Injuries and Setbacks

My plan was to began preparing for an October 1st marathon starting the first week of July. However, a few setbacks derailed those plans.

The first issue stemmed from a timed mile event in late June. I completed a timed mile (about 1600 meters) in 4 minutes and 44 seconds, which I was happy with because my goal was to break 5 minutes. However, I found myself limping after the finish. A tweak in my groin became a lingering pain that steadily worsened over the next week, and I naively attempted to run through it, which only exacerbated the pain. I went to an orthopedic and was informed that I strained my groin.

A few weeks of rest and physical therapy followed, and suddenly it was August. I resumed running. I told my marathon coach that it seemed practical to have a “Plan B.” Less than two months didn’t seem like long enough to prepare for a marathon, so I switched my goal event to a later date. I signed up for another marathon on October 28th, and switched my October 1st event to a half marathon, with the intention to use the event as a training exercise.

Then, a week after resuming running, COVID hit me for the first time. Three plus years after the onset of the pandemic, COVID was the last thing on my mind. I had returned from a vacation in Utah and was suddenly running a fever. I was inside when the fever hit me, resting under a cool A/C. An hour later I had the chills. Then I had a sinus headache, and a sore throat. Then my bones ached.

The next day, I tested positive for COVID.

That was all last weekend. Now I’m hoping that the worst of COVID is behind me and I can resume running. This running cycle has been a stark contrast from the last one. The last one went off without a hitch, whereas this one seems to abide by the saying, “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”

There is plenty of time left to develop fitness, however, so I don’t think I’m anywhere near the point of giving up.

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.

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.

Footprints in the Snow

It has snowed twice in Saint Louis over the past ten days.

The first time, five inches were expected, but the clouds only delivered a light powdering over the streets coupled with some ice. I ordered some Yaktrax that were delivered the day before the storm and wore them for a morning run. The Yaktrax allowed good traction and I was never close to slipping.

As I darted back and forth along the Riverfront Greenway, I noted the tracks that my footprints left behind in the snow. These markers signify that someone ran through the inclement weather, though they’ll also melt and disappear in a day’s time.

Time will eventually erase my footprints, as it does all things.

I had abandoned most, if not all, of the athletic footprints I’ve left behind. As an elite level swimmer I won hundreds of medals and trophies, some of them at the NCAA, national, and international level. I also lost most of them, if not all of them. My reasoning for tossing them is that I never felt it’s healthy to cling to something in the past. I want to constantly be forging ahead, and I aim to direct my thoughts more on what’s next than on archived text.

I’m actually keeping some of my latest running medals though. Last weekend I ran a personal best 15k, and within the race I had a personal best 5k and 10k. Improvement is fun at any age; it’s also possible at any age, though not in any activity.

Now that I’m more than 15 years removed from swimming, I see how memories and times steadily fade. I found myself Googling some of my past accomplishments that I had forgotten. How did I forget that I was voted most valuable swimmer after my freshman year of college? I think I forgot about that within a year of finishing school. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but it’s interesting that it happened. I see now that having a visible signifier of some of these things may keep them in my memory longer, and without memory we have no identity.

I recall visiting my old college coach in 2015. My final record (for an 800 yard freestyle relay) had just been broken; it had stood on a wall of my old collegiate swimming pool for more than seven years. At the time it was an American and NCAA record. He had the record in his office, a long strip of cardboard that was previously affixed to the pool record board. He gave the cardboard strip to me. I’ve since lost it and wish I hadn’t.

The cynic in me may say that a medal is nothing but a chunk of material to be ultimately tossed by someone else when I’m permanently gone. Everything that remains after I’m gone, in fact, would be a heap of donations and disposal for those who are left behind. There is some truth to this.

However, the optimist says that a medal is a footprint left in the snow, and by maintaining it the snow may melt a bit slower. It’s true that the footprint will fade, but I might as well cherish it while it remains. One doesn’t need to obsess over something to cherish it. The trash heap can wait a few more decades.

Our footprints in the snow are nice reminders of great adventures.

On Plant-Based Eating

I have no doubt that plants have a capability of healing the spirit that borders on mystical.

Add a few plants to a living room and you’ll probably find your own blood pressure lowering. It could be their mere presence doing the healing. Numerous studies have documented this. Run in an area with trees and you’ll find what anxiety you have will slowly diminish as the minutes tick by. Hiking is often seen as a therapeutic exercise not because it involves a lot of walking, but because it involves a lot of nature.

To this date there has been nothing made by humans that matches the healing capabilities of plants.

I mention this because I’m writing about something that I’ve told almost no one: I’ve been focusing on a plant-based diet. I can’t help but wonder: if the presence of plants soothes the mind, does favoring plant consumption heal the body?

I mostly keep my dietary habits private because diets tend to emit strong emotional reactions from people. At some point in recent history, diet became an ideology. The idea of “arguing about diet” with other people does not appeal to me. I’d rather just share my thoughts and experiences.

I do think that there are numerous moral justifications for striving towards veganism. One of the top reasons for me personally is that the American diet tends to be heavy on animals that I consider to be both highly intelligent and woefully mistreated. Industry commits some pretty horrific acts on these animals.

Urban American dog parents, for example, find the idea of eating dogs to be diabolical if not purely savage, yet are frequently eager for their bacon and sausage. Why, other than cultural norms? There is nothing to classify a dog as morally superior to a pig. Both are intelligent and highly affectionate species of animals.

My switch this year was not a sudden shift in belief. I planned to switch to either vegetarianism or veganism a long time ago. When I turned 21, I promised myself that I would switch to a plant-based diet before age 40. This year I’m turning 38.

My initial desire to eat plant-based food was a mostly selfish one: the potential for longevity. I’m too aware of the rates of heart disease in America, and to put bluntly, I want to live. I aimed to switch before 40 because I figured the body would only become more susceptible to disease in middle age.

I never planned to switch to veganism for the sake of athletic performance, but I can safely write that so far, my results as they pertain to running are bettering my expectations. I’ve heard arguments both for and against veganism as it relates to athletic performance. To that I respond, athletic performance is pretty secondary to me at this stage of my life. I was already an athlete with a full collegiate career and retirement, so I’m not “chasing” marginal gains.

A vegan diet can be broad in food intake, and I should emphasize that I focus on plant-based whole foods. I’m not munching on “vegan cookies” all day. I am fully aware that being “vegan” does not necessarily make one “healthy.”

I find myself feeling better by the week. I’m convinced that I’m healing. My aches, pains, and stresses are minimal, and at the same time I’m running more miles per week than I ever have in my life. I’m recovering from intense exercise well and sleeping steadily better. By every metric I am more fit now than I was before I broke my collarbone (I started experimenting with vegetarianism a few months before my collarbone break, and have been attempting veganism through 2023). Obviously time will tell how this diet transfers to running and cycling events, but I don’t see a plant-based diet as a detriment to my exercise. So far, I’d say it’s boosting my performance.

Sustaining veganism practically requires the ability to cook ones own food, in my opinion. Don’t just quit eating meat and looking around for microwaveable meatless foods. It helps to have the ability (or learn the ability) to cook meals with all-natural, plant-based ingredients that you enjoy. Otherwise it can be an act of masochism.

I find that eating until I’m full is key, and that requires eating what can visibly appear to be larger portions (the food is less calorie dense). On a diet without meat, it can take a very, very full plate, or several plates, to fill the stomach. But enjoying what you eat is the only way to make it sustainable.

I’ve been mostly enjoying the recipes in Dan Buettner’s book, The Blue Zones Kitchen. My own dinner staples have been mostly from the book: herbal minestrone, tofu stir fry, and corn hash. I like to supplement those with buffalo cauliflower or air fried kale chips. I bring this up to emphasize again that a consistently hungry vegan will probably not be a vegan for long.

I observe that there are a lot of sick people in the US right now, which is one of the reasons I want to mention veganism’s potential. A lot of sickness can be remedied through food choice. That’s especially difficult when grocery stores are plagued with 90% processed crap and when fast food tends to be the most affordable option. Affordable veganism is possible and can be relatively easy to prepare. A primary problem, in my opinion, is that it’s not a common part of our culture; those who need it most are often unaware of its existence.

So if you’re reading this and had floated the idea of veganism before, I say give it a try.

The Pain Debate

A few days ago I watched a runner struggle to complete an 8-mile run due to what appeared to be severe knee injuries. As a result of her injuries she ran nearly straight-legged, as though her legs were stilts. Watching this run made me wince. I still don’t know how it’s even possible to run without bending your knees at all.

It is often a mistake, I think, to label “pushing through injury” a virtue. For many, though, pushing through pain is not only a virtue, it is a badge of honor. I do wonder if it is linked to the post-Industrial quest for something better in the distance, a quest that requires an eternal struggle for more.

Pushing forward in spite of injury rarely if ever improves anything. Doing so is often the equivalent of jogging on a high-speed treadmill, or jogging underwater in the midst of a powerful ocean current. Any attempt to move forward will just throw you back more violently.

I think of a story that I read in the book The Way of the Ultrarunner. A Kenyan runner was brought to England in order to run, and hopefully win, an ultramarathon event. At the event he was comfortably in the lead with over half of the race complete when he suddenly stopped. He grinned and didn’t appear to be in pain. When asked why he stopped he replied, “I hurt my toe.”

His sponsors could barely contain their fury. Hurt his toe? Of all the things elite athletes have powered through over the years… why would an established marathon runner stop for a sore toe? Yet his fellow Kenyan runners praised him. They saw the good in prioritizing and cherishing his body.

In the debate between which is better, I lean towards the Kenyan runner’s approach. I think back to two incidents from my adolescence:

In the first incident I was at a high school swimming practice. In the middle of a long swim I developed what felt like a severe stitch in my side. It was piercing to the point that I struggled to breathe. I stopped swimming and climbed out of the pool. An assistant coach was running the practice and quickly barked at me to resume the workout. I left the pool anyways. I trusted my instinct, which told me that something was wrong.

“Just get in the water, it’s nothing you can’t toughen out,” he kept saying.

Though he was furious, I felt that I did the right thing. It can be difficult when a figure of authority has a conflicting opinion to your own, especially when you’re young. Yet life is short and health is shorter still. What if the issue was catastrophic? Is finishing a boring swim practice worth permanent injury?

In the second incident I was a bit older. During a high school flag football game, I took a nasty fall on my elbow while sprinting. A golfball-sized swelling developed on the elbow and I could not bend it for several days. I do recall seeing a doctor for it. Eventually, after the swelling eased a little, I was pressured to compete at a swim meet, though the elbow had not fully healed. It still didn’t bend without pain. Yet I felt immense pressure to compete from all sides; in fact, I don’t think there was a single voice in my ear telling me not to compete.

I did reluctantly compete through the injury, and in retrospect I regret doing so. The elbow healed, but the muscle healed a bit oddly around the bone, and now there is a popping sensation, albeit a painless one, each time I bend the arm. It was not until recently that I visited an Orthopedic who assured me that although the injury healed a bit oddly, it would never cause an issue (just a harmless “pop”).

And what if the injury did not heal well? How much would I have regretted giving into social pressure and competing through my injury then?

You often walk a fine line when deciding whether to exercise through pain. You can feel immense pressure from both peers and from time itself. Maybe there is a marathon in two months and you suddenly develop an ache in your right knee. Do you run through it? Do you find a method of strength training to address what might be a physical deficiency causing the injury? Do you make a change to your technique that potentially minimizes the chance of the injury worsening?

Whatever you do, I believe there is virtue in erring on the side of caution. There is a time to maximize effort, and it’s not when you’re injured. You cannot opt to return to a routine that caused your pain in the first place. It is pointless to resume the activity that caused your injury without at least first evaluating whether you can make an adjustment that may prevent recurrence.

I admittedly find caution to be difficult. I often want to challenge myself. I often have a little voice inside my head saying, “If you can just overcome that pain in that one little part of your body, you can make it.” Admittedly, I’ve also had instances where I pushed through an injury that was fairly severe (and paid for it for months afterwards).

My own history has shown me that caution rewards more than risk when it comes to injury. Hopefully I can find the courage to stop myself on a run in the event of a hurt toe.

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.

Getting Back Up: Returning to Running

I just completed a full week of running. I broke my collarbone on November 6th and completely avoided exercise for the rest of the month; I believe that healing something like a bone break requires as much rest as possible. In that timespan I lost a considerable amount of conditioning and mobility, especially in the arm attached to the broken bone.

I still have a lot of physical therapy to go before I’m “fully active”, but it does feel great to resume running. I notice my collarbone more often than not, but the pain is never more than a dull ache.

I’m beginning a buildup towards a marathon. I was asked by a friend if, considering the collarbone break, I intended to cancel my marathon event. The answer is, “Definitely not.” My marathon isn’t until the beginning of April. I tell myself that people have bounced back from worse. This is true. Hell, Bane broke Batman’s back and he still managed to heal and return for another fight.

There are some issues that I’ll have to deal with over the next few weeks. One is that for the next month or so I’ll need to sacrifice strength training for physical therapy. That’s just how it is. We only have so much time in the day. Strength training can enhance endurance running performance, but the difference is negligible compared to time devoted to actual running. I’m just glad that I can run right now.

My marathon training plan focuses my first few weeks on a specific running duration, with runs held mostly to a “perceived effort” intensity of “5 out of 10” or lower. This is part of a phased approach to training. The purpose of the first phase is to focus the body on adapting to a higher volume. I’m lucky that the first phase of running is mostly at a low intensity: I wouldn’t want to do much sprinting right now anyways, nor do I think it would be a good idea.

On Saturday, I did participate in a Saint Louis running event—a 12k run—in order to work on my pacing. Having been immobile for a month, I tempered my speed expectations and made the goal of this event to pace my run well. I did manage to do this. I negative split the run (the second half of my run was faster than the first half), which is the first time I’ve managed to do this at an event. If there is a “lesson learned” from the event, it’s that I switched to a faster gear of speed a little too soon; the final half mile was absolutely hellish.

I followed that event with a slow-paced one hour and 45 minute run this morning. And wow was it slow. However, it wasn’t as slow as the same run I did the week before. That’s a good sign; it means that I’m progressing, not regressing, and my conditioning is improving.

I’m happy with where I’m at, all things considered. It could always be worse. The collarbone broke, but the bone could have struggled to reattach. It could have required surgery. I could have ruptured a tendon, or suffered long Covid. I still don’t recommend breaking your collarbone—attempting to sleep is absolute hell—but there are worse injuries (though admittedly not that many).

Though bone breaks are never fun, I have no choice but to remain an optimist. Life’s too short not to find a reason to smile. Each injury makes me appreciate health that much more.

Health is a finite thing, a resource far more scarce than oil or gold. Bodily attrition continues gradually and eventually loses to the onslaught of maladies trying to break in. There comes a day when no Trojan Horse is necessary to enter; the gates collapse with the final push of Father Time. Yes, our days are numbered, so I find it purposeful to spend them doing the things that I enjoy.

Steps Forward

My first week of physical therapy for a broken collarbone is complete. I have about five weeks to go if I heal well.

The first week consisted of various up, down, sideways, and diagonal movements with the arm and shoulder. In some exercises I stood and in others I sat. In some exercises I could barely move the arm without pain, while others I completed with relative ease. Some exercises had me hold a towel, others a stick, and others a stretch band.

I do feel that my mobility is already increasing. I also like my physical therapist. My favorite part of physical therapy is actually not the exercises themselves, but rather the connection shared with a therapist. I have better recollection of a long conversation about pizza than I do the specific exercise repetitions I did.

I managed to run four days this week. I am beginning a “building” phase of a marathon training plan. This week only included slow-paced running, most of it done at a perceived effort of “4 out of 10.” The idea is to comfortably accumulate volume and adapt to it. I did not expect to begin training under these circumstances, but that’s life. We play the cards we’re dealt.

The bone aches a bit less with each run and the “bad arm” swings with a little more ease. I felt the bone for every second of the first run, but that aching feeling is already diminishing.

My running performance has frankly been terrible and that’s okay—my conditioning worsened severely over the last month spent in a sling—but I’m also improving a little each day. It’s only natural that the fall occurs much more quickly than the climb. I can tell by my heart rate and pace metrics that I’m adapting well though. The heart rate is steadily lowering while the pace is quickening, and that is just in one week.

After the first run, intense inflammation struck my right foot, the same foot that I sprained a year ago. With each day, though, this seems to ease a little, and subsequent runs haven’t worsened it.

That’s one difficult part about recovering from an injury: you emerge from a cast or sling with a weakened body that is more susceptible to injury. One has to tread carefully to prevent another setback.

I think of a Megadeth song, “Soldier On,” about the innate need to just keep going. Despite a few setbacks, I find myself striving to stand back up again.

Here’s to health in 2023.

The Expense of the Present

I had a dream last night in which I was on a party boat, somewhere near a far-off Pacific island, along with several coaches and teammates from my adolescence. The boat skidded over the gentle waves of a clear blue Pacific towards an ethereal sunset. The sun washed everything in gold.

One of the coaches on the boat was an assistant swimming coach from when I was eleven years old named Will. I found myself telling him about my current training.

“I’m 37,” I told him, “And I’m wondering if I’ve had enough. I’m broken down, but I can still do it. And yet, what more is there to prove? I’m still performing at a high level at this age, but how much longer should I go?”

In the dream, it seemed, I was still competing as an elite level swimmer.

Yet the coach’s eyes were transfixed on the ocean, and he was barely paying attention. He didn’t care. Competition was a long time ago for him. He had moved on and shifted his priorities. Here, it seemed, the priority was to enjoy the beauty that the world offered.

“Should I compete another year?” I asked. I gazed around at the other coaches and teammates, but none of them paid any mind. They were relaxing and having some alcoholic beverages.

“I think I have another 42 second 100 yard freestyle in me,” I added. Yet no one responded.

“I think I can keep competing, but I’m tired. What am I chasing for? Should I go another year?”

Finally, another coached turned toward me and shrugged.

I looked down and realized that I was wearing competition apparel, whereas everyone else in the boat wore trunks and beach shirts.

Obviously my days as a competitive swimmer ended a long time ago, but currently I find myself building towards a marathon.

Maybe the dream was a reminder that a focus on the future, a focus on plotting and competing, must come at some expense of the present.

As I rehab this collarbone break, I find my mind often thinking of “getting the arm back to where it was.”

And what if it doesn’t? The ocean remains unchanged. The sun maintains its beauty. The coaches of the past do not cast judgment.

An aging athlete should not lose sight of the present.

The Halloween Half-Marathon

Following my San Diego half marathon, I needed about a week’s worth of physical recovery. The few jogs I did were light, easy, and brief. My legs were sore.

I couldn’t rest for too long though, because I signed up to run the Saint Louis GO! Halloween half-marathon just three weeks after San Diego. Running two half-marathons in three weeks is asking a lot from a body that has never run an event at that distance before.

So I took an easy week, followed it with a more traditional training week, and then followed that with a “taper” week.

I don’t consider taper to be recovery, though there is some recovery involved. It is a reduction in training volume, but the training conducted still has a focus on race-specific movement. Taper is the final tuning of the instrument before the symphony. The musician has already rehearsed and the dexterity has already been earned through hours of practice; there are just a few necessary tweaks needed to deliver a rousing melody at the right pitch.

As running is somewhat new to me, I had no idea if my plan would work, or if it was feasible to run a second decent half marathon within weeks of the first one.

Physically, I felt sluggish and lethargic until about three days before the Halloween half-marathon. I had about three days of decent sleep leading into the event and ate mostly natural foods between my events, however. It wasn’t until two days before the Halloween half that I believed it could be a pretty good run; I woke up one morning and suddenly felt like my usual self.

The hours leading to the start were a blur. I arrived at the race with my girlfriend (who ran it with me), stretched, had an energy gel, and lined up near the start line. I felt loose and relaxed. I promised myself that I would not take this race out too fast (I was out way, way too fast on the previous one).

The challenge with this event was that it mixed 5k, 10k, and half marathon participants in the same racing pool. So as bodies propelled forward at the start, I had no idea who was running what.

Another challenge was that this event featured much more elevation than the San Diego event via some brutally steep hills. Whereas my San Diego race had about 80 feet total of elevation gain, this was estimated to have 500 feet of elevation gain.

I felt the elevation during the first mile, which was up a steep incline. Runners shot forward at fast cadences.

Hold back, I told myself. Just hold back.

As my calves tightened and the hill ahead of me steepened, I slowed my cadence. People flew past me. This was alarming. The race was just starting, and I was falling behind. I decided I’d let them take the lead here. This later proved to be the right move. It was only one mile of more than thirteen, and were plenty more hills to challenge me.

I passed my first mile marker at 6:26. This was about 20 seconds slower than my first mile in San Diego. I felt fresh, though, in spite of the early hill. I had 12 miles to make up ground.

I accelerated downhill, letting my longer stride give an advantage as I loped downward, and passed a few runners.

Mile three saw another hill, this one longer and equally as steep. My lungs heaved more than I wanted them to. I knew that I was still off of my San Diego pace, but still, I had to let myself slow a little. So I did. Then, like after the first mile, I accelerated downhill.

Mile four, mile five, mile six. I made no moves. I didn’t accelerate, or really do anything interesting. I just sort of plodded forward. But my pace was pretty good, and that was enough.

At one point near mile five, my pace faltered and several runners passed me. I felt my legs tighten and my hear pump louder. Then I arrived at an aid station and grabbed some water. I recognized one of the volunteers at the station from my running group.

“Let’s go Matt, you’re doing great!” He shouted. Suddenly my pain evaporated and I accelerated forward. I was back on pace.

I am Virgo, so I studied the course before the event. I knew that the hills only encompassed the first six miles of the race. The next seven miles would be relatively flat. A successful race, I decided, would be dependent on feeling fresh for the final seven miles.

Mile six proved to be devastating. It was the steepest hill yet. Winding and twisting along streets that cut through a rural Missouri landscape, it stretched brutally upward and seemed to have no end. Was this a hill or a mountain? My pace slowed and alarmingly so. My legs grew heavy and suddenly it was like one of those bad dreams where you’re running from a threat, but standing in place. For a brief moment in time I was a full two minutes slower than my goal pace. A runner passed me. Still, the fatigue was mounting. I knew I had to risk a bad time and slow down.

Then we reached the hill’s apex, and I realized that I was quickly recovering, and before I knew it I wasn’t hurting all that bad. I accelerated downhill again and found myself running shoulder-to-shoulder with the runner who had just passed me.

“How you doing?” He said. I was out of breath and managed to say, “Not bad.” I’m sure my face said otherwise. That hill hurt. I felt confident that I had enough energy to finish the race, but damn… it hurt.

I regained the lead over him, determined not to let up my quickening tempo, but heard his feet padding the earth close behind me. We passed mile seven. Six miles to go. Now the race begins.

I checked my watch. I was now even with my San Diego running pace. In that event, my pace had slowed down by mile four. I was relatively steady today and making ground on that race. This meant I had a shot at a best time.

Mile 8, mile 9, mile 10. Flat earth ahead of me, edged by trees and walls of their yellow and orange foliage. Every mile looks like the one before. My legs steadily tightening. My cadence steadily slowing. What was effortless thirty minutes ago was suddenly a struggle. Suddenly the aches in my calves from the earlier hills are in pain. My breathing is heavier. Here we go. Just focus on getting through this mile.

Mile 11. I’m still in this. I no longer have an acceleration in me; the fatigue is too much. It’s a matter of maintaining pace now. I hear the familiar runner behind me speaking to me.

“Thanks,” he says. “Your pace is bringing out the best in me.” He’s hurting too.

“Likewise,” I reply. There are no losers here. I love the camaraderie. We want each other to succeed. “We’ll get to the finish and hug,” I say. And so we run on.

Mile 12. Where is my mind? It’s on my legs. I’m tightening too much. The pain is getting intense in my calves, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to change my running form a little so that I land on my heels, not my forefeet. Anything to keep the pain at bay. But that doesn’t work either, so I stick with what’s natural for me.

I’m forcing myself to keep pace, but my pace is still slowing. However, it’s not slowing as much as it did in San Diego.

The last mile. My running rival passes me. I have to let him go. I’m taxed. To try and stay ahead risks injury. Better to just chug along. Besides, if I leave a little reserve in the tank, I’ll have enough for another best time on the next run. But damn it hurts. My mind starts screaming, “Just walk it in!” But I know I can’t do that. I’m so close to making it. I won’t let it count for myself if I walk.

Suddenly a left turn and I see the inflatable arch at the finish. I’m right there. One more runner passes me, and I notice it’s someone in my running group. He’s a great guy, and I’m glad he makes it. I spring to life and pick up my cadence. I run through the finish line, then hunch over. I’m in serious pain; the final mile was a blur. Everything hurts. I can’t pinpoint any exact source of agony. I high five my running group partner. I exchange a hug with the other runner who passed me on that final mile.

“This is your first year running?” He says. “Damn, you’re a natural at these things.”

My final time was more than a minute faster than it was in San Diego. And in spite of a slowdown over the final mile, I paced this one better. It was a best time. More of a struggle, but a best time.

I finished second overall in my age group. Not bad for a swimmer! And there were over 800 participants.

I got a pumpkin pie as a prize. I then ate some donuts and had a latte. I made it. The season is over. The journey is complete.

My running quest ended with the fastest run of my life. I’m triumphant, or that’s how it feels. But what did I win? What happens after the curtains are drawn? Where to next? What’s the aftermath? What is the grand life epiphany? Have I solved some deeper existential crisis?

I have some water and note only my own worn body and a free pumpkin pie. But the fall air braces me and the smiles at the finish are contagious.

I wanted to prove that I could bounce back, that the car hit last year wouldn’t take me down, that I was still alive, and frankly, that I still had life inside of me. I wanted to prove that I’d return, and run farther and faster than I ever had in my life. This was a personal battle. I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about it. It’s a good thing I don’t, because running at these lengths is very, very personal.

My previously injured foot feels good. I feel good. I’ll take a few weeks off of running before prepping for the full marathon though.

Until next time!

Moving Forward to Go Backward

I personally find distance running to be a means of reversing course through the act of going forward. I think that’s why so many people discover their passion for it after the age of 30.

Endurance running is an act of discomfort, and potentially agony. When completely focused on each stride, on one’s breathing, and on the immediate environs, I believe distance running steadily rips off the facade that we created via adulthood.

Humanity never needed to run a long distance as fast as possible until relatively recently in history. Maybe it’s a draw now because there’s too much comfort in our lives. Maybe we’ve realized that comfort doesn’t necessarily lead to happiness, nor does comfort provide any important answers about our existence. A virtual meeting doesn’t make us “happier” than a real one, and an electronic purchase doesn’t make us “happier” than a trip to the mall.

So what do we do to rediscover meaning? We brutalize our legs and feet in half marathons, marathons, and ultra marathons.

I think back to the way I ran when I was young. Running was spontaneous and wild, a series of zigzags with no destination and only reckless abandon. It had no splits, required no heart rate monitor, was free of charge (all you needed was functional feet), and lacked a coach. It was always equipped with something many adult runners lack: a smile.

I miss those days and sadly know that it will now be difficult, if not impossible, to recapture them. I sign up for events and note my speed, my stride, my cadence, and my total time. I calculate, though I am conscious of my calculations. I push myself to exhaustion in an effort to reach some sort of zenith that really means nothing to anyone but me. And yet I still chase it.

This type or running, however, is fun in its own right. The chase is worthwhile, and I’m currently not sure why. And in this more predictable and calculated path forward, I try to bring back that wild youth, that gunslinger who was willing to dare a burst of speed up or downhill, willing to jump over a fallen log or stop and note the wildlife lurking in the underbrush, willing to deviate from all expectations. I try to revert back by going forward. So maybe the best I can hope for is a mixture of young and old.

Still, in spite of a watch on my wrist, with each additional mile I find myself hoping to rediscover the lost in me.

Story of a Half Marathon

My first half marathon event is over.

I signed up for the Pacific Beach half marathon early this year. My brother and I signed up together; it was supposed to be our “misogi,” which is best described as a challenge that has at least a 50% chance of failure. I try to complete a misogi every year if I can. Why do a misogi? I believe that most of us are too comfortable. As we settle into adulthood, most of us make the pursuit of comfort a pursuit when in fact it should be the opposite.

I had never run more than 3 straight miles before this year and spent most of last year rehabilitating some torn ligaments in my right foot. So, I figured there would be a chance that this event would end with the dreaded “DNF” (did not finish). It seemed like a fitting misogi.

My running improved faster than expected this year, and by June I realized that completing the event would not be an issue. The event transformed from a misogi into a stepping stone for something else. I decided I wanted to run longer and give myself time goals. I wanted to run a marathon. Better yet, I wanted to run a marathon at a good clip.

Still, I needed to complete this half marathon first. This was an important marker for me. That’s why I logged as many running miles each week as I could muster and spent the week before the event mostly resting.

My brother and I arrived at sunny San Diego, California, on Thursday at dusk. The sunset was a beautiful strip of glowing ember, even at the airport, and a gentle breeze soothed me even though the prevalent stench of pollution and car fumes was far from balmy.

My clumsiest move of the weekend happened outside the airport. My water bottle fell out of my backpack as I exited the shuttle for the rental car agency. My foot then his the water bottle, rolled, and I fell back, flat on my ass. It was like something out of a bad comedy film. I was fine, so I had to laugh at myself.

We ate Thai food that night (I had a tofu bowl because I have been mostly eating vegetarian for the past few months) and stayed at an AirBnB located just one block from the beach. The sound of nearby ocean waves and the crisp coastal air prevented any anxiety about the half marathon.

The next day was spent relaxing and enjoying San Diego city. We started the day eating açaí bowls at a local coffee shop, slurping lattes, and having cold water baths in the ocean (the Pacific water is freezing).

I had a warmup jog along a trail on the beach that gave an excellent view of the sparkling light blue water and a nearby marina. In the distance I could see the rolling San Diego hills, which are dotted with homes and trees.

The jog was a “shakeout” run (just allowing for some bloodflow after a day in an airplane). I did feel my right hip after my clumsy fall the day before, but the pain wasn’t serious.

Later that day we visited San Diego zoo, where I finally saw some koalas in person. Koalas are animals I admire more than almost anything except for the almighty sloths for their calm demeanor and smart priorities (eating and sleeping). As a light sleeper, I find it to be a lifelong goal to sleep more like a koala.

The half marathon arrived before I wanted it to. We woke up early, around 4:30 am, to prepare for it (it was slated to begin at 6:30 am). I ate some granola and drank some electrolytes, along with a cup of coffee, and did about ten minutes of foam rolling. This was the day I had prepared all year for: my misogi.

I didn’t know how many people were participating in this event. I guessed beforehand that it would be about 200 or so, but this was a wild guess. How many people would actually sign up to run for more than 13 miles (21 km) early on a Saturday morning?

The route for the event went along Pacific beach in San Diego. That’s why I chose the event over any other (no offense to Saint Louis, but if you’re gonna be in pain, you should be in pain on a beach!).

My brother and I arrived at the start line; it was packed. There were easily over a thousand people (we later found out there were about 1,500 participants). Whoa. This was going to be bigger than I thought.

My race plan was to begin the first three minutes at a fast pace, much faster than my targeted average race pace, while my legs were fresh. After three minutes I would dramatically slow down to a more comfortable pace, and then slowly build back up again over the next 90 minutes of running.

I told most people that I didn’t have a time goal, but admittedly I wanted to break 1 hour and 30 minutes. This was a significant marker in my mind because it was the pace required to break 3 hours in the marathon. It would require running faster than 7 minutes per mile on average, which I figured would be a formidable challenge for someone’s first half marathon.

A surge of adrenaline poured through me as the event started. I found myself near the front as the race began. More than a thousand runners were behind me. My cadence was fast, much faster than I intended. I checked my watch: I was faster than 6 minute per mile. That’s way too fast, I thought. I tried to slow down a little, but the excitement was overwhelming.

The first mile was over and I was still near the front. My GPS watch beeped: 6:12 for the first mile. Crap, I thought. That’s way too fast. I didn’t slow down enough.

Maybe you can maintain, I thought to myself. I kept the pace steady. The race led me up and down some winding hills, the ocean edging the path to my right and a beautiful park to my left. The final mile of the race was on the beach itself and required running on sand. It would finish in the sand. I would collapse, having completed my 13.1 mile run, facing the ocean, and I would raise my fists towards the heavens in triumph.

Another mile ended. 6:13 for the second mile. I was still too fast: way, way too fast. My heart rate had elevated near it’s maximum capacity. That’s not a good sign, I thought. And still, the legs felt pretty fresh. But I knew that I needed to slow down. My mind knew that my body would shut down before the end if I kept it going. Collapsing was now a bigger risk than running a slow time.

I slowed my pace down about 30 seconds per mile and a few runners passed me. Still, I felt more comfortable. My breathing steadied. My eyes focused directly in front of me. I kept telling myself to run my own race. It means nothing if you don’t finish.

I crossed mile 3. 6:30 for the third mile. A little slower, but still not slow enough. I decelerated further. At mile four, another runner passed me. Then another. I stayed steady. The other 1,470 runners or so were still behind me. And I was on pace to break 1 hour and 30 minutes.

I refueled near mile five. Shortly before an aid station I reached for a gel packet that was stuffed in my shorts and managed to swallow its contents while running. The taste was bitter. I coughed; my throat itched from the flavor. I had never eaten a gel while running at this intensity. That lack of practice with fueling, I realized, was my first rookie mistake.

A few minutes later I started to cramp in my right side. I tried to stretch it out with my hand, while continuing to run, and took some especially deep breaths. Another runner passed me. He was younger than me and looked impervious to fatigue. We ran alongside each other for a few minutes. He could somehow tell that I was cramping.

“Are you okay?” He asked. My face was grimaced but the cramp was subsiding. “Yeah,” I managed to grunt. He nodded and continue on. So did I. I was fine. I’ve had worse cramps.

Just ahead I heard him cheering for some other runners. “You all look great, keep it up!” He said. That’s one thing I love about the camaraderie of these distance events. It isn’t so much a competition between people as it is a competition among people. And in that competition, everyone has only one opponent: themselves. It’s for that reason that strangers in the same race are willing to cheer for each other and lift each other’s spirits up.

I crossed 7 miles, past halfway, and my legs still felt pretty good. I swallowed my second of three gels in spite of my stomach telling me not to. Then I took a cup of water from one of the volunteers and swallowed what I could. I coughed a little out. “You look great!” A volunteer shouted. I wanted to shout, “Hell yeah!” But I was too occupied with coughing to speak.

Keep the rhythm, I kept telling myself. You trained to finish this. You trained to break one hour and thirty minutes, and you’re on track.

At mile 9, I had to cross over an arched bridge. It was the steepest incline of the race, and as I fought upward with my tired legs, I realized that my pace was slowing. I checked my watch at the top of the bridge. I had slowed to 7 minutes per mile in the upward trudge.

I tried to race downhill to gain back some speed, and felt myself accelerate a little. But the watch said I only accelerated to 6:40 per mile, and that felt like a sprint. The fatigue was officially settling in. Pain becomes a frequent visitor in the world of endurance running. You might as well consider it a guest resident.

Four miles left. You’ve run four miles so many times. I fought to keep my feet kicking up, and focused on just one mile, my sole focus on keeping its time faster than 7 minutes. I crossed mile ten: 6 minutes and 47 seconds. Success! But it required everything I had. It was a sprint, and it nearly depleted me. How was I going to do it again?

I needed to swallow my final gel, but I didn’t want to. My stomach felt bloated. Still, I knew that I needed fuel. I forced the final gel down my throat, a little worried that I might puke it back out. I didn’t puke it out, but my stomach was telling me, “absolutely no more gels!”

Time itself, as well as my pace, was slowing down. Mile eleven felt as long as the first five miles combined. The legs were now refusing to keep up the fast cadence I had established over the past hour. You’re so close, damnit, I thought. Just a few measly miles. You can’t collapse now.

The race rounded a bend in another park and on the other side was the final stretch of pacific beach. The next mile was on a walkway beside the beach and the final mile was on the beach itself.

Another two runners passed me, and I felt as though I was in a bad dream where you’re running through quicksand, or where you’re sprinting but barely moving.

“You’re doing great! You look great!” Volunteers kept saying. That had to be a lie. But, I was still maintaining, still holding on. I suddenly wanted to finish more than anything on earth. Still, I shuddered at the thought of seeing myself on video at this point.

I completed mile eleven and the time was 7 minutes exactly. I slowed a little, but not as severely as I feared. In fact, I was doing fine. And I knew that as long as I didn’t collapse, I would beat my goal time.

Where I once galloped, I was now shuffling. But I knew I had to keep going.

I passed the mile 12 marker and followed the race path as it crossed onto the vast sandy beach. The finish was in sight, just a few minutes ahead. Waves lapped the shore to my left. Spectators cheered to my right. From somewhere beyond the finish line, pop music blared and people were celebrating.

In my fatigue, my feet slipped and skidded over the sand. It was like a movie where the protagonist takes his last agonizing strides as he escapes a brutal desert.

My eyes locked on every step in front of me. I maneuvered toward the wet sand that lined the ocean because it was firmer and more packed. I skipped over seaweed and seashells. I thought of that game you play when you’re a kid, when you run along a sidewalk while trying to avoid the cracks.

What a fitting end to a half marathon, I thought. The run ends where life itself began: at the sea.

With just one minute of running left, another racer passed me. I was close enough to the end, though, that it was okay. Let’s just end this thing.

And then I crossed the finish line and heard my name announced. I raised a fist and smiled. Volunteers rushed to me and gave me water and a banana. I bent over, resting my palms on my knees. I wanted to go to sleep in the sand, right there, on the spot.

The final runner that passed me gave me a fist bump. Another of the runners approached me and gave me a hug.

“You had a hell of a run,” he said. “Taking it out so fast and somehow maintaining and finishing well. That’s impressive.”

And suddenly I wanted to cry. Instead I limped around and absorbed the moment. I made it. 13.1 miles. I ate a banana and waited for my brother.

My final time was 1 hour and 28 minutes. I was two minutes faster than my goal time. I placed 5th in my age group, which for a non-runner in his first half marathon, and in a field of 1,500 people, I figured was pretty damn good. I’ll take it.

And so, a new journey begins. I hope that race was the first of many. I finished a half marathon. A foot that a year ago seemed like it might never heal, held strong. I felt good. I felt happy.

My brother crossed the finish line having ran the entire event as well. It was the first time he had ever run that far.

We celebrated with Mexican food and a San Diego Chargers baseball game. The 2022 misogi is complete.

I have a full marathon next year. That will be quite a journey.

Circle

They say that life is a circle and we end it at the beginning, but with a different lens to view everything that we think we’ve already seen.

I find myself stretching for a Wednesday evening run with my training group. I’m 37 and one year removed from a bicycle crash that sidelined me for the final third of 2021.

I’m at the base of a long hill on Delmar Boulevard. I decide to run with a few individuals who are both fast and experienced. They ask what pace I intend to hold. “I’ll just try to hang with you guys,” I say. I don’t know whether I can. We’ll find out.

A long uphill slope toward the Centennial Greenway encompasses warmup. I’m feeling light and fresh. Ten minutes in and I barely break a sweat. At least I can warm up with these guys, I think.

We cross onto the Centennial Greenway and stretch for a bit. Then we’re off to the races and I’m holding 6 minutes per mile (3 minutes 45 seconds per km). The adrenaline from my competition gives me an added boost. My heart’s racing and my cadence is increasing. Keep your knees up, I keep telling myself. I know nothing about running technique or if this is even sound advice. I tell it to myself anyways; it’s just a reminder to keep my form.

Ten minutes go by and I’m running should-to-shoulder with the group. They’re surprised. So am I.

I’ve been here before. I’ve competed before, just not on land. Years ago, lap after lap, swimming against the best in the world at the Lee and Jones Jamal Swim Center in Austin, Texas. I trained and competed until I had nothing left physically and mentally to give to the sport of swimming. Then I swore off competition.

I ended my swimming career as a master of technique but began it as a blank slate. I’m back to the blank slate, but this time I’m on land, hitting it with high impact. The vibe is familiar. The racing is familiar. The cast is new. I like that.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Matt. I’ll keep you in check,” one of the runners barks at me. I get an energy boost and a desire to beat him. The old racing spirit is somewhere inside after all.

We’re forty minutes into our run and our pace is actually quickening. I check my pace. We’ve actually sped up by another 30 seconds per mile.

My midsection is tightening and I’m hyperventilating. I’m covered in sweat. I don’t know how long I can sustain this effort. Probably not much longer. I have to be close to maximizing my heartrate. My legs are tightening. My face is grimaced. Keep pace, I keep telling myself.

You’ve been here before. Competing, climbing. You swore you’d never do it again.

Thoughts of the early swimming days flood through me. Preparing for swim meets at age 12, at age 15. Stretching and studying competition. The endless hours chasing and being chased. The long climb from an overlooked age grouper to an NCAA Division 1 record holder.

It’s a different sport. I’m a different age. I retired from swimming in 2008, almost 15 years ago. I don’t understand running, at least not well, and not yet. I don’t even know if I’m any good, really, though I suspect I can improve a lot. That might be enough. The joy is there. If the joy is there, nothing else matters.

The run ends. Somehow, I won the session. I “fist bump” the other runners. It was an effort I never would have given had I been running alone. I’ve trained to the brink before. I know what it’s like. That’s a major advantage.

The added sense of camaraderie gives me an added sense of purpose and an added feeling of accomplishment. I haven’t felt that in a long time. It’s much more fun when you accomplish something with someone else. I almost forgot that I enjoy training with a group.

It’s a different sport and I’m in a different phase of life. I’m climbing, but I don’t know why, or what the destination is. I know there’s a marathon ahead. I know that I’m enjoying this process.

I also realize that somehow I arrived back at the start, albeit with a much different perspective of it all.

Soldier On

It seems fitting that Dave Mustaine, the frontman of legendary metal act Megadeth, just released what some critics are already calling his band’s best album since Countdown to Extinction. The guy has an endless supply of vigor and musical fervor. He’s survived decades in an industry that sees most rock acts dissolve in a blink. And if you thought that he might mellow with age, you were wrong. The new Megadeth album The Sick, The Dying… And The Dead! is as fast-tempo’d and furious as anything Megadeth has ever dropped.

Mustaine survived cancer; his purported 51 radiation treatments, coupled with the pandemic, seem to have redoubled his artistic flair, as well as his awareness of his own mortality.

One of my favorite tracks, Soldier On, is about the desire to persist in spite of anything, or anyone, that life hurdles at you. It’s about the simple need to keep going.

The song makes me think about why I embark on long runs. Why go so far? Why push past fatigue, mile after mile, hitting the earth with a force equal to up to five times the weight of my own body? Simply put, because it’s only when you exhaust yourself fully that you understand who you are. Maybe it’s another form of Tyler Durden’s treatment for materialism (“It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything”).

As the miles pass, the logical mind takes a back seat and a more primordial self helms the vehicle that is you. Your trivial anxieties and plannings for the future, your dreads and longings for the past, and all that’s left of your ego can seem to dissolve.

You’ve peeled every layer from the past that piled onto you over the years, and at the core is just an organic being attempting to persist, attempting to push forward, one step at a time. And that experience reveals an important part of what the core of your being actually wants: to soldier on.

Party Like It’s ‘99

On Wednesday I finally saw Rob Zombie live for the first time. He was my favorite solo artist in high school and I still listen to his hits from time to time.

Rob Zombie is immortal. He possesses more energy and vitality than lead singers half his age. He’s highly mobile throughout his show and rocks the dance moves of a lithe professional dancer. He’s a perennial headliner for a reason. Viewing the elaborate stage setup at his show is like glimpsing into another gothic world. His bandmates are also perfectionists. John 5, the lead guitarist, is possibly the most skilled soloist I’ve ever watched. The guy can flat-out shred.

Zombie is currently 57 years old and looks as lean and fit as ever. He’s also vegan and has been vegetarian since childhood. This is noteworthy to me because most long-lived cultures I read about eat a relatively large portion of natural carbohydrates and a relatively lower amount of meat (not all, but most). I am not vegan, but I often consider this.

What was my takeaway from watching my teenage idol perform at a crowded amphitheater in front of thousands of fans? Love what you do.

Do I love what I do? I find myself yearning for my hours when I’m free. I love cycling and have gained an appreciation for running. I love connecting with other runners and cyclists who share similar goals, who find themselves aging, yet are eager to accomplish physical feats that they never have before. But that’s not what I do.

An aspiring marathoner told me on our jog last week that he’s training to “give his son a story of something that he accomplished.” That’s what I enjoy learning about: people on their journeys, and how those journeys parallel my own. What can I learn from them? How many miles can we actually crank out together? What is our true limit on this planet?

“Love what you do.” Watching Zombie was a reminder that I need to write more and create more content.

The Need for a “What If”

I find myself needing a hypothetical “what if” in order to look forward to the future. That “what if” scenario is simple:

“What if my important accomplishment or action, which I was placed on this planet to fulfill, has not yet occurred?”

I find the need to posit this scenario because as a former elite athlete, it was easy to assume for the better part of a decade that my greatest accomplishment already transpired. This is a debilitating state of mind that ensnares many athletes because their athletic careers typically end well before the halfway marker of life.

I freed myself of this mental prison with a hypothetical question, and whether or not it’s true is inconsequential: “What if there is still a greater adventure ahead?”

I think of Bilbo Baggins and his reluctance to leave the safety of the Shire. After all, Gandalf reminds him, there is no guarantee of a safe return, or a return at all.

Yet something catalyzes Bilbo to embark on his greatest adventure and to eventually slay a dragon. He is about 50 years old when he leaves the Shire, which in theory would mark him well past his physical prime.

I am turning 37 soon. I spent the first quarter of age 36 learning to walk, and then run, again. As I embark on longer runs and longer bike rides I have no delusions of winning any sort of championships, nor do I care to.

There is, though, a unique excitement in knowing that I just ran or biked farther than I ever had in my life.

About a week ago I managed a long Sunday run of 15 miles (24 km). That was the longest run of my life, and I finished it feeling fresh. Today I biked a little more than 50 miles (80 km) without stopping. My “injured” foot remains in good health and I find myself feeling physically “lighter” than I have in the past.

Why do I feel lighter? Maybe the burden of expectations has finally been lifted from my spirit. Without it I’m free to experiment and fail.

I suspect that I have a lot of miles to run, and plenty of engine to run them. That’s why I signed up for my first full marathon, which will take place in April 2023. There’s plenty of time to build to it. I have a dream of running several. I’m in it for the long haul.

I don’t obsess over any sort of victory anymore, but I do feel a compulsion in my soul to finish my first marathon without stopping. Maybe it’s yet another form of my battle with my own mortality. Maybe I finally found the metaphorical dragon to slay, as Bilbo did. Or maybe the marathon is simply my “Gandalf”, my catalyst to introduce me to even better adventures ahead.

After all, why run roads when mountains are an option?

What if the best is yet to come?