Twenty-five miles in. I’ve been running for five hours. Slow and steady, but still: five hours. My legs are heavier than they used to be. I got tired a while ago, but I won’t be stopping any time soon: I’ve got 75 miles to go. The distance is unthinkable. The farthest I’ve run before was only 50. Even that was a long way. A really long way. And here I am, pacing towards 100. Everything past 50 miles is unknown territory. What will happen?
Now and then my ankle stiffens or my calf muscle fires a warning shot. Fear. Will it get worse? Can I run through it? I question everything. Should I have eaten that yesterday? Was my training enough? Did I set out too fast? How’s my form? I’ve never run 100 miles before, so I have no idea what a reasonable pace is. Run too slow and I won’t realize my potential. But even worse, I won’t make the checkpoints, which means DNF—Did Not Finish. But run too fast and I’ll putter out before the finish line. DNF. The three most terrifying letters.
Running this long is no fun. In fact, it’s horrible. My stomach has been clenched for hours now, a braced against tides of nausea. I’m hungry, but eating might just make it worse. My ears are plugged. Something beneath my arm has been chafing, and it’s getting worse. I’m seasick but nowhere near water. It’s so hot out and the sweat is making my eyes burn and all I have is my little handheld bottle, which doesn’t hold quite enough water to last me from aid station to aid station, so I’m always flirting with dehydration. I’m so bored. I’m sick of dirt and rocks and roots. Every now and then I remember how many miles—hours—I have left. The number discourages me. I’m already so tired. All I can do is get comfortable with the discomfort and look forward to the next aid station. Maybe they’ll have potatoes. Small goals. One aid station at a time. You can’t think about all 100 miles at once or you’ll get overwhelmed. But sometimes you can’t help it. One hundred miles is a long way, and there’s no getting around that. It makes it worse being all alone out here. When was the last time I saw a person who wasn’t actually a pine tree? And now I think: Why am I doing this, anyway? Whose idea was it to sign up for this stupid thing? I’m dropping out at the next aid station. It’s pointless. Who cares about a DNF? I’m never running again.
The next aid station comes. The volunteers there, many of whom are ultrarunners themselves, encourage me. “You look great,” they say. “You’re making awesome time.” I refill my water bottle, swig some ginger ale, munch on a handful of M&M’s and exchange a few smiles, and then I’m back on the trail. I wipe the crusted salt from my eyes and take in the scenery. Tall pines, sweeping trails, a slight breeze. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m so grateful to be outside, able to enjoy it. I’m feeling better. By now I’ve forgotten all about my decision to drop out. Running is too much fun.
I’m running, I’ve been running, and I’ll keep running. It’s like breathing, only breathing isn’t difficult. Well, running isn’t difficult, either. Except sometimes. Same with breathing. Running I become small. So small. A tiny person in a great, big universe. But big, too, because there’s nothing left in the world that can tempt me. Only one thing: sitting down. I’ve been racking my brain for the past 10 miles and I can’t think of anything in the whole world I want except that. Can you imagine it? Breaking yourself down so much that all you want is something you’ve always taken for granted. And it’s the one thing you can’t have. Because sitting means stopping, and I can’t stop. I’ll never stop running. Because to stop running is to stop breathing—to stop living.
Last summer I started seriously kicking around the idea of running a hundred-mile race. This came as a surprise because it was something I assumed I'd never do. Granted, there was a time not too many years ago when I assumed I'd never be bothered to even attempt a half marathon.
In October I signed up for Lake Martin 100, and I started counting down the days to March 21, 2015. In the interim I had another marathon and 50 mile to think about, and I'd likely want to find another 50 mile as a training stimulus in late January or February.
I had a great fall season, even jumping into a community 50k, and then I went to Japan and Hong Kong for two weeks, during which time I only ran two or three times. I thought I could use a little break, anyway. But then around Christmastime I jumped back into 70-mile-a-week training... and quickly found myself with a severe shin splint in my right leg. I powered through a 14-mile run when I thought it was just a little nagging pain, and then the next day I couldn't run at all.
The next several weeks were pretty dismal. I could only manage to run 5 miles at a time, and the injury showed no signs of clearing up. I stopped running completely for a few several-day stretches, but nothing. I dialed in my diet, slept excessively, worked on mobility... doing everything I could think of short of seeing a physical therapist (which probably would have been wise, but not wallet-friendly, especially given that mine is empty).
In the eight weeks leading up to the race, I averaged 30 miles per week. The day I was supposed to do a 50-mile training run, I couldn't run at all, and instead went for a 7-hour walk (I was hoping to go longer, but it started snowing). Finally, a week out from Lake Martin 100, my shin splint started to clear up. I credit this to my last-ditch recovery effort: taking high doses of fish oil, to the tune of 15-20 grams per day. But I was still woefully undertrained.
I discussed my options with my coach. He was confident that I'd be able to finish the race if I was feeling 100% on race day morning and, importantly, wanted to. (Wanting to finish, and reminding yourself why and that you want to finish, especially when you're feeling horrible, seems to be the key to finishing a hundred miler.) This lifted my spirits. Hearing a finisher from the previous year talking to me after the pre-race dinner about how horrible it is to run a hundred miles and how you probably won't finish without a pacer and how you should rethink your drop bag strategy, etc., in turn lowered my spirits.
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
On race morning I wasn't feeling quite 100%, but I thought I'd give it a try.
I should also mention for posterity that I was feeling extremely nervous the week leading up to the race. It's been a long time since I had the pre-race jitters! And on the morning of the race I was almost nauseous, just feeling so miserable about all the unknowns. As soon as I started running, through, that went away. Running is a nice feeling.
Since I could still feel my shin splint, I wore a brand new pair of calf compression sleeves and reminded myself that I would just go until I felt that I couldn't or shouldn't anymore. This was a double-edged sword: I gave myself an out that I'd surely take even if I didn't necessarily need to.
Normally I'm pretty determined and tenacious when it comes to this kind of thing, but in this case I couldn't fall back on the comfort that I'd trained sufficiently. I also had to think about the future: I was signed up for another 50 mile in about a month, and I'm planning to run a BQ marathon this fall. If I were to further injure myself running a hundred miles, then all bets would be off for the rest of the season.
Photo courtesy of Tiki Merritt Curry on Facebook (BUTS member)
Running, I took it easy. I walked up all the hills, ran at an easy pace, and chatted with other runners. There weren't too many of us on the course. However, my mental outlook was totally different during this race—solemnified by the prospect of going 100 miles. Since I'd only ever run 50 total, I couldn't wrap my head around going twice that. When I was around mile 25, it really hit me: I was almost at the end of a marathon (and by this distance my mom and our friends, who were running the 27-mile race, would be wrapping up), and if I were running 50 miles I'd be halfway done, but since I was going for 100 I was nowhere near done. To have run for more than five hours and be nowhere near done is a pretty extraordinary feeling. It's easy to connect the dots and feel utterly hopeless.
For a long stretch around this time I was by myself; at an aid station I'd gotten disconnected from the guy I'd been running with, and human contact was at a premium. I tried listening to an audiobook but that just stressed me out. I settled on listening to Kanye West's "All Day" on repeat, which I kept going for a few hours. I checked behind me frequently and pulled out the headphones any time I encountered another runner and usually we exchanged a few words.
Found a snake on the course
Red gravel and ashen leaves. Awesome combo.
At some point I was feeling pretty meh and was walking, and two other hundred-runners passed by and asked how I was doing. "Ehh," I said. "You're doing better than you think," said the woman. That simple sentence was really encouraging, somehow. Shortly thereafter, I found another wind. (The woman went on to be the second female finisher. She's awesome!)
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
When I hit the mile 43 aid station, my mom and our friends were there hanging out, and it was nice to see them. I also got sent on a fun errand: to deliver a headlamp to two elderly women who were ahead a bit on the 27-mile run and were worried about not finishing before sunset. I was really excited and flew off at an extraordinary clip. Maybe this was actually my downfall, in retrospect.
Here's a pretty typical image of what the trail looked like
Furry forest
The view from atop Heaven Hill
Not long after I gave the women their headlamp, my legs started cramping up a bit in the lower quads, and I could feel everything beginning to seize. I could feel things getting progressively worse, and by mile 47 or so I had to walk all the way to 50 (which I hit at almost exactly the 12-hour mark).
Oh, I was taking little notes as I went along. I'll reproduce them here:
Mile 10: Yay! I love running!
Mile 15: Okay 100 miles is a long way...
Mile 16: New running buddy
Mile 25: Cabin yay! First lap done!
Mile 25.5: Can't keep up with running buddy, goodbye
Mile 27: It's too hot for this crap
Mile 27.5: I'm dropping out
Mile 28: Okay I'm out of water I'm going to die
Mile 29: Nice guy gives me water. Salvation!
Mile 31: I'm dropping out.
Mile 32: Aid station! Thank you Jesus
Mile 33: Deer sighting. They can run way faster than me.
Mile 34: Found new friend and we're running to Heaven Hill together
Mile 40: I FOUND ENERGY!
Mile 43: It's starting to drizzle. Forecast: till forever.
Mile 45: Starting to feel a bit tired
Mile 45.5: Some cramps thighs and above knees
Mile 46: Delivered headlamp!
Mile 48: Where are all the humans?
Approaching the 50-mile mark I was feeling extremely tired and a bit nauseous and had decided to drop out. Even if I could possibly finish, I thought I'd be completely broken by the time I did and would have to throw out the rest of my season. I'd already decided it wasn't the end of the world, and I was proud of myself for even making it 50 miles with little training and an injury.
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
But that wasn't quite the end of it:
The awesome race director David Tosch wanted me to keep going (possibly at the behest of my mother?). He told me he'd never seen someone look so good at mile 50 (this may have been a lie, but it was nice), and that I was on track to finish in 24 hours and not many people could run 100 miles in 24 hours. He assured me that in 100 milers you go through high highs and low lows, and I just had to push through. He told me to walk—not even try to run—to the next aid station, and then reassess. If I couldn't make it, he said he'd personally come and pick me up. What an amazing guy. An older woman, a seasoned ultrarunner, came to his side and echoed his sentiments. They all wanted me to keep going. Even if I walked the entire rest of the course, I'd likely still make the cutoff. (Of course, walking 18 hours did not seem appetizing at that point.)
Now, this was unexpectedly inspirational. Directly at odds with me already deciding to drop. But then I saw, for a glimmer of a second, that I could finish. That I should finish! But I'd already decided to drop, and who could change that? And did I really want to go back out for potentially 18 more hours? But hey, that buckle... I didn't know what to do. I relaxed at the aid station for a little while... Had some chili, put my legs up, sat by the fire, and then decided to go out and see how it was. It was the first time "running" at night with a headlamp, and it was drizzling. More than anything I just wanted to go past 50 miles for the sake of going farther than ever before. And, somehow, I was actually terrified that I might start feeling better and have no excuse not to finish the race. It was a whole confusing assortment of different feelings. Could I actually finish? Would I get hurt? Should I try to finish? I was told multiple times by other people that there's no shame in DNF—heck, I hadn't even seriously started the day thinking I would come close to finishing—but all the same I couldn't help but feel a distinct sense of cowardice.
On my walk after 50 I heard some rustling in the bushes beside the trail, which really freaked me out. It turned out to be an armadillo. That was cool; I'd never seen one before. We saw another later on, which was a 100% increase. Bonus!
The next day was pretty depressing. It was gray and raining outside, and even a delicious brunch couldn't lift my spirits much. By this time the 30-hour cutoff had gone, and I hadn't been among the finishers. These were feelings that my logical mind, which ultimately convinced me to drop out, couldn't have anticipated. I felt then that I really should have kept going, and I was regretting my decision to DNF. I'm going to think back to that feeling in the future, though, if I'm ever thinking about dropping out of a race. I don't think DNF should ever be discretionary—it should only be done out of medical necessity.
The malaise continues to this day (writing this has helped). Should I have finished, or was it prudent to drop out when I did? I'll never know, really. But luckily it's not the end of the world. I've already signed up for my next 100 mile race—June 20 in Ohio.
And I had so much fun in Alabama that I can't wait to be back. I'm looking for a trail marathon to do yet in 2015, or maybe I'll have to settle for doing Lake Martin next March (hopefully I can wait that long).
Rebecca telling everyone to quiet down because people are sleeping
Sure, it was only two weeks since my 50 mile at JFK, but I wasn't about to pass up a free, local ultra. In college I'd never pass up an opportunity for free food (okay, I'm technically still in college and I still don't pass up such opportunities). Anyway, now that I run a lot, I'm never going to pass up the opportunity for a free race. But this was so much more than a free race. It was a community event for a good cause, a chance to meet a bunch of fellow crazy Philadelphians, a fun way to see more of my new city, an opportunity to take part in a budding Philly institution (this was the Rocky 50k's second year), etc.
As you might surmise from the name, this run is named after Rocky Balboa from the Rocky series, and it traces his absurd route from the training montage in Rocky II, in which the Italian Stallion is seen running from his home in South Philly, along railroad tracks in North Philly, back through the Italian Market in South Philly, back in Northeast Philly, out west, in Old City, etc., finally ending with a rush up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. See below.
Last year a writer for Philadelphia magazine traced the route on a map, and the awesome local Rebecca Schaefer decided to put the run on for real last December. It was apparently successful, and so it was back for Round Two this year. After some legal scuffles with MGM, that is.
About a hundred of us met in South Philly near Rocky's "home" before 7 a.m., and at the count of three we were off. Almost right away a fellow sandal-runner I'd met briefly during the Steamtown Marathon caught up with me, and we chatted for most of the first half, along with some of his friends from Pineland Striders, a South Jersey running club. This aspect of the run proved to be the best: The whole time I was around at least one other person, which made the whole absurd thing a lot more enjoyable, especially when my foot was hurting to the point where I contemplated dropping out and, of course, when it started pouring from mile 20 to the finish.
Passing Geno's. I'm on the right. Photo by Everett Scull
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
The fire hazard is real.
The route took us all over the place. Past Geno's famous cheesesteak joint, past the flaming barrel in the Italian Market, all over North Philly (twice), through Fairmount Park, including the cemetery where Adrian's fictional gravestone is, through Center City and Old City and up the Ben Franklin Parkway to the museum. All along the way, there was a nice mix of people who knew what we were up to and people who were wondering what the hell we were up to, which got us cheers and jeers and question marks.
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
Anyway, two new friends and I kept it together for the final 10 miles or so and brought it in to the top of the museum steps. I had to dig for some perseverance during the final miles, but it was such a rush finishing, as usual. Once we stopped running it was super cold, though (given the rain), and then I had to bike home, which was funny. I guess I finished around five-and-a-half hours, which isn't half bad given I was taking it super easy and we had to deal with the heavy rain and lots of stoplights. First road ultra in the books!
I was overjoyed to be part of such an awesome new tradition... The whole thing brought my appreciation of Philadelphia to another level. Can't wait for next year!
This month marks my fourth anniversary of running. It was back in November 2010 that I ran my first 5K at the behest of my mother, who got most of our family to run around the Milwaukee County Zoo. Back in those days I couldn't run a 5K without taking a walking break, and it was only a few months before that that I ever ran more than a mile at once. We've come a long way, baby.
I put together the chart below to see my progress at various distances over the years. Phew!
Yesterday I faced the 50-mile distance again. "Face" isn't quite the right word; I was super excited for it. There wasn't a hint of nervousness... Most of all I was grateful for the opportunity (and luxury!) of spending the whole day outside doing something I love to do. (Of course, the "love" part of it comes in waves...)
The weather was perfect: The day started out a bit chilly (okay, quite chilly... my toes were numb while I was waiting to start), but immediately once we got started, I felt great. The temperature slowly climbed up to the mid-40s, and it was sunny or partly cloudy the whole way. Couldn't have hoped for better weather!
The course was challenging in so many ways. The first two miles were uphill country roads, and then we entered the Appalachian Trail and went uphill some more. The biggest climbs happened in the first five miles, but the next ten miles had some solid ups and downs. Since the rest of the course was flatter, I wasn't sure how I should pace myself: Do I go out really easy and pick up speed on the easier terrain? What happens if I poop out or cramp up—will I wish I went fast while I could? I decided to just follow my breath, doing my usual four-steps-in-four-steps-out, nose only. I told myself I'd allow mouth-breathing after mile 25, but in the end I didn't really need to at all. I think I paced it pretty perfectly.
The Appalachian Trail was crazy. It was entirely obscured by dead leaves, and here and there you could see the rocks jutting out from beneath. It took a lot of focus to choose my steps, but it was a lot of fun for the first 10 miles or so. After that it was a bit mentally taxing, but at least it wasn't boring. The first three hours just whizzed by. Toward the end of the trail segment the rocks got crazier, and the final half-mile or so was switchback trail going down the side of a cliff that was virtually entirely made of rocks. Trying to keep going fast while stepping prudently while not flying off the edge of the cliff was exhilarating. And I didn't fall once! I was proud of myself for that, especially because I saw plenty of other people take dives, and I also got an unfair share of heckling for wearing sandals. Yes, heckling: Usually people make amused comments, but people at JFK50 tended toward the rude side, which was surprising. But joke's on them, because it turns out sandals are the perfect footwear for treacherous trail running ;).
After the trail was the Canal Towpath. Somehow I was woefully misinformed in thinking this was a three-mile portion of the race, but it turned out that it was 26.3 miles. Lol. The towpath is about 10 feet wide and runs perfectly flat on a ridge between the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal and the Potomac River. At first it was a nice break from the crazy focus required on the Appalachian Trail, but it quickly became monotonous. It all looked exactly the same, so it was sort of like running on a weird twilight zone treadmill or something. Luckily I had some captive conversational partners to pass the time with. I met a guy from the D.C. area who was running his first 50 and we talked from about mile 20 to 27 and then we ran into each other again after mile 42, and we finished together. I met another Luna Sandals wearer, and a handful of other people whose conversations punctuated the crunch crunch crunch of the dead leaves that coated the path. I hit the marathon mark around 4:30, which was a good sign for a sub-9-hour finish.
Somewhere along the towpath. Photo by PA Sports Lens
Finally at mile 42 we pulled off the towpath and onto the country roads. This was nice because it broke up the monotony, but it was not nice because it meant hills. Normally I like hills, but after already having run 42 miles they bring mixed feelings. So I walked up the big ones. I probably would have walked a lot more, in fact, if I hadn't re-run into my D.C. friend, since I am super lazy and really good at talking myself into walking. But I'm so glad we kept each other in check, because it meant finishing faster.
Eventually I finished in 8:48:43, averaging about 10:30/mile. I finished 163/789. I was so happy! My previous (first) 50 mile did not go well; I cramped up halfway through and had to hobble onward, finishing in 10:30, so this was nearly 2 hours better.
A photo posted by Tim Gorichanaz (@timgorichanaz) on
All in all, this performance was almost perfect, I guess. My pace was sustainable (and I think I did that part well, since I kept seeing the same people throughout the entire 50 miles). I didn't have any stomach cramping (I made a conscious effort to eat slightly more than I felt I should, which still wasn't terribly much... I'm discovering Coke and M&M's work well for me). My muscles didn't cramp up at all either. And though there were plenty of struggles, the struggles were merely mental. Well, not "merely." Mental struggles are the worst. I felt tired after about mile 10, and just slogged on for the next 40 miles. I constantly wondered whether I started out too fast and if I would make it. I briefly entertained the idea of dropping out at an aid station because I was too tired to keep going (and also it would mean, presumably, unlimited access to cookies and Coke). But somehow I put those thoughts away long enough to dupe myself into finishing, and I'm so glad for that. I didn't have any let-me-die-already or I'm-never-running-again feelings on this one, so maybe that means I didn't push it hard enough. Whatever... What I wanted at this race was to beat my previous time and to finish feeling good, and I achieved that. Knowing that I can finish a 50-mile feeling good is tremendously important, and I think it's an important milestone into fine-tuning my performance in future outings.
The best part about JFK 50 Mile was the volunteers! The aid stations were plentiful (just frequent enough, in my opinion), and the volunteers were helpful and ebullient. There were always the old standbys you could count on (water, Coke, M&M's), and then enough variety here and there to mix it up (hot soup, potatoes, homemade cookies). It was always a treat hitting an aid station (literally).
Course highlights: Beautiful trail. Volunteers!
Course lowlights: Having people right on my butt on the single-track was stressful! It kept me on edge, even though they didn't really want to pass. I also found myself in close proximity for most of the race to this manic middle-aged woman who shouted and screeched the whole time about random stuff, which was annoying...
Right now I can't conceive of running 100 miles, but I guess we'll see what happens when I give that a go in March. Right now I'm thinking I like marathons best of all and 50 Miles are alright by me, but I'm skeptical of 100s. But we'll see! After all, my first marathon experience was objectively horrible, but I've been coming back for more and more.
PS: I discovered after I got home that I got my first blood blister! Nothing serious... just a little "growth" on the middle toe of my left foot.
I still remember clearly the long, seemingly endless struggle to finish a marathon in under four hours. The disappointment that always shaded the should-be joyous accomplishment of finishing a marathon. Of finishing my first marathon—then my second, third, fourth. And, of course, I still remember the first 17 years of my life, when I couldn't manage to run a mile, and the few years after that when all I could run was a mile.
Going into the race, I vaguely figured I was in even better shape than I was last October, so I should have no trouble beating my 3:45 time. And yet, there was something in my mind suggesting that 3:45 could have been a fluke... After all, I'd only done it once, and my eight-marathon average finishing time was 4:30. Looking back at my training also made me a bit skeptical of myself: My pace during my long runs averaged 9:30/mile or so, on a good day (though I made a point of running them at a casual, relaxed pace), and my easy runs often dipped slower than 10:00/mile. In order to beat my marathon PR, I'd have to exceed about 8:30/mile on average. It seemed like a tall order.
There were a couple redeeming aspects of my training, though, that gave me hope that I could quash my 3:45 PR: I did speedwork twice a week—usually an interval session and a tempo session every week. And I was doing very high (for me) mileage, averaging 70 miles a week for the past few months. My tapering for this marathon took me down to 50 miles a week, which about a year ago was my mileage on peak week. Finally, this summer I ran two road 5Ks that resulted in two big PRs: First, I ran 20:30, then I ran 19:48—achieving my longstanding goal of beating 20 minutes. Later in the summer I ran a neighborhood half marathon where I made a point to run casually and not exert myself in the first 8 or 9 miles, and I finished in 1:45—nearly beating the PR that I had worked so hard to earn last year, almost hurling in the final mile.
So I made my way up to Scranton for the Steamtown Marathon, slept in a smoky motel room and sat on the bus to the starting line. Talking to a few people pre-race (people love approaching me to talk about the sandals...), the majority of the advice was to run conservatively the first half, which was mostly downhill, to save up for the second half, which had some climbs. I think this advice (which was mirrored in countless emails from the race director) caused a lot of people to go way too slow on the downhills. Thinking back, I remember passing a lot of people on the long downhill stretches (some were a few miles long), and then in the final three miles of the race I also passed a lot of people—and only one person passed me, and that was in the final half-mile.
Still, I heeded the wisdom of not going out too fast, and I made sure that for the first half of the run I would only breath through my nose, and make every inhalation last at least four steps—same with every exhalation. This is my way of keeping my heart rate (and, by proxy, pace) in check without having to use a watch or anything. Another innovation I practiced during this race was to not look at my watch for the first half, and then only after mile 20.
The course was stunning. As a point-to-point race in hilly northeastern Pennsylvania, it was pretty rural. And at this time of year, the foliage was gorgeous. The course took us through a few towns with lots of interesting architecture in their centers, and there were plenty of cheering spectators along the way. (Which meant shouts of, "Flip flops!?")
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The course was so beautiful! Such autumn! Forgive the awful photo; I didn't want to stop. But you get the idea.
I was nervous coming into the half. I knew I was trying not to push it, and I felt relaxed. If I was going to beat my 3:45 marathon, I needed to hit the halfway mark around 1:52. What would I do if I got to the half and I was way behind? My problem turned out to be the opposite: I got to the half at 1:39, which was better than my previous half marathon PR. Now I was a bit nervous: What if I couldn't keep it up?
The next several miles whizzed by. Literally, I guess, because I was going faster than I thought I had any business going. I decided to keep up my conservative breathing routine till mile 15, when I would allow myself to take only three steps per inhalation. Around mile 18, I allowed myself the occasional mouth-breath. I knew I was almost done, but the final six miles of a marathon can be brutal if you didn't save up gas.
When I hit 20 miles, I was astounded. My time then was 2:33, meaning I could take 12 minutes per mile for the rest of the race and still beat my 3:45 PR. (If I did my math right in my semi-crazed state.) That was very comforting. And now that that was in the bag, I decided to be a bit more ambitious: I only had 6 miles left, and I was feeling good. Since I knew I'd beat my PR, I was the king of the world. The question was how much further behind me the next guy in line would be. So I decided to ramp it up and see what happened. The idea popped into my head that I might be able to finish in 3:20, which would put me at 25 minutes better than my previous PR. Considering it was my 25th birthday, I couldn't resist.
I started inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, consciously increasing my turnover. I felt a few twinges in my calf muscles, which really scared me—should I back off? When the twinges came I did back off for a few minutes, but then I forgot about it and my speed crept back up. In the end, I had no cramping or pains or anything to speak of. In the final miles, I made a game of reeling in the runners ahead of me. I passed so many people! I kind of felt bad (but kind of not) for all the people who were struggling up the hills, because I was just cruising. I was on Cloud 99999999 and nothing could have been better.
I finished in 3:20:35, making my 25-minute PR. I gathered up some food from the post-race feast (it was seriously plentiful) and went to lie down in the grass. What a great birthday present.
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Time to sit in the grass for a while after a great marathon.
Along my running journey, I've had my fair share of injuries. Back when I was training for my first marathon (when the farthest I had ever run was 5 miles and I was pushing my body to new extremes every week), my knees started flaring up, my calf muscles ached and I experienced regular plantar fasciitis. Looking back, it's a wonder I kept up with the training... I made friends with ice packs and ace bandages, I started rolling around on tennis balls, and I took ibuprofen to ease the pain. More than anything, I just got used to the fact that running was going to be painful.
Fast forward two years, when running is mostly pain-free. Sure, a big part of that is having a better training base by now. I still get a strain or tweak every now and then... For example, my two October marathons left me unable to run for a month and a half. I no longer resort to drugs like ibuprofen to help (especially during runs) because they can be harmful for distance athletes... so what's a runner to do?
I have since found a solution to help speed recovery: a blend of powerful natural anti-inflammatories: turmeric, ginger, yucca root, licorice root, agar and black pepper. Simple, yes, but surprisingly effective.
Sure, you can buy most of these as spices and mix it up into some sort of concoction and drink it up, but that's a lot of trouble... And you better make sure you're getting quality ingredients, because the typical spices you find at your grocery store are not only irradiated (lowering their nutritional quality), but they also may be invisibly moldy and have been sitting around a while. I make sure the herbs I used are fresh and organic, meaning they'll be the most effective for what I need them to do. And I take them in capsules for easy consumption.
If you want to get in on the action, check out Get Back Up. It's the only product of its kind, and you can buy it online right now. It's all-natural, made with organic ingredients, and offers an effective blend of the herbs I mentioned above in easy-to-swallow capsules. It's the product I use personally, and I recommend it to anyone who takes running seriously or who really hates being injured.
Here's my personal protocol: If I ever feel a twinge of pain coming on, I take 2 to 3 capsules after my run (or right away if I'm not running at the time). If it's really bad I'll take another 2 to 3 that evening. It's always best to take them with food—particularly a fat source—because the herbs need to bind to lipids to be used by the body. Usually that squelches whatever injury was beginning to sprout, but if there are still symptoms the next day, I'll continue that protocol until they're gone. If it's a big monster of an injury, I'll take up to 6 capsules in a day.
I've also started preemptively supplementing with these herbs around tough workouts and races. I'll follow the protocol outlined above for the few days leading up to a marathon, or just on the day of a really key workout. And then after a really big effort, I'll take a few capsules. So that's my secret to recovery from running injuries, if you can call it a secret.
I've had great success with this herbal blend, and I've been fine-tuning it over the last several months. Since I've been following the protocol outlined above, I haven't had any injuries that stopped me from running—that's huge for me. I ran my first 50 mile this spring and was back running long the next weekend. It's great stuff.
