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.

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.

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.

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.

We Lived Much Early

I had a random conversation with an old swimming teammate at the University of Texas today. I hadn’t chatted with him in at least 15 years, though I often think about him. He was an Olympic gold medalist whom I was intimidated by upon first meeting him. Over years, though, I found myself becoming close friends with him.

“We lived much early,” he told me as we reflected on our pasts. “So much so that it sometimes feels that life is not so short after all. But time does pass.”

I thought about that era of my life and realized that yes, we did live much early. We were on swimming national teams and enjoyed all the privileges that come with this. In a four-year span I traveled to Singapore, Thailand, Montreal, Sidney, and all over the United States. In that time I was part of an American-record setting relay and another World Championship winning relay. I competed at two Olympic Trials and finally retired from competition… all by age 22.

After the curtain call of my competition days, I moved to California for three years, tried in vain to enter Hollywood, moved back to North Carolina in defeat, worked in the corporate world, randomly embarked on a two-year stint of teaching English in China, returned to the US, and now live and work in Saint Louis. In my Saint Louis years I’ve embarked on two multi-day bikepacking trips, swam with sharks in the Bahamas, hiked through Yellowstone National Park in Montana, hiked through Shawnee National Forest in Illinois, and visited Puerto Rico, Mexico, Northern California, and Indiana. And I’m still leaving a lot out for the sake of brevity.

“We lived much early.”

I have blogged previously of my stubborn refusal to succumb to time; of how the fight is ultimately a losing battle, but one I’d prefer to lose while standing on my feet (or riding downhill on a bike) over a submission to the modern-day version of retirement.

Though I lived much early, as I reflect on the past two years, I think that I’m living even more now. And yes, it does still feel as though life is long. At some point I will have to accept that it isn’t.

And though I’ve had some close calls over the years, including a head tumor (the surgery was successful), getting hit by a car and tearing my foot, and breaking my collarbone in another cycling crash… time, which is symbolized by a dragon for me, and as a crocodile for Captain Hook… has not devoured me just yet.

More adventures remain ahead. I am healing from the latest wound. I gaze out at an endless ocean on Hook’s ship but do not yet hear the ticking clock, which rests in the stomach of a crocodile that still swims far from here.

I lick my wounds and get back up. I see no other option, though the collarbone aches today. Tomorrow is another day, and with it I’ll find another mountain to climb, and another good bottle of wine to imbibe.

The aim, of course, is to live much late.

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 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.

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.

The Last Day

My last day spent as a 36-year-old was a stark contrast from my last day as a 35-year-old.

I spent my last week at age 35 bedridden due to a bicycle injury that prevented me from running for the remainder of 2021. On my last day at age 35, I dreamt of running, but struggled to leave my apartment.

In contrast, I spent my last week at age 36 running longer distances than I ever had in my life. With each run my right foot feels better, not worse. I often imagine myself running like a Kenyan, gliding over the Iten hills and along the top edges of the terrain’s escarpments. In my dream I possess the seemingly effortless fluidity of a Kenyan athlete. I snap from this vision and reality reminds me that I don’t have their running ability, but then again, arguably no one else does either.

Because I ran throughout my last week at age 36, I slept for as long as possible through my last day at age 36. I ate donuts and drank a brown sugar shaken espresso from Starbucks. In short, I indulged, and I don’t regret it in the slightest. I hadn’t indulged in awhile. I might as well be gluttonous on the last day.

I visited a doctor for a final evaluation of an elbow injury that I suffered from a bike crash about a month ago. The X-rays were negative. The elbow sprained, but it did not tear. No surgery is needed. Time will heal the elbow. It might be weeks, and it might be months, but it’ll heal. That news was a very nice birthday present.

I continue to heal the pinched nerves in both of my hands, remnants of overuse during a bike packing trip I embarked on two weeks ago. I’m still reflecting on that trip and will post more about it.

I think of these injuries and realize that even when I’m healing my foot, I seem to be injuring other body parts.

I am about to finish repairing my gravel bike. In that aforementioned crash last month, the bike’s front wheel bent and its derailleur, cassette, and hanger broke. Yet somehow I didn’t break. The doctor I visited told me I have strong bones. I think that’s true, but these crashes also add up over time. I don’t know if I have another crash in me.

“How are you feeling?” The bike shop manager asked me when I took my damaged bike in for a repair. He noted my scrapes, bruises, and swollen elbow. It was a question I don’t often get from anyone besides my immediate loved ones.

We always ask, “How are you doing?” This beckons the default answer, “Good.” I was surprised that someone would ask how I’m feeling.

“I guess I’m good today,” I said.

“I mean, how are you feeling mentally, after the crash? Are you okay? Because after my last crash, I was never the same again. I wasn’t the same cyclist.”

I was touched that someone cared to ask that. It had been awhile since a relative stranger showed care for my wellbeing. I absorbed it for a moment. Was I really okay? Am I?

“I think it might be time for me to only bike on trails and greenways,” I said. I took a deep breath. There was a sense of finality in my words.

“I reached the same conclusion after my last crash,” he replied. “I hope you feel better though and keep cycling.”

“I’ll definitely keep cycling,” I said. “Maybe not on roads though.”

I left the shop and looked out at the clusters of brick and mortar buildings, the gaunt sky, and the constantly flowing currents of traffic that carried with them the acrid scent of car exhaust.

36 is over. There’s no getting it back. I was flawed for that period of time and I’m flawed now, but hopefully I learned a few things through the passage of time. It was quite a journey.

I’m on to 37. I’ll wake up and go for a run. Mentally, I won’t be running through a concrete cluster before work. I’ll be in Kenya, gliding through a valley, or along an escarpment, as the sun crests over the horizon. Away from the screens and keyboard warriors of the sedentary west, and away from the common materialistic ambitions and plastic goals that inundate the office.

Miles from me, a lion will stalk its prey. I will steadily accelerate my pace; the village has long-been out of sight.

Chasing the Personal Best

I had a pretty nasty bike crash last week. I was zipping through downtown and encountered a construction zone near the Convention Center Plaza. I made a left turn for a detour, thinking the detour road would be mostly smooth pavement, only to have my front tire hit a jagged crevice in the tarmac. My bike went over sideways and I crashed on my right side.

Lesson learned: never assume the road ahead will provide a smooth ride.

I slid over the pavement and felt the road peel away the skin on my right leg. My elbow and hip collided against the street with a thud. I knew immediately it wasn’t a light crash. I wished that I had been watching the road more carefully.

I looked around and realized that I was alone on that street. It was the cusp of dawn and the sun’s climb toward the horizon had rendered the streets in shades of lavender and indigo. I levered myself up and attempted to limp back home while carrying my bike. My apartment was only three blocks away. The bike derailleur broke, as did the hanger and chain. The handlebar tape tore up. The bike and I broke together.

I limped home and showered off the blood, then bandaged myself up. I had no anger or regret: the crash already happened and there’s no rewind button on time.

As the hours ticked by, my right elbow went numb and I realized that it was sprained. The sprain was not as severe as the foot injury I suffered a year ago, but I also knew that it would take several weeks to heal. By nightfall, there was almost no mobility in the elbow.

I joked that because the higher powers couldn’t injure my feet while I ran, they decided to hand me the occasional bike crash. We all need setbacks, after all.

Because of the elbow injury, I was unable to bike the rest of the week. So, I ran while maintaining my right arm in a position that was awkward yet comfortable. Each day, a little mobility returned to the arm.

This week was supposed to be my “season ending” running week. I had scheduled a 1600 meter timed run and a 10k run. I wanted to see what progress I had made over the last year, since healing my ankle injury from 2021. It was not ideal to be nursing a bunch of scrapes and bruises, as well as a sprained elbow, this week.

I believe that the body and mind treat all stresses the same: as a gravitational push downward on performance. Whether these stresses are from injury, emotions, or heavy exercise, stresses are essentially quicksand. Stresses are what age us.

My 1600 meter run was Wednesday night and when I showed up at the track to warm up, I felt surprisingly light. I still felt elbow pain but also accepted it as a part of life. Shit happens. Things break and sprain. Sometimes you fully heal, sometimes you mostly heal, and unfortunately, sometimes you just don’t heal at all.

I decided to look for someone in the race that seemed fast and just try to hang with them. I noted a young college-aged male in my group and overheard him saying that he was aiming for some fast times. So, I decided to try and run behind him for as long as I could.

I crossed the first 1600 meters (about a mile) and saw that I ran it in 5 minutes and 20 seconds. That was faster than the fastest 1600 meter run of my life, and I still had another half of the run to go! By my own standards I was flying. I felt fresh and limber. The college guy was just one stride ahead of me. I was keeping up. Everyone else was far behind us.

It wasn’t until the final lap of the 3200 meter run that the college guy pulled ahead by a few seconds. However, I finished the run in 10 minutes and 50 seconds. It was by far the fastest run of my life. A “personal best.”

I shook the college guy’s hand (he went for a fist bump and I awkwardly went for a handshake, being the old fart that I am). I was thankful because it is competition that brings out the best in us. I never would have broken 11 minutes had he not set a good pace for me.

I’m nearing age 37 and appreciate now, more than ever, any sort of personal best time in an athletic event.

The elbow is healing. Maybe when I was 21 I’d feel anger and resentment about my crash. That is the advantage of the late 30’s. Whereas earlier in life there might be a certain paranoia over outcome and control, I’ve finally gotten to a point where I can say, “to hell with it, let’s just roll with the punches.”

My 10k is tomorrow and I think it’ll be fun. I did a 10k in college and my time was 56 minutes. I know I’ll be significantly faster than that. I’ll hit a personal best time, smile, and celebrate with some coffee.

And that’s life. You hit some crashes, you do your best to recover, and you gear up for the next race.

Let’s hope there’s a next race tomorrow.

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!

Peak Summer

The Missouri sun swelters in July and ensures any outdoor exerciser a challenge in maintaining a low heart rate.

I found my running pace steadily slowing this morning, mile after mile, as I lowered my cadence to keep my heart beating at a relatively easy effort. My run was essentially a long deceleration from what started at a slow pace to begin with.

Regarding “slow runs,” I’m of the belief that heart rate is more important than pace. Why would there be a pace dictating “easy effort?” Easy effort is simply an effort that feels easy. That feeling should not have a “pace requirement” to it. I think that we are too obsessed with clocks.

These days I do monitor my speed more closely when embarking on higher intensity runs; I used to just run for as long as I felt like it.

I try not to obsess over the clock. It was Captain Hook’s downfall to have his ears acutely attuned to a clock that signified his own mortality.

I ran through the soupy summer air and my feet skipped over the debris from the previous night’s Fourth of July downtown festivities. The sun already pierced at 7:00 am and I was drenched thirty minutes into my run. It was assuring to know though that my heart rate did in fact remain low for almost 8 miles (about 13 km) and I finished the run feeling invigorated.

The previous night, the cynic in me enjoyed the fireworks while also noting a great fallacy in the urban world: the concept that fun must be linked to consumption. The holiday must be celebrated by buying beers, buying food, buying firecrackers, and in turn doing very little. Pleasure comes from spending money on someone else’s creation. No action is required or recommended.

Meanwhile, I read somewhere that most adults cannot run one mile. This would not surprise me.

The value of running, to me, is the possibility of connection to the earth that it provides. How many people can genuinely feel the earth with their feet? In this day and age the modern human is either propped up, seated, or standing with a physical barrier (typically cushion) between his or feet and the earth.

There are currents and micro currents that sift through our DNA when we are outside and walking under sunshine. What happens to a soul that fails to feel the earth, the sun, and all of its magnificent invisible remedies?

I reckon that running, like cycling, is a stand against the urban rat race. It is a reach backwards, in a sense, to the persistence hunt and the evolution that occurred from the first bipeds.

Over thousands of years we learned to run. It would be a tragedy to lose that gift in a century.

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?

Pain Tolerance

I woke Thursday morning and had an epiphany that I wanted to test the limitations of my pain tolerance as it relates to exercise.

The evening before, I attended a weekly “speed run” session that I signed up for. At that session I ran a little more than 7 (11 km) total miles, 4.5 (7.25 km) of which were at high intensity. The intensity marker used was my approximate 5 km road race pace.

When I woke on Thursday my legs were not exactly fresh. Usually I let myself recover immediately after a high intensity session. I was curious, though, about my body’s ability to rebound. When we are younger, after all, it’s common for training programs to force athletes into back-to-back high intensity sessions. It had been a few years since I’d tried something similar. Is my body still capable of repeat speed sessions?

I decided not to ingest a single calorie before the workout in order to add to the challenge. I had a cup of coffee and some water only.

I started with a 24 mile (38 km) bike ride along the Riverfront Trail. The cycling legs felt fresh and I maintained a moderately intense pace with relative ease, probably because cycling uses different movement patterns than running.

I returned home, drank some salted water, and immediately embarked on a 9 mile (14.5 km) run. I usually don’t engage in cycling and running back-to-back, but I wanted to attempt the double.

In the middle of the long run were 8 repeats of the following: half a mile at fast pace (a little slower than 5k race pace) and a quarter mile recovery jog. My fast pace was my fastest average yet and I maintained a consistent time for all 8 repeats. I did feel fatigued from the night before, but it was nice to see that maintaining race pace was still very manageable.

The session as a whole was one of my better workouts. More affirming was that I don’t necessarily need any calories to have a quality endurance workout. Sometimes we become overly dependent on calories for workout sustenance. Carbohydrates tend to be the fuel of choice. I suspect that they may not be as necessary as consensus seems to believe, at least for endurance activities. It’s freeing to be able to just “go for it” on an empty stomach. Word of caution if attempting this though: I routinely fast in the morning and have been doing so for years, so an “empty stomach exercise” was nothing new. The only unique part of this workout’s zero calorie attempt was the longevity of the session.

I spent the day sore, but I also still wanted to see just how far my own mileage could take me. I still had a free evening; maybe I’d try another bike ride! So after work, I logged another 21 mile (34 km) bike ride, also with moderate intensity. The ride could have lasted longer, but my left foot and leg started cramping. I did the cycling equivalent of a “limp to the finish line.” It was time to call it a day.

I woke several times throughout the night with severe cramps in both legs. Obviously I stressed the muscles more than was necessary. I don’t regret the attempt though; I think it’s important to overdo it every once in awhile; physical barriers are meant to be crossed. It’s important to know one’s own limitations, and the only way to truly know a limit is to push past it. Further, I don’t think it was the mileage that overtaxed me so much as it was the constant high intensity (emphasizing speed for several straight sessions).

I bring this up because I worry about the tendency with age to want to “keep things manageable.” We cross from childhood to adulthood and with that crossover can come a desire to have life more or less “figured out.” Failure should be kept to a minimum, we often think. How often are adults willing to “burn out in a blaze of glory!” We are supposed to have “made it,” which in theory means that discomfort steadily dissipates. Heaven forbid we struggle with something like we did when we were kids. Comfortable walks replace dangerous desert adventures.

I want to keep the habit of burning out in a blaze of glory. That’s the “maximalist” in me. Rather than keeping exercise “moderate” I think there is some value in sometimes (obviously not always) attempting a feat that is utterly unmanageable.

I did a recovery bike ride today along the Riverfront Trail. The legs definitely needed to heal a little after the previous night’s struggles.

Taking the time to appreciate my environs brought one obvious thing to the forefront: the city’s rabbit population is multiplying rapidly. While the American robins and geese claim the trail as their domain in the winter months, it seems to belong to the rabbits in summer.

A rabbit darted across my path every few minutes, likely fearful of the strange large two-wheeled object hauling itself forward that may or may not be a predator.

I stopped my bike ride and turned back when a flock of geese blocked the trail. One of the geese hissed and chased me for a bit. I couldn’t help but smile and submit. Let the geese have the trail, I say. Life’s too short to compete or threaten them back. There’s some beauty in a goose’s aggression. They’re just protecting their own, after all. Larger animals such as humans must be utterly terrifying to them.

Plus, there are plenty of other trails.

The Case for Maximalist Shoes

It was January 2022. My physical therapist examined my minimalist style running shoes after measuring my injured foot’s mobility and assessing its muscle damage.

“You’ll have to put those shoes away for awhile,” he said. “The problem is that you have torn ligaments in your foot. Your foot needs cushion right now.” I nodded obediently.

“This isn’t a case where I’m telling you that they’re bad shoes,” he emphasized. “I’m telling you that these shoes will hurt you if you wear them right now.”

He recommended a few brands of “maximalist” shoes that initially piqued little interest in me. I figured if I did my rehab exercises I could continue wearing my minimal “barefoot style” shoes. I’d show the world with my uncanny foot strength!

Physical therapy ended and I proudly continued to wear my minimalist style shoes. I figured my foot was above the assessment of the modern doctor, though I do respect my physical therapist.

And slowly, over the course of weeks, running caused my injured foot to deteriorate. With each step, the dull ache from my injury began to return. Mobility worsened. Eventually I found myself limping pretty regularly, like I did for the second half of 2021.

My physical therapist was right.

If the primary criticism of the modern cushioned running shoe is that it acts as a cast for the foot, my situation presented a strong case for needing cast.

A ligament on the bottom of my right foot was giving me particularly acute pains. That makes sense. If a muscle is torn on the bottom of your foot, it hits the ground with your body weight thousands of times each day. That probably isn’t going to feel very good for long.

So at the start of April I went to a running store and bought two pairs of cushioned running shoes. Heck, I figured, my foot was on the verge of no longer being able to run. Some cushioned shoes wouldn’t make the matter worse. Besides, it would only be temporary.

I bought a pair of Hoka Cliftons and a pair of Altra Torins because I preferred the relatively little heel raise of the shoes and the wider toe boxes. The Altra Torins are actually “zero drop,” which means they do not have an elevated heel at all.

Walking and running in cushioned shoes was an odd sensation after spending the previous few years with almost no foot support. It felt like I was constantly walking over a plush bed. I didn’t necessarily like that. We have thousands of nerve endings in our feet and I believe those nerve endings seek sensation in the earth.

And yet, within two weeks my injured foot’s various pains went away. I was running comfortably, and that was frankly a surprise. A week after that and I forgot the foot was ever injured. A week after that and I was running farther distances than I ever had in my life.

I rotate the Altras and Hokas by running session in order to prolong them. I’m still running in them (I’m supposed to until at least the fall). Maybe I’ll continue after that to an extent and just rotate in the minimalist shoes. Hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Though I think there is health risk in becoming dependent on cushion (a limb trapped within a cast for years will inevitably weaken), maybe my situation was one of the few in which “maximalist” shoes served a good purpose.

I can’t argue with good health after all.

The Bicycle and My Health

I sat in a plush chair that stood in the center of a sterile and immaculate patient room at my company’s wellness center. I faced a television but did not register what was playing on its screen. I waited for the results of my recent health examination.

It had been three years since my last health check at our wellness center. That last check was in 2019, just two months after I returned from China and less than one year before COVID became a thing. I thought about the peaks and valley’s I’d been through in that timespan. What did that journey mean for my health?

The practitioner walked in with a clipboard and greeted me.

“We hadn’t seen you in a long time,” she said. “And to make a long story short… your health is perfect, and it improved considerably. That’s pretty rare for someone over the past few years.”

She then listed off my metrics and how much they improved since 2019.

“Your LDL cholesterol, which is your bad cholesterol, improved from 110 mg/dL, which is not terrible but not great, to 52 mg/dL, which is outstanding.”

“Your blood pressure went from 130/87, a little higher than what we prefer, to 118/73, which is in perfect range.”

“You dropped 15 pounds, though you were not overweight by any standards.”

“I have to ask because I encounter so many patients going through struggles right now: what did you change?”

I told her that I basically only changed one thing: I bought a bicycle and found myself enjoying it. It was supposed to be a new hobby to “get me through the boredom of work from home.” I bought it because I was frustrated by my inertia, frustrated by the new normal of virtual meetings, and frustrated that I wasn’t enjoying life. I told her that I felt my stress increasing over those first few months of the pandemic, and I wondered if a new way of moving could be a cure. Hatred can accumulate with a snowball effect, and I didn’t want to die a hateful person. I knew almost nothing about bicycles or cycling at the time.

And as it turned out, the bicycle cured me. My metabolic age is now 13 years younger than my actual age. By each measure, I am the healthiest I’ve been in my life. My health problems vanquished. I smashed them with my bicycle tires, one by one.

That’s not to say that my health was poor when I returned from China, but that it wasn’t nearly as good as I had assumed at the time. It’s to say that it could have been so much better, and cycling helped me understand just how good health can be.

In a sense, the bicycle gave me a second life. It’s a meditation, an exercise, a hobby, and a thrill ride all in one. And in a sense I do feel reborn. I don’t feel as angry as I used. I feel content to just “have a good time,” which is all I really want. Cycling is my time to just be me and enjoy the day.

So for me, it seems, a lot of it was about the bike.

The Post-Mountain Hangover

Since returning from my mountain trip in Bozeman, Montana, I’ve resumed my normal “adult” routine.

I try to run a little farther farther each week. This morning I completed nearly 12 miles (19 km) at a steady and moderate pace. I have specific running goals in mind, but they’re for only me to know. I want to test my limits. I was an elite swimmer, but never a competitive runner. Maybe I’m in a battle with my age and refuse to accept that a gradual decline looms nearer. It’s true that I refuse to believe that decay will eventually win. I’ll deny it to the end, fists clenched.

I have wondered when my running will stall. When will I hit a plateau? At what point will I have overtrained and need an extended rest? I’m having fun because I’m improving, but I won’t improve forever. What then?

I try to counterbalance my quest for a specific running speed with fun. Some days, I remind myself, it’s just better to skip “run day” and ride a skateboard, or ride a bike at a slow pace along a greenway. I don’t want my training to define my life; I want to define my training.

To be completely consumed by athletic pursuits is to submit oneself to something akin to a permanent state of war. Life’s too short to keep that mindset forever. Fun is a preferred alternative. I think one can “commit” without being “consumed.” There is a line between the two.

I continue to ride my bicycle to and from work. For each trip to the office, that’s 38 miles (61 km). There is no “winning” in this commute because I engage in a race against no one. My main reward is improved health. The car drivers make the commute faster than me and do so without breaking a sweat. However, every convenience brings a host of unintended consequences. Cars have the advantage of air conditioning, a favorite playlist, a gas or electric powered engine, and a cushioned seat. Then again, nothing destroys the body more quickly than sitting. In an ideal life, I never sit.

Instead of the car, I choose the summer heat, bugs smacking against my face as I pedal along quiet roads before the crack of dawn, a jersey soaked with sweat, the occasional thigh cramp, and the occasional storm to withstand. This gives me the pride of knowing I can do something that very few can or ever will.