Old Dominion Race Results 2012

This is a very simple post.  Each year dozens of runners spend a day or so running the Old Dominion 100-miler race and afterwards they create a hardcopy of their splits/results for each runner.  This information can be quite valuable to runners in the future who may want to see what various past performances entitled, but it's not available electronically from their website.  Here are the 2012 results: (unfortunately, I had to convert the four pages of the pdf I made into four pic files, so it's a bit annoying if you want to flip back and forth).

Two do ten to the two

Going into my first (and possibly last) 100 miler, I had but one goal: to finish.  Lots of people say that, but that's the only thing I really, really wanted.  Sure, a silver belt buckle might be nice; sure, placing respectably might be another quaint touch.  But all I really wanted out of my legs and heart was crossing that line.  I got that, and some of the goodies too.

(Matt and I at the starting line.  I like that my head is cutting out one of the zeros, so it appears as if we're carrying tremendous hydration equipment and proud smiles and about to tackle a 10 miler.)

The wonderful side of the Old Dominion 100 course is nature.  The OD course runs through George Washington National Forest and is laid-out on either very pleasant trails (with one major exception, see below) or packed gravel roads through rolling country side.  It's simply gorgeous.  I found myself in a meditative trance in lots of sections, simply enjoying the views, the fresh air, the songs of birds.  Sometimes I was whistling while in the trail sections (okay, maybe I was trying to scare off bears, but I'd prefer to think I was communing with nature).  Add in every runner's dream weather -- low humidity, temps between 55 and 75, and a cool breeze -- and you have yourself ideal conditions for running.

 (One of the bucolic views from a road around the GW forest.)

Obviously I've never run another 100 before, but I've run enough hills, trails, hilly trails, switchback roads, fire roads, etc., to know a tough course when I'm cursed with running one.  So while beautiful and inspiring on the one hand, the Old Dominion course is as tough as nails going through your other hand.  You know the phrase, "what goes up, must come down?"  Surely, the OD course did not violate this sacrosanct rule.  But every major up in the OD is seemed to be succeeded by the turn of phrase, "...must come down (in a rocky, slow-tip-toe over potential skull-crushers)."   One of my strengths as a runner is going downhill.  Not so after mile 70 in this course.  Two people passed me on a major downhill at about mile 78, and put enough time on me that I wouldn't be able to catch them.  By mile 70, my quads were shot and because of the fear of tripping and landing head-first onto a rock, I persistently pussyfooted on the downhill trail sections.  Maybe I was so careful because we were advised at the race briefing, "not to call 911" because emergency crews from 3 counties show up.  Wait, isn't that a good reason to call?

 (At mile 75 you too would be swinging your arms like an old man shuffling his way to the next shuffle board game.)

Matt and I stayed together for 48 miles.  When we run/race together we become a two-headed leap-frogging slingshot -- Matt powers on the uphills, hauling me with him; I charge the downhills, propelling him to follow.  This symbiosis put us in 5th and 6th place at mile 50 in about 8 hours and 45 minutes.  Sure, lots of time remained in the race, but that was a pretty respectable first half for such a hilly beast of a course thus far -- I thought I might even have something left for act two.  But I also knew that on some of the earlier hilly trail sections Matt was holding back for me.  At about mile 45 I told him, "we are both strong runners, but you are stronger.  There are people running in front of us that could use an additional challenge today, and you can serve that to them!"  Shortly after the next stop at mile 47, we started to part.  I am so incredibly proud of his perseverance and strength.  On his first hundred, Matt was so awesomely confident.  Case in point:  I say to Matt at about mile 35:
Me: "Matt, we just gained 9 minutes on our planned pace in the last 9 miles -- that's a minute per mile faster than anticipated." 
Matt:  "Okay" 
Me:  "I think this means we should slow up." 
Matt: "Sure, but let's catch Mike [Bailey, 300 hundred yards ahead of us] first."  Atta boy!

The Old Dominion race management and crew support were fantastic.  People actually volunteer to help us do this insanely stupid thing to ourselves, and they did this spectacularly well and with good cheer.  We're not running for cancer research or for global warming, not even to raise awareness about nasal fungus afflicting bats -- just because -- and people still help us.  The Old Dominion organizers are good people and create a very positive mini-society on race weekend.

My only complaint was the "medical check-ins," which I mention mostly for its humorous content.  Most ultra marathons weigh runners before and during a race to test for dehydration or over-hydration, and so did the OD.  Unfortunately the OD meds used different scales at each of the 3 weigh-ins.  At mile 43, the first weigh-in after establishing a baseline the night before, the medical volunteers assured me they had calibrated and would therefore "add back 3 pounds" to make the two scales equivalent. They also claimed I was down 10 pounds or about 7.5%, which would disqualify me.  I stepped on yet a third scale at this mile 43 check-in and according to that one was down only 3 pounds!  It seems we either have a varying levels of the force of gravity in Woodstock, Virginia or mis-measurement.  Adding to this pseudo-science, the meds were weighing on an angle.  Come on people!  Can I get a shout out to Newton's third law of motion?  Even if the angle of the ground was 10 degrees, this would reduce weight by 1.5 percent (the cosine of 10 degrees = 0.9848) out of the maximum allowable reduction of 7.5 percent.  Since my high school psychics arguments weren't working on them, I used the "other half" of my brain -- my "I used to be a New Yawkah" half -- and just walked away from the medical volunteers while they continued discussing whether to hold me back for being underweight.

Another funny thing I learned on Saturday: your running injuries are specific to length and speed.  After some years of running (and getting older) every runner has a list of ailments.  For me I have a left knee "thing," a right foot "thing," and a right hamstring "thing," and these are present at various points in running 10 to 20 miles.  On Saturday, it was as if I had an entirely new body -- none of those pains surfaced, but two new ones did -- now I have a left foot "thing" and a right hip "thing."  If anyone asks how I'm doing after running my first hundred miler, I'm just going to say, "things are fine, my RIGHT foot and LEFT hip feel great."

The Heberlein sisters were my crew support, in addition to plentiful help from Matt's crew (his father Greg, Sam and Damon).  I don't know how other runners finished without these folks at their side as well.  Martha and Emily were incredibly efficient, anticipated all of my needs, and moreover unselfishly kind to me, even when they were exhausted -- they were up for about 24 hours as well!  They stuffed me with a bodacious bodega of M&Ms, cheez-its, pretzels, ramen, sweet potato soup, taquitos, potatoes, plums, oranges, snickers bars, and probably a lot of other things that will make you diabetic. While they helped me to be a faster runner and lightened the pain, I am also literally proud to tears of how they helped build a supportive running community at the Old Dominion this year.  One of the guys who finished ahead of me, Mike (from 2 paras up), grabbed the mic at the awards ceremony the next morning and thanked them personally for cheering for him.  That is what I would like to think this sport is about -- camaraderie and community support and looking past the me versus you, and looking instead at each of us as challenging ourselves.

One of the best parts of this past weekend was the awards ceremony that Old Dominion does the next morning.  I've never been at a race where each finisher comes up to accept a gift (sometimes a belt buckle for coming in under 24 hours) and is asked to say a few words.  There was a palpable sense of thankfulness, peacefulness and cheerfulness among the crowd, as most runners shared their thoughts.  Since, upon reaching the finish line the night before, my first words were, "now that was a stupid thing to do," I mentioned that this was my first 100 and, possibly, my last 100 -- that type of blasphemy didn't go over so well on a crowd of zealots.

For those keeping score at home, Matt and I finished 4th and 8th respectively out of 52 starters and about 39 finishers.  Matt finished in 20 hours and 2 minutes and I came in at 20 hours 53 minutes. 

The worst moments in life are those existential quandaries when the paths we face are obscure and fraught with uncertainty. And the best rewards in life are those that come after hard efforts.  Ultra running provides the rewards without the quandaries -- just keep moving forward and you'll feel great.   I don't know if I'll run for this long again, but I'm happy I pushed myself this far.

(The end.)

Boston's finest

Why do we do the things we do?  Why would anyone run 26.2 miles?  (Or maybe you wouldn’t, couldn’t, and/or disdain those who do.)   For me, simply, challenging oneself defines who you are, irrespective of the forms of those challenges.  The joy of running 26.2 miles from Hopkinton to Boston on Patriot’s Day is not only because of the challenge that that course represents, but also because of the outpouring of humanity one experiences along the way.

Several weeks ago I realized that my hamstring was healthy enough to conceive of the idea of finishing Boston this year.  (See last posting about being hamstrung by a hamstring).  So a-marathoning I went last Monday in Boston.  Given my injury and the possibility of seventh-level of Hades type heat, it was difficult for me to identify explicit goals for this year.  As I rode the bus to Hopkinton from Marshfield with the Marshfield Road Runners Club, I certainly knew that first among these goals was “don’t get more injured…stupid.”  A corollary was to “train through” – that is, to hold back enough during the marathon so that training for certain much longer and impending events would not be sacrificed.  Dear Matt Broaddus also helped me to realize that if I was not running this year to beat my previous best time, then perhaps I should try to experience the race in a deeper way; enjoying the sights, the sounds, the people, whatever came to me along the way.

There were two distinct phases to running Boston this year – the first, a stroll through the first 15 miles; the second, beginning abruptly at mile 15, was the realization that the heat, hills, and a quick pace for the first half were coalescing into one gigantic problem. No race I have run has taken so much out of me at such a sudden juncture.  

First phases first.  Some readers may note that I should refrain from describing my pace early on as a “stroll.”  Of course, it was not exactly as such.  But truth be told, Boston’s terrain is very kind to you in the beginning of the race: you feel as if you are floating for the first 5 downhill miles.  I found myself smiling for the first time in a marathon.  I was enjoying the fresh air, the view of small ponds on the side of the road, a Led Zeppelin cover band, a male Japanese marathoner dressed up as Minnie Mouse.  This year I particularly enjoyed and went out of my way to slap “high-5s” to the thousands of kids with their hands outstretched (and some without…ouch!...sorry kid, but you deserved it).

 (Feeling photogenic in the first half.)

Several people I knew cheered for me this year.  Among those I knew, Stephanie from work and her beau yelled out to me at mile 6.5.  That was a rush. Several people held up signs reading, “Keep it up Random Stranger.”  You know, even completely impersonal encouragement works in a marathon.  After seeing Stephanie, I had another 10 miles till I got to see Martha at mile 16.5.  Seeing your other half in the middle of these races is a complete psychic boost.  With some extra morsels of energy, I blew her some kisses, and for about 10 seconds, felt better about the heat and the impending 3 hills.

Enter phase two.  While in the first 15 miles, I enjoyed the crowds, ran with upright posture, smiled back at on-lookers, and ran according to my body’s feel, all of that fun crap stopped abruptly at mile 15.   84 degree heat in a marathon makes Guantanamo-style torture seem fun – indeed, you truly wished you were being water-boarded.  As one runner this year described in a delirious state afterward, “Nobody runs in a sauna.”

One of the main reasons runners like that suspicious-sounding “Paul Jacobs, 33, of Washington D.C.” finish the Boston marathon is the community spirit of the Boston spectators.  People living along the race course brought out their hoses to cool people off; the fans cheer endlessly with spirits; spectators spent hours outside handing out ice, which to an overheated marathoner is worth its weight in considerably more valuable matter.  Just one example of this gemuchlikite is how Janine, Max, Emma, and Jake (of the Heberlein clan) chalked encouraging words on Heartbreak Hill for certain fans they knew (yours truly included), and cheering for countless others.  Maybe, the pain of running a marathon is worth the creation and deepening of wider social bonds that occurs on days like last Monday.  Maybe.

(The encouraging, and very large, words of Emma, Jake, and Max; Upside-down view for readability.)

In all honesty, I have never considered quitting a race so frequently.  My calves started cramping as of mile 19; my pace had slowed drastically from that glorious-feeling first half.  When not trying to break one’s previous best time, the motivation to move forward abates.  What is the purpose of finishing when you’re supposed to keep yourself fresh for the following weeks?  I tried making my mind gravitate towards positive thoughts, but like a dog distracted by a squirrel, I would inevitably wander back to the only thought I truly believed at the moment – quitting right now would end this pain.  So why, in the 84 degree heat and without a discernible goal to finish, did I cross the line?  In short, Enid and Jerry were waiting for me at mile 25.5.

(This is NOT how you want to finish a marathon.) 

I have the extreme good fortune of having the most wonderful in-laws on the planet.  Consider that Enid had knee surgery only a couple weeks ago, but insisted on getting herself to the sardine-packed Kenmore Square area and both of them waited around for 3+ hours to see their son-in-law claw himself to the finish line.  Undeniably, part of the reason we runners run is the social bonds running cements, and I do not just mean when you go out for a jog and your legs feel like concrete.  As part of the challenge to oneself, sometimes you also make a commitment to others – “Hey, for hours on end I do a silly activity of putting one foot in front of the other, and in a day and age when we have about a thousand substitutes for this activity.  Want to come watch?”  Surprisingly, some people say “yes,” and I take that seriously enough to want to finish these sometimes exceedingly painful activities I start.  

The lesson here, I think is two-fold: 1) when trying to accomplish something difficult, pre-commit to others that you’re going to do it; humans are social beings and those commitments egg you on when you need egging; and 2) the form of what you do for fun or pride is irrelevant – running is absurd an activity as any – it’s the people you find along the way that matter, so choose activities where the people are good people, whether they are your teammates, partners, or observers.  Running Boston this year fit both these concepts.  Thanks be to those who made it an experience worth writing about.

Does one osmosisly obtain the luck-of-the-Irish when you're a Scandinavian racing on St. Pat's Day? In a word, no.

Even after 30 miles on Friday evening, including being threatened by an animal of unknown species while on a darkened trail, I woke up Sunday morning feeling fairly unsore (not a word, I know, but the somehow "fairly unsore" is not tautological with not sore.) This was good news and somewhat surprising given that I hadn't done that type of mileage in quite a long time -- er, five months (see last blog post). I showed up early to the race, but parked a mile away on purpose to get in a nice, slow warm up. Foreshadowing: note that on the list of things one should do to prevent injury, I have both done one pretty unintelligent thing (running for a long while just a day or so before a race) and one pretty smart thing (warming up).

The race began as most do for me with a surge of adrenaline from the id and the subsequent response by my frontal cortex -- "just what in the hell are you doing...again?!" I passed the first mile in 5:32, which was almost exactly my goal pace, but still something that I thought beyond me on this day sans taper. Just after the first mile, I caught up to the women's lead pack and thought I was in for trouble at that pace. In fact, they ended up using me as a draft for the next 3 to 3-1/2 miles -- it was really cool being a rabbit for these powerful Ethiopian female superstars. It was helpful for me to keep a consistent pace knowing there were other people behind me -- and tripping my heels at various points, actually, which reminded me of the joys and frustrations of true cross-country and track competition in high school. Of course, I didn't mind being their wind blocker because this race was a tune-up for me and something quite serious for them, particularly when you're racing for a four day cruise for two (seriously that is a prize in this race) or other such luck-of-the-Irish prizes. Perhaps if I lead one of them to victory, we can share in the prize?

We passed the 5k mark in 17:10 -- hallelujah! That meant I beat my high school 5k PR by 20 seconds -- in the middle of a 5 miler! I was getting tired but cinder block legs hadn’t set in yet either. One of the Ethiopian women begins to make a move about this point, and the other stays with me. A bit later the one staying with me asks, “how far left?” 1.4 miles. She doesn't look happy about that. I give her some encouragement – "you are strong; stay close to her and try to outkick her" -- and then she starts a very pleasant-sounding groan of pain. It continues for the next mile...I don't mind one bit...it sounds, well, aroused to say the least. She asks several more times -- how far? I look at my watch and respond. With a mile left, this is where I begin to make a move, so I pull ahead of her by a couple yards; her response -- "don't go!" I didn't know what to say. Had we developed such an intimate relationship already, such that I was to stick with her to the end, or did she know something I didn't? She did. I keep pushing. She catches me, and I pull ahead again. There's 3-4 guys in front of us, and I've made it my plan to race more competitively this time, so I am thirsting for better positioning at the finish…

With 600m to go, I start to contemplate my strategy -- kick it in at 400m. The Ethiopian woman is now 10 yards back -- sorry hun, I've got to get these gents. I surge. My right hamstring twinges -- weird, never felt that before...AHHHHH! The most excruciating pain of my life surges through my right leg. Somehow I don't fall but I come to an immediate stop screaming, "F@$% F@$% F@$%!!!!!!" I start carpet bombing f-bombs as I hobble and crawl. I have a quarter mile to go but I am walking through the worst moment of bodily agony of my entire life. The crowd sees my hurt. They start cheering for me. My reply is an Andrew Dice Clay assortment of self-loathing tirades, s-mines and f-bombs. And then I think, "Boy, this is really stupid -- what extra damage am I doing to my hamstring by trying to finish a ‘fun’ run?" But the crowd is going nuts for me, which never happens when you’re just another joe coming in well behind the leaders. The race director announces my name and says, "Now that's the grit and determination we like to see!!!" How can I stop at this point?

I look at the clock with 10 intensely painful yards to go -- if I walk just a few paces faster I'll still break my PR for the course. I do. I PR. Sadly, by only 10 seconds, but at least I have that victory. I fall onto the fence in the finisher's pen. I almost cry.

My first four miles were 5:32, 5:35, 5:32, 5:36. Without being hamstrung, I almost certainly could have kept a 5:40 pace or better putting me at 27:50 or so -- over a minute faster than my previous PR. The agony of defeat, injured defeat, is really, really hard to stomach.

(Try to spot the point on this graph where the hamstring snapped.)

As I write this, my leg is elevated on my desk at work, I reek of old man (i.e. ben gay) and furthermore look like an incontinent geriatric because I bought a compression band soaked with menthol which dripped down my pant leg and makes me look like I had a little accident. I had to stop 4 times on my walk to work this morning as my leg spasm-ed. This is now my fate for at least a week -- during prime Boston training season -- hopefully not much more.

I am simultaneously angry, and lacking any aspirations for my athletic future, but also trying to be hopeful that this will be a short recovery. I can only hope at this point.