Sisyphus

I ran in the High Speed Pursuit half marathon last Saturday. I did end up driving down to check out the course beforehand. And I bought new shoes. I was on a mission.

The race began and ended at the Idaho State Correctional Institution, the prison south of town. The cool thing about this race, in my opinion, was that the prisoners participated as well. No, they weren't let out. They ran their laps inside the fence instead. But how awesome would that have been?

Based on prior years' results, I knew it would be safe to start near the front of the pack. Between the half marathoners and those running the 5K and 10K, there were about 400 runners total. I didn't want to get held up.

I got out fast. It wasn't really on purpose, but I did have the thought in my head beforehand that maybe I should change my slow-out-of-the-gate strategy. Well, it's less a strategy and more about self-preservation. Anyway, my subconscious and I ran the first mile in 6:16. And I was at 12:50 after two, which was also the point where the half-marathon and 10K courses split from the 5K course. Needing to average a 6:50 pace over the 13.1-mile course, I was already 50 seconds ahead. I was surprised, a tad excited, yet leery of the hill at Mile 12.

The course was great. Heading south along Pleasant Valley Road, we ran on the parallel tank track. Between running on dirt, the wide-open vistas, and the breeze, it reminded me of South Dakota. By the time I hit Mile 4 on Barker Road, my time was 26:30, still 50 seconds ahead. Turning north on Cole Road, I lost some time through the halfway point. There was a slight uphill, but it was nothing serious.

I don't know what my problem is in the middle part of these half marathons. Maybe it's losing the high of a fast start. It could also be a lack of focus. It doesn't take me long in a race to separate myself from both the frontrunners ahead of me and the pack behind. And Saturday was no different. It's possible my mind starts to think that I'm just on a regular run instead of in the middle of a race with a chance to meet a goal. Who knows.

Or, in this case, it could be that I dropped my hat on the ground as I was taking my gloves off. Silly me, I put my watch on over the glove, which made it nearly impossible to remove. So, as I'm trying to, no joke, tear the glove off with my teeth, I lost the grip on the hat I had already removed. That was about five seconds lost right there. Lessons learned: 1.) Take the gloves off first, then the hat. 2.) Don't be an idiot next time and make sure the glove isn't underneath the watchband.

There was a slight rise in the road before dropping down into the canyon. Through nine miles, I was exactly on pace. That was a bit disheartening considering how much my pace had slowed and thinking about the hill in three miles where a 6:50 pace would be impossible to maintain for close to a half mile. But I was still on pace after nine miles with a sweet downhill still to come!

It was at this point that a runner caught up to me, the first racer I had seen in six miles and the first and only one to pass me. He approached just as the downhill began, so I was able to hang with him for a bit. At the bottom of the hill, however, we turned east on 10 Mile Creek Road and I let him go. But it's not like he sped away. He remained within striking distance.

At Mile 10, I was 20 seconds ahead. I was excited! This could be the 1:30 race! Now, though, I was running into the wind. After another mile, I was 20 seconds behind. And I thought I had picked up the pace. It sucked. Plain and simple.

The hill began at Mile 12 and it was a bitch. I'm not going to complain about it because no one wants to run a completely flat, boring course. But it was brutal. I've never felt such desperation in a race before, knowing I was so close to a goal with such a huge obstacle in the way. And what a perfect place for the race photographer to station himself! (Click here for photos. Note the hill. And my face.) My legs felt like mush at the top, but, summoning my inner Lewis and Clark, I proceeded on.

I made the final turn onto the last straightaway with a time of 1:25. There were these huge yellow flags at the finish line and just five minutes to get there. I could see them from quite a distance, which just made judging how much further I had to run that much harder. I pushed and pushed, glancing down at my watch as those minutes ticked away. When I realized 1:30 wasn't going to happen, running a personal best was my new goal. And I did achieve that one at 1:30:27.

Twenty-seven seconds. I've got to say, I was pretty emotional about it. Not that I let it show. I let out a "Fuck" or two as my pilot friend, bless his heart, tried to cheer me up. I was so close. And I was ahead of schedule! After 10 miles!!! Even though I thought I was going to break down, I didn't.

The Pilot told me I came in sixth. We walked over to look at the results. Only the first four times had been posted ... and none of them were in my age group. Which meant that as long as the fifth-place runner wasn't between the ages of 30 to 39, I would take the age group, a nice consolation prize. The only problem was that he looked around my age. Then again, some runners age fast. There is such a thing as running too much. I hoped he was a hard-looking 29-year-old.

When the results were updated, I learned that Mr. Fifth Place was indeed in my age group. Figures! I just laughed and that actually made me felt better. When I looked up the results online later, I saw that the seventh- and eighth-place runners were also in the 30-39 group. We all finished within a minute of each other. That also made me feel good. About halfway through the race, I heard a couple runners talking behind me (which drives me batty). When I dropped my hat, I glanced back to see that even though they weren't right on my tail, they were still close. But they never caught me.

And let me not forget about the PR, my second this year. I shaved 12 seconds off of my Brookings time. It is an accomplishment.

There's another half marathon a week from tomorrow. Since I haven't registered, it would be $60 bucks to enter. I drove the course Tuesday afternoon and it is not PR material. Yes, it would be a pretty run. But for 60 bucks, I need more than fall colors and rolling hills. It's too bad because I think I'm at a really strong spot with my running right now. Oh well, I can start again next year.

I know I'm obsessing about this goal. How else can I describe it when I run the fastest I've ever run and I'm on the verge of tears. But I'd really like to get to this milestone.

Fun with maps

I'm having a blast in my GIS class. I love maps and I'm a data junkie. ArcGIS brings both together. Heaven on Earth.

I thought I'd share a map I put together recently for an assignment. Can you locate the reservations?

Any fool knows, or can at least guess, that north is up in this map. But the professor is a fan of the north arrow. Thus, as Westley from "The Princess Bride" was wont to say, "As you wish."

What I'm especially stoked about is my final project. I'll be looking at how the regional and statewide suicide rates in Alaska have changed over the past decade in relation to the amount of suicide-prevention funding the state has provided during that same time period to cities, villages, school districts, and non-profits.

And this isn't the only class where I'm using Alaskan subject matter for a final project. I did choose an Idaho topic (disparities in state funding of higher education), though, for my group's final paper in the third class. Wait, actually, someone else picked that; I just tagged along. But even with that one, I have an Alaska analogy.

I probably should focus more on Idaho since I do live here. But really, why? It's just so vanilla here. Yes, yes, Boise is a perfectly lovely place. And I've raved about the trails. That being said, it really can't compare to the reservation and to Alaska.

Game on

I did it. I signed up for a half marathon on the 23rd. It actually makes perfect sense, except for having to pay the increased registration fee for signing up so late. Typically, I like to have at least one long run (10-13 miles) under my belt a couple weeks prior to running a half marathon before I taper down. Nine miles was as long as it got before Sunday. And I didn't just taper down; I downright stopped running.

But Sunday's race can be considered a warm up for the next race, for sure. I'll certainly get some runs in before now and the 23rd. I got out this afternoon for a trail run and felt pretty good considering I was still a bit sore. (I'm getting old, apparently.) And I'm going to look into new shoes this week. With my increased mileage since moving to Boise, I probably should have replaced my current pair sooner. Taking a gander at the soles after this afternoon's run, two things were evident: 1.) The treads are nearly gone, and 2.) it's easy to tell I'm a toe runner.

This weekend, I'll take a drive down out to the desert south of town to check out the course. The route description on the race website says something about a beautiful canyon. I need to see just how severe this canyon is and mentally prepare for it.

Eleven days...

P.S. Happy 200th post to me!

Beware of the crotchety runner

The City of Trees Half Marathon was this morning. I knew this race was going to be a unique experience. First, I didn't train for it (no time). Second, I haven't been running on pavement at all. Third, I had run a total of eight miles in October before this morning, including a six-day stretch of no running at all, unheard of since moving to Boise. And finally, did I mention I hadn't run 13.1 miles in a single stretch since my last half marathon in May?

I drove the course yesterday to get my bearings, a good thing since about half of it was new territory for me. The full marathon would begin an hour before the half, with both following the same course for the first 12 miles. Unfortunately for the half-marathon runners (read: me), this was the lame part of the overall course. Marathoners would pass through the more visually pleasing and less traffic-congested parts of town during the final 13 miles.

In order to run a 1:30 half marathon, I have to keep an average 6:50 pace throughout. I was actually about 30 seconds ahead after four miles, which I quickly lost in the next two miles. There was a hill, which slowed me down a bit, but my hip joints also began to get sore at this point. Nothing debilitating, but I wasn't my usual gazelle self out there.

***

I've commented a number of times on here about my running pet peeves. Once again, I had to sift through a crowd at the start of the race. I wasn't too pissed because after passing the starting chute, the course was pretty wide. The entire right lane of a busy road was blocked off for the runners' use, so there was plenty of opportunity to pass. However, I will never understand why folks who will end up finishing with a 10-minute pace feel the need to start so close to front.

But what happened today was even worse. I was just past the halfway point, nearing Mile 7. Remember, this was a half marathon - 13.1 miles. I was running along Federal Way and crossed an intersection. At the opposite corner was a group of fans. As I passed, one of the women yelled, "You're almost there!" Uh, what? I've had fans tell me, "Just one more mile!" when I was still a mile and a half from the finish. And there was the time an aid-station volunteer encouraged me by saying, "It's all downhill from here," when I still had to climb one last hill. But to have someone tell me I was almost done when I still had over six miles left to run was utter ridiculousness.

So, what did I do? I yelled back, "No I'm not!!! Good grief!" My tone was more incredulous than mean. I've never run with music, but this morning's incident made me wish I had been wearing headphones to block out the nonsense spewing from the peanut gallery.

***

Federal Way was a bitch. The course followed the bike path that paralleled the road. It was an alternating mix of asphalt and concrete - not good for the joints. Plus, it's a busy road, not one I would choose for a leisurely jog, let alone a half marathon. It's pretty bad when my landmark is the Fred Meyer. I eagerly anticipated the downhill to the river, but by that point the concrete had taken its toll on me. I felt like a shuffling old man.

The last couple of miles were actually kind of a struggle, reminiscent of the Horsetooth Half Marathon. I was just done. So, no 1:30 this time around. My finishing time was 1:33:02, hardly even PR material.

I know, it's still a good time. I did place 5th in my age group (out of 42) and 24th overall (out of 542). When the results were posted this morning, I was listed as the 4th-place finisher. (Or what I like to call, "1st Loser.") But the results were updated this evening, moving me down to 5th. That actually made me feel better.

Now, the big question is whether to try one of the two half marathons on the race calendar in the next month. I don't know. It would involve training (imagine that!), preferably on the road. Why do that when I can run on the trails? I guess the bright side is that if this is my major concern troubling me at the moment, life must be pretty good. And it is. I'll achieve my goal someday. In the meantime, I'll survive.

Breakfast off the grid

Last Saturday, my pilot friend zipped us off to breakfast up at Sulphur Creek, located just inside the roadless Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness Area. Between the Dramamine and the smooth flights back and forth, my stomach performed much better this time compared to the last trip.

There was a fire in the area, blanketing the valleys in smoke.

Approaching Sulphur Creek. The dirt landing strip is toward the right-center.

Coming in for the landing.

The view from our table. A beautiful morning, even with the haze.

Dixie.

Another plane touching down.

Some horseback riders heading down the runway toward points unknown.

I convinced myself that this horse was sleeping and wasn't in fact dead.

Let me tell you about my day

As I was into my sixth hour of all-day, online training this afternoon, I received an e-mail from my supervisor with the subject line, "Potential of exposure to whooping cough." Interest piqued and diversion created, I opened it. I won't cut and paste the e-mail's exact text, but here are the key points:

• There is a "very small possibility" that we have been exposed.
• The suspected case has not been technically confirmed as whooping cough.
• If we start to exhibit symptoms, we should stay home and see a doctor to prevent exposure to the remaining healthy employees.

Here's the thing: I know exactly who brought disease into the office. First, my supervisor, thanks to his complete lack of regard for privacy, spoke with the culprit in her cubicle just prior to sending the e-mail. I couldn't hear every word of the conversation, but "sick" was clearly audible multiple times.

(I mention the privacy thing because my IRB training included a discussion of privacy versus confidentiality. Who knew I'd be able to apply that lesson so fast? Learning in action!)

Second, the sickly woman was still coughing this afternoon! GO HOME!!! And I have class with her. I might as well consider myself a statistic already.

***

I think I've found my cause. Just because I left the rez doesn't mean the need to dispel myths about Native Americans has diminished. In class last week, I practically jumped out of my chair when a classmate thought tribes had money because of casinos. Yeah, the ones located near metropolitan areas definitely bring in loads of gamblers. And they are extremely generous when sharing their revenues with non-profits and other tribes. But then you have the tribes in South Dakota, for example, located off the interstate highway system and among the most impoverished people in America.

And then tonight, a fellow volunteer made a remark about Indians saving a dollar to buy another beer. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. What is wrong with people? Have you ever had those times where someone says something so completely absurd and wrong, but you didn't see it coming and couldn't formulate a response? I know that's just an excuse and I should have said something. But this was a volunteer helping out at a non-profit. I have to be on my guard even there?

***

I stopped over at Walmart tonight after getting a haircut, which I needed badly. I usually do my grocery shopping in the middle of the day to avoid the crowds, but I needed ice cream. (I suddenly can't live without my evening sundae.)

The cashiers there aren't the quickest, so I headed down to the self-checkout stands. Okay, just like my softball teammates last summer played to relive their high school sports-playing glory days, I enjoy assuming the role of cashier again, even if they're my own groceries. That's why I like the self-checkout.

But Walmart, it's time to take those machines out until your customers can operate the damn things on their own. Good grief, every customer required assistance from the guy manning the podium. And it's not like these people only had one or two items either. When I finally got my turn, I (of course) zipped through my items quickly. Apparently, I wasn't fast enough, though, because the guy behind me moved my cart out of his way to start loading up the belt as my receipt printed. I would have exhibited patience and waited the five additional seconds for my turn in line. But I guess that's just how I roll.

***

And now I'm home away from disease and humanity! My sundae was delicious. I haven't come down with pertussis (yet). And my pilot friend is whisking me off to breakfast in the morning. Maybe the world isn't out to get me.