I had to run up a steep hill; the finish was at the crest of the hill. What a cruel joke to play on a marathon runner.

As I made that final right turn, I gazed up the hill. I saw the inflatable arch where the course ended. A clock hung from overhead.

It read: “2:59:20.”

I realized that I could break 3 hours in my first marathon if I hurried. I hauled myself up the hill, abandoning all thought, just wanting to cross as quickly as possible. I threw up some “peace” signs for the crowd, to make it look like I wasn’t in severe agony, though I definitely was.

My final time was 2:59:54. I crossed and hunched over. I breathed deeply.

I had just completed my first marathon. I bit my lower lip. Everything hurt and I wanted to cry, not so much from the physical pain as from the emotional triumph. I felt like I had endured enough on this journey. I was hit by a car while cycling. Then I broke my collarbone in yet another cycling crash. Then I was stabbed in the face by a tree branch. I had done my share of “getting back up after a fall.” I needed to stay up as I finished the marathon, and I did. My shoulder, back, and hip have scars from my falls. I removed the stitches from my stab wound the day before the marathon.

And yet there I was, standing past the finish line, a marathon finisher. I closed my eyes. Don’t cry, I thought. Don’t you dare cry.

I walked around for a bit and absorbed the moment. I trained hard for this, so that I could say for the rest of my life that I can run the marathon.

I also realized that my time qualified for the Boston Marathon; it wasn’t part of the plan, but qualifying feels great. I’m definitely planning to attend next year.

I stuck around and watched the other finishers. My girlfriend finished the marathon as well and ran up the finish triumphantly. We experienced our first marathon together, which is icing on the cake. Or maybe it is the cake. Anyways, we finished and half-limped home.

What is the aftermath? A whole lot of soreness coupled with happiness. It’s to say that you did something extremely challenging, something that would involve setbacks along the journey and plenty of reasons to give up, but you pushed through it all and somehow managed to run 26.2 miles without stopping. And to show those close to you that it can be done.

I‘m going to rest for a few weeks and enjoy life. I’ll get back on the bicycle in the next few days.

And in the back of my mind, I’m planning how to make the next marathon even better. You never know when the last one will be, but I hope that was the first of many.

Pre-Marathon Day

Tomorrow is the marathon I’ve been training for through all of 2023: the Saint Louis GO! Marathon.

The training cycle was perfectly imperfect. I liken it to a work of art that has what appears to be a major flaw; ironically it is the flaw that renders it beautiful. The Sistine chapel draws attention because it’s bent. I realize that my own marathon is not comparable to the Sistine chapel. What I mean to say is that the flaws that initially appeared to be major detriments actually ended up helping the bigger picture.

The cycle began shortly after a collarbone break and ended with a face laceration that required stitches. Through the training plan, though, I somehow managed to complete every single run that was listed on my plan. I only missed a run the first week, when my collarbone was still in too much pain to jog. It almost seems ironic that my legs have never felt healthier and I’ve simultaneously never endured more random accidents.

Time showed that the setbacks helped spur motivation. I gained as much from the difficult moments as I did from the “good days.”

On my last group run, which was one week before the marathon, I found myself running uphill through a neighborhood, completely alone. It was shortly after dawn and the sun’s glare was nearly blinding.

I focused my eyes for an instant on the sidewalk beneath me, which was often crooked, broken, and holed. I wanted to be sure that I didn’t roll an ankle. And in that instant I felt something stab me beneath my left eye. I knew immediately the stab wasn’t good.

A few seconds later I realized that I’d been stabbed by a low-hanging and jagged tree-branch. I knew it was bad, but was unsure how bad.

I completed the run, sat in the car, and removed my sunglasses. As I did so, a river of blood poured down my left eye. The stab cut me open just beneath the eye. I knew immediately that the cut would require stitches.

I drove to a nearby Total Access Urgent Care, where a nurse cleaned the wound with saline and stitched it up. The cut ran deep; I could tell that both from the saline’s burn and from my own reflection.

How on earth does one get stabbed by a hanging tree branch? I don’t know, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

It’s important to remember that it could always be worse. I was told that if the tree branch managed to hit the eye, just half an inch higher, I’d likely have lost the eye entirely.

It almost seemed like a fitting closure that my first long run began immediately after healing a collarbone break that resulted from a fallen tree stump, and my last run ended immediately after getting stabbed in the face by a tree.

It seems tree branches and stumps are something to be conscious of going forward.

I’m fine, and this week’s runs felt as I wanted them to. Tomorrow is the marathon. I had my stitches removed this morning, just in time. My legs are fresh and the wound on my face is closed.

Tomorrow I’ll embark on a 26.2 mile run for the first time. To be honest, I’m not nervous: I think it’ll be a good experience.

If there’s one thing my life has prepared me for, it’s to embrace imperfection. I think it’s in an endurance athlete’s nature, or at least the nature of most endurance athletes, to want control over every variable. I learned a long time ago that this is impossible. We aren’t robots, though we want to install ourselves with perfect programming. Our minds are fallible and our bodies are asymmetrical. It’s only through the embrace of the imperfect that we can attain some semblance of peace of mind.

Though this training cycle began and ended with some rare injuries, I believe my run tomorrow will begin and end with a smile.

Running 20 Miles

Today I hit what was probably my best run yet. My coach assigned me a two hour and thirty minute run, with about 45 minutes of it at marathon goal pace. I’m late in my training cycle, which means I’m doing a higher percentage of event-specific work. This equates to a lot more “goal marathon pace” runs.

The run ended up being just over 20 miles (32 km), the longest run of my life. Better yet, it felt pretty good. By pretty good I mean, body parts weren’t straining, tearing, cracking, wobbling, or shutting down, and I also didn’t lose consciousness. I’d be lying if I said I hit mile 20 and said out loud, “damn do I feel great!” So good is a relative description of feeling as far as 20 mile runs go.

Adaptation to long runs is a slow process. I didn’t get to this marker overnight, though it may seem that way since I just started blogging about my running journey. I’ve jogged routine 5ks for years upon years. Last year I finally built up to a half marathon; a marathon is simply the next logical step.

My marathon preparation, like many things, is partly a result of COVID. With everything shut down, I was fortunate to realize the value of being outside. I needed the outdoors because the claustrophobia of being inside with little interaction was suffocating. And what better way to explore the outdoors than to learn how to run and ride a bike?

I felt light on my feet the first two miles and knew pretty early that this would be a good session. By “light on me feet” I mean that a brisk pace (for me) felt effortless. Some days you feel like you’re floating. Others, like you’re Atreyu’s horse from Neverending Story, Artax, drowning in quicksand.

I crossed the Saint Louis Arch around mile 1, descended via an inclined walkway down to the Riverfront Trail below it, and then embarked on what is essentially a long 9 mile stretch north alongside the Mississippi River (and back). There are some brief-yet-steep hills during the first few miles, but the rest of the path is mostly flat.

I remembered to wear sunscreen this time after the pale winter sunlight managed to burn me the week before (courtesy of Nordic ancestors). Three hours later and I see no signs of sunburn, so that’s good. Nothing like telling people you got burned by running on a Saturday morning during winter.

I practiced fueling again; I took one gel before starting the run and an additional four gels during the run, each separated by about three miles. This time I wasn’t hacking my lungs out due to the gels’ gooey substance, so that’s also good.

I averaged sub-7 minute miles on my marathon goal pace, and that’s great for me. Granted, I overdid the effort a little. My ideal pace for a marathon should be about ten seconds per mile slower than what I hit today. I was a little overzealous. Sometimes though, you just need to know your limit and take a risk. I learned that as an elite swimmer. I was glad that I held a steady pace and finished strong.

The final two miles were odd because by the time I returned to the Arch, it was flooded with tourists. Some of them were more than happy to take up the entire walkway while strutting by in large groups without giving so much as an inch of space for a lone runner. They typically do this because they’re staring at their phones while walking. Other tourists would stop and take photos on the “far side” of the walkway so that you inevitably run through their shot.

One angry Karen-like woman who was in the process of taking a photo of the Arch even managed to bark at me while I ran, “Stay out of my shot!” I kept running and smiled. Note that I was on a walkway with nowhere else to go, unless I turned around, which I was definitely not going to do. Also note that the Arch is an inanimate object that will not move an inch within the next century. The “shot” wasn’t exactly going anywhere.

On a side note, if you aren’t sure what a “Karen” is… Wikipedia defines it as “a slang term for a white woman perceived as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is normal.”

I believe it’s important to ignore miserable people rather than let them suck you into their abyss of gloom. Emotions are contagious. If you’re happy and have a strong enough reality in which your happiness resides, you’re likely to make a lot of people around you happy. If you engage with anger, you’ll create more anger. That’s just how the universe works, or at least from what I’ve seen. So I deflected the comment and kept running. It was too nice outside to deprive myself of joy. And hey, if you can’t wait two seconds for a runner before taking your precious little photo of an inanimate object made of steel, learning some patience might be of benefit. Just saying.

So I finished my 20 miles and my legs felt thankfully healthy. I’m four weeks away from my first marathon and I can feel the excitement building. I have a goal time, but to be honest, I’ll just be happy to cross the finish. I think that alone will be a remarkable experience.

Marathon Training Update

I’m one month away from running my first marathon. It’s been a journey and I think that I’m adapting to endurance running well.

Last Saturday was my longest run yet—a 19.6 miler (31 km) along the Riverfront Trail near downtown St. Louis. It was a stellar run that I really should be thrilled about (I think at the end I was too tired to be thrilled). The first seven miles were supposed to be relatively easy, followed by another seven-ish miles at marathon race pace. The remaining miles were easy again.

The first seven miles featured some of the breeziest sub-8 minute mile running I’ve done. I felt light and lithe, and the running felt effortless, like I didn’t have to force anything. That’s the best feeling; it erases all mental stress of “hitting a pace right.” As a swimmer, it’s what you hope to feel during warmups before any big race. Thanks to my swimming days, I know that this typically means I’m due for a good day. Note that it isn’t always the case, but it does tend to be.

The seven miles at marathon pace were difficult, and I may have overstrained a little in an attempt to keep the pace under 7 minute miles. However it was also less strenuous than the week before, which is a good sign because the duration was also longer. The week before I had about 4 miles at marathon pace. Next week I should dial back the effort on marathon pace so that it actually resembles my marathon pace. Note to self.

The run took me all the way to the Riverfront park, approximately 9 miles north of my apartment, before I turned around. I was alone on the trail with the exception of a few cyclists. The sun was surprisingly strong, which I didn’t fully grasp until my sunburn settled in afterward.

One thing noteworthy about this run was the accumulated fatigue that became more noticeable in the final miles. Although the final miles were supposed to feel easy, my legs felt heavier and their joints more strained. If I felt like a spring for the first seven miles, I felt like a dump truck full of bricks on the final 5. To me, this is the point of these long runs: to adapt the legs to these distances. The final miles hurt, at least for me. I was a swimmer and before last year, I had never completed a run of more than 5 miles. With each of these long runs I’m literally entering uncharted territory.

The good news is that with each long run, the fatigue hits me at a higher mileage. The first long run introduced me to “leg shutdown” around mile 10. Then 12, then 14, and now 16. So it seems that with each successful long run, I’m afforded an additional two miles before extreme fatigue settles in and slows my pace to a halt. With only a month left, the final two miles of the marathon (26.2 miles) will probably hurt no matter what I do.

The other purpose of these long runs is figuring out how to fuel. I’m a hair shy of 6’5”, which means that I inevitably need more fuel than most people. I’m pretty sure the average marathon runner is a good deal shorter than me. My plan on that last long run was to attempt to digest five gels, as well as about a liter of water. I find that whenever I take more than three gels on a run, the gel’s substance seems to stick a little in the back of my throat, which forces me to cough. On this run I was coughing every minute for the final 9 miles of the run. That’s pretty damn annoying and a sign that I might need a different brand of gels.

The morning after that long run, I had an easy 10-mile jog with my running group. I held pace with little strain, which is also a good sign; it means I rebounded pretty well. I then took Monday off and on Tuesday had a high-intensity session. The main part of that “high intensity” workout involved two 10-minute threshold runs, a recovery, and five 2-minute fast runs. I hit my highest speeds yet. As in, the highest speeds I’ve ever hit in my life. Pretty cool for a dude turning 38 this year. Again, it means I’m not too broken down from endurance running six days per week. I’m in a good position for being a month away from the marathon.

Marathon training has to be a personal journey. The motivation has to be internal because truly I’ve found that people around me generally don’t really give a damn about it. Even if they do, they probably don’t understand the magnitude of what it requires. Most don’t know how many miles a marathon actually is. Some people do care I guess, but really, you have to prepare for a marathon because you love running or it won’t be sustainable.

“Oh, you’re running a marathon? Well don’t get hurt.”

“Why do you want to run that many miles?”

“I can hit that mileage in my car.”

These are the sorts of responses I often get. I could lash back, which the athlete in me often tells me to do. “Don’t get hurt walking up the stairs, wuss.” “I want to run that many miles because I know you can’t.” “Have fun sitting in your car for a lifetime then; I’m sure that’ll keep you healthy.” However to do so would be petty and pointless.

I look to role models like Tom Brady and how he handles his critics. Brady handles every criticism with grace. He shirks off their condescending remarks with a smile and continues doing what he enjoys, critics be damned. He responds with class and consideration. It’s a brilliant way of interacting with opponents. Brady knows that the best way to lash back at an opponent is to show that you aren’t phased by that person. Happiness is the ultimate weapon, and that’s one of the many reasons why Brady always seems to win. Brady’s enemies just can’t bring him down to their level.

One more month and I’ll be scratching “ran a marathon” off the bucket list…

The Long Run

Saturday was my longest run to date: 17.75 miles (28 km), with about 30 minutes of it at my goal marathon pace.

The mind, like the body, can wander to distant places during a run of this duration. I found my own thoughts bouncing between old memories and an acute attention to the present moment.

I ran along the Riverfront Trail and noticed that although the trees are still barren—they stand like an endless army of crooked dead things lining the Mississippi River—there are some animals returning. This is a precursor to spring. I saw some American robins hopping around in the grass, for example. I haven’t seen those little birds in that area for several months, though I’m sure they’re elsewhere in the city.

The second half of this run was against a harsh wind that blew northward. I ran directly south for almost 9 miles to return home. In times like this I suspect it’s less fun to be tall.

I felt fresh at the end and finished my run with plenty of energy remaining in my tank. I try to finish most runs feeling this way. If you deplete your system too severely, you may sacrifice too many future workouts for an exercise to be worthwhile. At times that may be okay: you have to cross your threshold to know your own boundaries. I’ve been beyond those boundaries enough times to have a good balance now. Still, I do find myself willing to cross it on occasion. It can be a nice reminder that I’m alive.

One thing that keeps me running is my appreciation for the running community. Events can barely feel like a competition between people because most runners tend to support one another. I’ve often seen runners who’ve finished ahead of me remain at the finish line, cheering for me and the others as I complete my own journey.

I really enjoy being a part of this sort of culture, especially as someone who primarily runs and bikes for the sake of longevity. It is a competition that elevates everyone and is a far cry from the stereotypical “cutthroat” American work culture competition, in which every victory must come at the expense of another (running is, at its heart, a sort of spirited rebellion against the adult status quo).

This mutual respect and desire to see everyone succeed also makes participation in running events more sustainable, which is exactly what I’m looking for: something to keep my adventures active for decades. Who wants to finish an event feeling both crushed and beaten? Running a distance event is itself a significant victory. Most of your coworkers probably couldn’t dream of walking as far as you just ran. As far as I’m concerned, you are a champion.

While peers hobble around with first-world conveniences and wax nostalgia for “youthful” days in which they moved with vitality, endurance runners seek the most treacherous mountain yet.

I suspect many runners are on similar journeys to me. I see mutual fighters against mortality, people seeking connection with an ancient part of human DNA. A long run therefore stretches to the extremes of past and future. It might be a search for answers to questions that can’t be articulated, and that’s okay: the odds of finding the answer were impossible anyways.

Ice Cold

The Saint Louis air was frigid and dry on Sunday morning. I exited my apartment just before dawn broke and I exhaled a visible plume. I quickly wrapped my arms around my torso and shivered.

The run was through Simpson park, my first run in the area. I noted a river glinting silver to one side of me. The desiccated and barren trees made it seem like something crucial in the park was missing.

I was on a group run but somehow still lost in thought. My mind traced back to a night terror I had several nights prior.

In the dream I was swimming in a mysterious river’s dark waters, against current. Storm clouds gathered suddenly and my stroke rate accelerated, eager to escape the river. Eventually I made it to some shore, where a group of parents stood vigilant.

“Where are the kids?” One of them asked me.

And suddenly in the dream I was a coach, and I was supposed to be leading a team upstream as part of a workout.

The rain pelted everything. Thunder roared. Shadows stretched. Panicked, I jumped back in the river in search of the athletes. One by one, I started to find them. I woke up wracked with guilt.

I don’t know what the dream meant, if anything, but I find it interesting that I’ve had several memorable dreams about rivers over the past few weeks.

I finished the group run feeling fresh, which was a surprise. The day before was the longest run I’d ever completed: 16.9 miles (27 km). The fresh feeling in my legs was a good signifier that I’m adapting to longer distances.

Looking ahead, I am signed up for a running event on Saturday, a 15k run. I have it in me to run faster than I ever have before if I choose to push myself, and that’s exciting; improvement usually is. I’m not sure, however, that it’s competition that engages me with running. I think I’m running because it has been some sort of act of self-healing. I’m feeling steadily more rejuvenated. Through the act of running I see potential longevity.

There is something about the imperfection of an outdoor run that makes it perfect. It’s always too hot, too cold, too windy, too rainy, or includes too many hills. I realize through outdoor endurance exercise how little control I have over the universe. My lack of control is somehow freeing. A surfer can’t catch anything good by fighting against the current, but rather has to take what is given, even if it’s almost nothing. Similarly I can’t have a good run by exerting beyond my limits, and I can only fight snow and ice so much. It’s a game of patience. There’s a brief period of time in the day for some runs, and then a whole lot of waiting between the gaps.

Life happens between those gaps.

Die to Live

Yesterday evening I cleaned one of my two bicycles. The endeavor was painful because one of my arms is both weak and injured. I live in an apartment and use Muc-Off products to make the bike shine and glisten. I then topped off the tires with sealant (I ride tubeless) and oiled the chain with dry lube.

I am preparing myself mentally to ride the bike again, though I am still far from fully healing after my collarbone break.

I woke early this morning and ran for about an hour and fifteen minutes at an easy pace. I then did an hour of strength training with resistance bands (mostly lower body excercises such as banded squats) and foam rolled to promote mobility.

By the end of all these activities I found myself pretty languished, and my work day hadn’t started. Dawn barely broke. I find myself pushing forward regardless. I am preparing for a marathon.

Why do we endurance athlete types push ourselves to such long distances, day in and day out? Well, I have a theory: over the course of our lives, we accumulate a hefty weight of baggage, which we have to carry around with us in our daily affairs. The added weight worsens the already-debilitating effects of gravity. Some of us have accumulated so much baggage that we barely know what resides beneath the layers.

So we find a challenging activity like running or cycling, and in the back of our mind we want to see “just how far we can go.” Fatigue accumulates, mile by mile, and the layers of baggage seem to fall off, chunk by chunk. And maybe what’s left on the long run is who we truly are. Or maybe what lies beneath is the answer to a question we didn’t realize needed asking.

The question is, “What do I need to do?”

And the answer is, “Live.”

And in a nutshell, it’s our way of dying a little to live a little.

Braving the Cold

Much of the United States had a record cold temperature this week and a blizzard to compliment it. It was a rare “white Christmas”, one of the few that I’ve experienced.

I embarked on long runs on both Christmas Eve and Christmas in spite of brutally cold temperatures and icy conditions. The ground was coated with ice and powdery snow, and the winds were harsh, but I ran regardless.

To many this probably seems reckless. My broken collarbone is still healing, and the cold seems to dig into the bone itself. The slightest gust of wind triggered pain where the break once was. It was an uncomfortable sensation that I hope isn’t permanent.

I risked falling again because I find myself needing the movement. I was cautious though; I ran at a slower pace than usual and slowed to a near-halt when the ground looked slick. I didn’t fall, though on a few turned corners I slid a little.

I continue with my physical therapy. If all goes well, I only have three more weeks. My physical therapist was shocked yesterday at my fast rate of healing. Of course there are still issues, but for only having been seven weeks since the collarbone break, my arm is doing well. I’m raising the arm over my head comfortably now, lifting light objects, and opening heavy doors without fear. I’ll be back on the bicycle very soon.

We can only change so much. I was the sort of kid that saw a hill and mostly wondered how fast I could sprint down it, and the attempt often involved a fall. If I am being honest, when I see hills I still think the same way. Whether on a run or a bike ride, there is a need for speed that I can rarely tame.

I have three prominent new scars from the last bike crash. The most severe scar is on the right shoulder; it will never vanish completely. That crash saw me land on the right shoulder, which is what caused the collarbone to snap. I will start putting vitamin E oil on the scar to minimize the appearance. The other scars are on my right hip and leg. It was initially fearful that I broke three bones: my collarbone, hip, and right femur. However, only the collarbone actually broke. The other bones were severely bruised but stayed intact.

A colleague once told me that I was insane for cycling in cold weather. Exercising in the cold, however, is laughably easy if you have the right apparel. I had to bite my lower lip to prevent a harsh response. I think it’s insane to let the body languish without movement and natural sunlight “because it’s a little cold outside.” It’s even more insane to avoid doing something that you enjoy. Cold is just discomfort; there’s nothing crazy about being willing to experience discomfort. Without discomfort there is no adaptation, and an organism that refuses to adapt will perish under the slightest of disturbances.

Intentional discomfort is not the norm in modern culture. The norm is office cookies, heated car seats, social media grandstanding, and fake pleasantries. Some of these things may be harmless in small doses, but all are crippling as “norms.” None of these strengthen you (maybe cookies if you are preparing for hibernation).

I ran a total of 18 miles (29 km) between Christmas Even and Christmas alone. It isn’t the most I’ve ever run in two days, but considering the harsh weather we’ve had, I think it’s enough. I built up my mileage a little too quickly, which caused a shin splint in my right leg about two weeks ago, but fortunately this splint seems to be subsiding now. I am pretty well acquainted with pain at this point. A splint is the least of my worries.

“Swimming would be very good for your collarbone and shoulder when you’re ready,” my physical therapist told me. “It will help you get your strength and range of motion back.”

I haven’t swam much the last few years, but I do think it will help me regain my range of motion.

In the meantime, I’ll continue running in the cold.

Loss Aversion

We hate what we lose more than we love what we win.

This generalization of the human mind has been proven on a neurological level. Through evolution, our neurotransmitters have become wired so that the hatred of losing outweighs the love of winning. This was pivotal thousands of years ago in preserving our species. If dwelling in a cave, you must protect your very finite resources, which is far more important than risking limbs for another banana.

I find myself spending upwards of one hour each day rehabilitating my broken collarbone. I have physical therapy twice each week. Whatever exercises are assigned to me to complete at home are completed both in the morning and at night. I find myself obsessed with getting something back that I once had. The thought of losing complete mobility is unacceptable.

I do not think it’s the thought of winning anything that motivates me. I think it’s the fear of losing the complete mobility I once had in my right arm. I do feel confident that at some point, the mobility will return.

On my first day of physical therapy, my arm could not rise to a 90 degree angle. Currently it is comfortably rising to 145 degrees. So, it’s getting better. The difference isn’t tangible in days, but it is in weeks.

In truth, “100%” is a constantly changing target, which makes it difficult to gauge in the first place. Regardless of how well things heal, my 100% at age 37 will be different from my 100% at age 16. Biologically, I am different. My 100% at age 60 will likewise be different. It may not be better or worse: it will just yield different results.

A blizzard is creeping towards Saint Louis. With it, the temperature will be 0 F (-17 C). Winds will lash city concrete, brick, mortar, and metal at upwards of 30 mph (48 mph). With the windchill, it will be as cold as -25 F (-32 C).

My logical brain tells me to stay inside and avoid frostbite. My risk appetite makes me want to brave the streets and to take the risk, in order to prevent a loss of running fitness. The solution, maybe, is somewhere in the middle of two extremes.

Losing hurts, and I’ve lost many times in 37 years. I think of those losses still, though I don’t obsess over them. The past is already written after all, whereas the future is a blank page. For example, I almost won the NCAAs in 2008 in the 200 yard freestyle, but I was passed in the final yards. For many it was my defining race, something to cherish; after all, I was faster than American-record pace at the halfway mark. When my mind replays this race, though, it doesn’t think back on it as fondly: it searches for ways that I could have won. Loss aversion even affects memories. The blessing here is that I have always had a motivating memory to keep me moving.

I will continue to lose: it is a part of life. Losing is not dying though, as my continued existence has proven. Maybe it’s just a lesson to value what we still have and enjoy it. Maybe it’s a motivational tool to just keep going after a difficult loss. Losing often propels us forward.

If we don’t finish our first attempt at a marathon, for example, we’ll need something to get back up and reattempt the run. The hatred of having failed must be enough to make us want to try again.

And it’s always worthwhile to get back up.

Running through Pain

One should be keenly aware of the difference between fatigue and injury. Sometimes I walk the fine line between the two. I risked walking that line today.

A dense fog crawled through downtown and veiled the Mississippi River. It blanketed everything with gray, rendering the morning a shapeless purgatory.

Signs of life showed when a single gull glided through this fog, only to eventually have the mist engulf it somewhere over the Mississippi.

Later I saw the fog devour a flock of geese in similar fashion. Eventually the gray devours us all.

I trodded forward. My right foot initially ached and I could not tell whether the issue was bone or ligament. The cause was likely too much running over the weekend.

Again I found myself quickly fatiguing, though I did feel slightly faster and fresher than Sunday. As the miles passed, the pain in my right foot seemed to abate. That’s a sign that the issue is not related to bone.

I completed one hour and eighteen minutes of running, if you’d call it a run. My pace is currently an average of a full minute slower per mile than it was just two months ago at the same relative effort. However, it feels good to just finish.

My right arm ached less than it did on Sunday. That’s a good sign too. I was able to move the arm a little more (you need a little natural swing with your stride, I think). It’s getting there. I’m on the mend.

I have my first session of Physical Therapy today. Six weeks total, two sessions per week, and in theory I’ll be at 100%. That’s a very nice thought.

Declines in fitness can be precipitous. Then it’s a slow and grueling ascend back to where you were. That may initially seem unfair, but would it be worth it if it was easy?

Resuming Activity with Frozen Shoulder

I ran for the first time in over a month today. I’ve buried my sling somewhere in the dark recesses of my closet, hopefully never to be seen again. I’ve been cleared by an Orthopedic for running, but not weight lifting.

It was a frigid morning and a blustery wind amplified the chill. I rode a bike through previous winters and from the outdoor activity was better adapted to the cold than I am now.

I ran one hour, and it was a long hour. There was pain involved, but most of the pain was in my shoulder, not my collarbone. I have a condition called “frozen shoulder” from the month spent in a sling. It will take physical therapy to reverse this over the course of the next six week. My targeted completion date is January 13th.

On top of the frozen shoulder I felt on the run, I fatigued quickly. A month of inertia will do that. I lost much of the conditioning that I spent the better part of the year building. An hour run at a slow pace was my recovery run through the fall season. Today it was a challenge to finish. My hoarse breathing was more audible and my pace was especially slow.

Still, I made an hour run. It was a steady run at a slower pace than any run I’ve done in some time. The positive is that my collarbone remains mostly pain-free and my shoulder didn’t worsen.

Today was, in summary, “day 1” of my start to marathon training. It wasn’t the “day 1” I hoped for or visualized prior to my injury, but I see a silver lining.

The month of rest gave me fresh legs. Aside from the collarbone and attached shoulder, I feel no pain.

Much of endurance running is a balancing act between minimizing risk for injury and maximizing volume.

So, I am starting everything on a clean slate. I have a fresh bone and a fresh mind. I have my first physical therapy appointment on Tuesday and I’m feeling optimistic again.

Rehabilitation - Week 1

I started feeling significantly better approximately one week after the collarbone break. Though I cannot lift my bad arm over my shoulder, I am better able to extend the arm when it isn’t in a sling. Simple movements such as standing up and sitting down no longer hurt. Coughs and sneezes no longer send shockwaves of pain shooting through the shoulder and neck.

The key to recovery from injury is simple in summary and complex in execution: rest and sleep as much as humanly possible. I say that it’s complex in execution because adults have obligations. There’s a job to pay the bills, dishes to wash, clothes to launder, and errands to run. This is hustle culture, after all. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” is the declaration of the productive. And yet obligations are typically hinged to stress. The body treats stress like it would any physical trauma. Therefore each stressor is a detractor from recovery.

I have to allow life to slow down a little. In order to heal the bone, I have to prioritize myself and my happiness.

Yesterday, meanwhile, I had a Zoom call with my upcoming marathon coach. I ultimately decided to team up with a coach because I have no running background and I’m attempting to cross personal uncharted territory. 26 miles is a long way to go for a swimmer who specialized in the 200 yard freestyle.

There was only one person I had in mind for coaching, and I’m happy with my choice.

Now is not a time for training. It’s a time for reposing, sleeping, and reflection. In the long run this is probably a good thing. I think we Americans overvalue work and undervalue rest. I had a long grind to the half marathons that I ran in October. The legs and feet needed a rest. With the extra rest, I also gain a few extra hours each day to appreciate the simple things.

I feel more comfortable resting at this stage in my life. My current training is a far cry from college athletics, where there’s a definitive ending to everything. Therefore, there is no rush to recovery. As a swimmer in college, I had four years to swim as fast as I could. The final times at the end of year four were final, and there would be no redos. Therefore, any significant injury could ruin everything. Worse, every vacation was equipped with the paranoia of losing a physical edge.

My timeline is stretched comfortably now. I look ahead in decades, not seasons. There is no specific time I have to hit and no deadline to hit it. I move for the sake of movement and joy. All times I strive for are arbitrary, and there is little pressure to hit them.

That in itself is reason to sleep comfortably.

Willingness to Experiment

I ran this morning with minimalist shoes. Running with minimalist shoes is something that I’ve been slowly and steadily reintegrating into my routine. Most of my “runs without cushion on my feet” are slow-paced and shorter in distance.

Upon returning to minimalist shoes and the occasional barefoot walks, I quickly rediscovered the value of minimalist running. Minimalist shoes do quickly bring me closer to what I would describe as a “natural stride.” Cushion tends to blunt the mind’s ability to register bad form. We have a gazillion nerve endings in our feet and their duty is to detect danger; numbing them with foam doesn’t necessarily help our form.

Minimalist shoes also seem to work the calf muscles more than “maximal shoes.” I certainly felt more of a “calf burn” on the last mile.

There is value in trying new things. I’ve gained something from running in both maximal and minimal shoes. I don’t necessarily prefer one over the other. I can say that when running at a high intensity for a large number of miles, I find cushioned shoes to be pretty useful. I also find minimal shoes useful for correcting my form and general casual activities.

It’s important for me to not peg my identity on a brand, a style, or even a category. I’m not a “minimalist runner” any more than I’m a “maximalist runner.” I simply run by using whatever manner works, and I’m willing to try a different method if it reads as interesting. At the end of the day it’s an activity that we were born to do, and it should be fun. So, I’m willing to use whatever methods make running fun.

On another front, I’ve also been experimenting with diet. For example, upon returning to the US from China I dedicated myself to intermittent fasting. I stuck with it for the better part of three years and had a degree of success with it. How much of my improved health was actually a result of fasting, though, versus a multitude of other factors (caloric restriction and increased exercise, to name two factors) is difficult to say.

I abandoned intermittent fasting because I found it difficult to maintain running and cycling performance while adhering to a feeding window. I’ve tried a few long fasted runs over the past few months and even completed a fasted half marathon. However, I found my power to be limited and my abilities in a fasted state to be confined to a “low heart rate range”.

Also, there is no extra medal given for completing a run without food. If you lose to a guy who ate pancakes for breakfast, you still lost.

Moving away from intermittent fasting was simple because my feeding window was simple: I skipped breakfast.

Are there advantages to fasting? Sure. When deprived of carbohydrates, the body uses fat as its primary fuel source. The advantage of this is that fats are an extremely efficient form of energy. If my aim was simply to walk around the world on minimal fuel, a diet high in fat and low in carbohydrates might be a wise option. Fasting can also be an effective means of weight loss for this reason, especially if your body is not adept at fat oxidation due to carb overload.

For me, fat is not the best fuel source when seeking running and cycling performance. Glycogen provides me more power and arguably requires less oxygen to burn. The downside is that glycogen depletes quickly, so you need a lot of fuel. That said, for what I’m seeking (my best possible marathon time), I prefer relying primarily on glycogen.

This means I’ve largely abandoned my fasted runs and fasting routines. Maybe I’ll do some fasting during the occasional break from running, but I don’t view it as a priority. I haven’t noticed any diminishing returns from eating breakfast yet and it’s been about a month since I quit fasting.

Like I regard running shoes, I don’t want diet to define me. It’s easy to label oneself based on current diet. One can be “keto,” “vegan,” “carnivore,” “paleo,” or “low carb,” among a multitude of other things. I don’t want to permanently peg myself in any one category because it prohibits the opportunity of trying another. There’s a valid argument to be made in a lot of them; otherwise, they wouldn’t have popularized.

I can say that these days I’ve limited my meat intake and increased my carbohydrates. I generally feel better and I’ve noticed a very sizable performance increase. I’ve been eating some meat for the occasional dinner, but that’s about it. Starchy foods and vegetables have largely replaced what was once plates rife with beef.

The point is not that one diet is better than another, though: the point is that there is value in self-experimentation. We only have one life so we might as well learn what we can!