Anchorage, Alaska
MAMFAY Race #9 – Age = 50.72 years old
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Finally, a report . . .
I know I’ve been a bit lax with my reporting these past few races. Mostly just a lack of energy as far as writing goes. I do have notes for the other races, and even a rough draft for the Snickers Marathon, so, maybe, those stories will eventually be told. With more than the usual amount of embellishment, I mean miss-remembering, I’m sure. As it is, here’s the telling of the tale from our Alaskan adventure.
Jackson . . .
I debated about where to put this bit. Here at the beginning or there at the end. It happened a couple of days after the marathon, but the fact that it could occur was on my mind, heavily, beforehand.
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Jackson, our 13 year old black Lab, had to be put down the Tuesday following the Sunday race. While we were still in Alaska. Which makes it especially painful. To be at the other end of the continent, about as far away as possible, and not there to comfort him . . . well there really are no words to express the hurt.
I won’t go into all the details, but I’ll fill in some blanks. Renate’s Aunt Rose was dog and house sitting for us. That Tuesday evening, about 8 PM (4 PM for us in Alaska), she noticed that Jackson was having lots of trouble breathing. She called Dave, our neighbor and best friend, and together they got Jackson to the puppy hospital. Where there really wasn’t anything that could be done for him. It wouldn’t have been fair to Jackson to prolong things, to keep him in some state between life and death, until we could get home. We were talking with the doctor and we gave our permission for him to be sent to that big back yard in the sky, to join his brother, Laramie. I guess that was an hour or so after he was first brought in. |
 Laramie and Jackson |
Both Renate and I knew there was this possibility when we set out on our trip to Alaska. We really were just hoping and praying that he’d be ok for the week. Though I think I cringed whenever her BlackBerry would make any noise. We certainly didn’t want to put Dave and Aunt Rose into the situation they had to deal with, but we’re extremely grateful to have the friends and family that we have.
There’s more . . .
In addition to the mental gyrations I was going through with Jackson prior to his passing, I was dealing with a little bit of a right hip issue. More in the hip crease than anything. I had some ART work done on it and I was pretty good with the stretching. By race morning, it was there, but not as bad as it had been the week before. Still, I wasn’t sure how it would feel several miles into the day. I was hoping the adrenalin of the event would be enough to keep me from really noticing it.
On the plus side, the knee issues I had been having with my left knee since Mardi Gras back in February had decided to go bother somebody else. Or maybe that issue migrated over to my right hip. To bog this part down with unnecessary analysis, I don’t really think I had altered my running form in any way to compensate for the sore knee. But, it is possible. I do know that I had cut back on my stretching as that seemed to bother the knee. Whatever, I had a physical ailment that had caused me to cut back some training miles in favor of rest days. Let’s just call it a rather aggressive taper.
So, I’m heading into my ninth marathon in nine months with a fair amount of mental and physical tension. It should be fun.
Some pre-race stuff . . .
The expo wasn’t anything to write home about, but we still spent a few dollars. And picked up our race packets. Guess if I wrote more about it, it would be something to write about, which it really wasn’t , so I won’t.
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The night before dinner was good, but too much food. As is often the case. The restaurant was a nice place, linen tablecloths and napkins, but they didn’t have any Guinness so I had . . . I forget what I had. I’m thinking maybe the Oatmeal Stout from the Glacier BrewHouse, the brewery right down the street where we had dinner the first night we were in town. Renate kept offering to get me some Guinness, but I declined. Little did I know.
I had the usual night before sleep, waking up about ten minutes before the alarm went beep . . . beep . . . beep. The usual race morning stuff, including being my normal grumpy self while Renate takes my picture. |
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Did I mention that it’s raining. I look out the window and notice big puddles down in the parking lot and streets. With lots of ripples rippling through them. So it goes. I have my trash bag ready to be used as rain gear.
This was one of those point to point races where we had to catch a bus up to the starting line. (Renate’s race, the half marathon, started and finished in the same area – we did have the same finish line. She could have bused over had she wanted, but it wasn’t too bad of a walk for her.) There was a handy-dandy bus schedule in the race magazine that was included in our goodie bags. Which, I forgot to mention, basically included just a little (bear) whistle on a key chain. That was about it. Anyway, the bus schedule . . . the pickup time from our hotel was 6:30 AM. Not too bad. But, looking further down the chart showed an arrival time at the starting area of 7:20 AM. The organizers wanted us racers to start lining up at 7:30 AM for the 8:00 AM start. Ten minutes doesn’t really give me enough time to do all the things I need to do pre-race.
I noticed another little bus schedule chart. I could catch a bus just around the corner from the hotel at 6:10 AM and get to the starting area at 6:35 AM. That made much more sense to me and it was what I was planning on doing.
So, figuring a Boston-like mob waiting for the bus, I kissed Renate good luck and left the hotel a little before 6 AM. When I got outside, the expected heavy rain was really just light stuff. It was still rippling the puddles, but it wasn’t anything to worry about. I kept my trash bag in reserve.
When I got to bus stop, the expected hoard of runners was non-existent. Did I miss the bus? I couldn’t have. I’m ten minutes early. I stew a little, walking from corner to corner, not entirely sure where the bus will be stopping. A bus shows up, right on time. There are maybe four people on board. Including the driver. I ask him if he’s the marathon bus. He says yes, so I get on. I guess I could have looked at the people on the bus and figured it out. Not too many folks wear clear trash bags on top of technical clothing early in the morning.
We wait a few minutes. Another person gets on. We drive on to the next stop. A couple more folks get on. I remember the schedule showing only three stops for the bus (I was the second stop) so we should be off to the high school starting area any minute.
And we were. And it was a simple enough ride. And the rain stopped while we were riding. And the moose and the bears were singing alongside the road. Well, maybe not. But, it did stop raining.
We get to Bartlett High School and there’s really nobody there. “Porta-potties for everybody,” someone says. “Take your time. Read your newspaper.”
There wasn’t a good place to sit, and it was a bit chilly, so maybe I did too much standing around prior to the race starting. I could have gone into the gym, which was open, to get out of the chill, but it wasn’t all that bad outside so I just stood around, watching people. And trying to time my last visit to the, now semi-crowded, porta-potty. Debating when to turn in my warm up clothes. I had a throwaway shirt, but no throwaway pants. Well, at least it wasn’t raining. I did meet an Internet running friend in the parking lot. I guess I had last seen Linda in Huntsville back in December of ’07. We chatted a bit and that was good.
But, race time drew near and I ventured over to turn in my pre/post race clothes. Then I wandered over to the starting area so I could get a position near the front. Finally I donated my long sleeve t-shirt for good. (I had tossed it a couple of earlier races – Mardi Gras and Snickers – but both times I managed to retrieve it from the ground afterwards. Those races had starts and finishes pretty much together so that all the tossed clothes were there for the picking when I finished.)
A few speeches, a bit long from the mayor, I thought. The Alaskan anthem followed by the National Anthem. Both well done. Well, the recordings sounded nice.
The race . . .
I had been warned that the first few miles were on a bike path paralleling a major road. Because of the narrowness of the bike path, my guide suggested I get out a bit quick if I wanted to avoid any real congestion. So, I lined myself up in the second row at the starting line.
The race official told all of us up front to go when the countdown got to zero even if the gun misfired. Ok. Could be entertaining. Fortunately, after the five, four, three, two, one countdown, the gun went bang and we went running. Taking off from the parking lot of Bartlett High School (home of the Bears) on a journey that would eventually take us to West High School (home of the Eagles) in downtown Anchorage.
Things shook out pretty quickly and I was running smoothly. I’m going to say the first three quarters of a mile or so were on the road. Then it was down a cloverleaf and under Muldoon Road with us runners getting on a paved bike path paralleling Glenn Highway. The first mile marker was right about here and I was pleased with my 6:41. I’m running with a local by the name of Lloyd. He mentions that he’s now in the 50 year old age group (completely unprompted by me) and points out his (our) competition a little ahead of us. He asks my age and I reply, “Same as you.” Another guy asks Lloyd his goal and when he replies that he’s hoping to get near three hours, I decide to move up to the next little group.
My goal going into the day was to shoot for 6:45’s for the first 15 or so miles. That would be a 2:57 marathon pace which would be ok. Because those initial 15 miles trended up while the last 11 were mostly down, I was hoping to run a bit faster, ideally about 6:35’s, and finish in the 2:55 ballpark.
Anyway, one mile down, a bunch more to go. And, based on my pre-race discussion, the next three or so were going to be on this bike path. Which was fine. The running was comfortable, though it did lean towards the up. I fell in with a couple of guys running steadily and chatting up a storm. A 6:44, a 6:43, and a 6:35 and we were done with the bike path alongside Glenn Highway. While we had been running along the highway, there were random honks and cheers from the passing cars. That was nice because there wasn’t any other real spectator support out there.
There was an aid station about two miles in and I got to deal with the little plastic cups. My preference is for paper cups since I like to fold the top together and sip that way. Plastic cups don’t fold and I didn’t do a very good job of getting water anywhere other than the front of my shirt.
About mile four, it was up and over Glenn Highway onto a road with no name. The heat was hot and the ground was dry, but the air was full of sound. Actually, none of that was true. It was coolish. The path was a bit on the damp side. And I didn’t notice any sounds other than our feet slapping. Oh, wait. That was a horse with no name. My mistake.
While on the overpass, we could look over to our right and see the mass of humanity trailing us.
I’m still running with Jason and Auston. Jason is the head running coach for a local Anchorage high school and Auston is a recent graduate of the University of Alaska-Anchorage. They seemed to know each other well and were talking about all kinds of things. I was just tagging along, asking random questions to be semi-polite, but mostly just clicking off the miles. Miles 5, 6, and 7 were covered in 6:43, 6:31, and 7:12. Kind of all over the place. It didn’t seem like our pace varied all that much so we came to the conclusion that maybe six was short and seven was long. Six did have some downhill and seven was all gradually up, but that wouldn’t seem to account for the forty second difference in the two. So it goes. Overall, we were still running near the 6:45 pace that I wanted.
At some point in that stretch, Jason was talking about a girl he met at college, I think he said Liberty. She was from West Virginia and she didn’t believe that Jason was telling the truth when he was describing the winter weather in Alaska. The girl said it couldn’t be true, she’s seen a map of the United States and Alaska is right there next to Hawaii, no way could it have all that snow and stuff. Auston and I started commenting about the public school system in West Virginia. Entertaining.
Gravel roads . . .
But then the real fun started. A quick right hitch and now we’re running on a gravel road. I knew this was coming. I had been warned. To the point that I was wearing my heavier training shoes instead of the lighter racing flats just so I could have a little bit more protection from the stones. We had about five miles of this stuff. Mile eight (6:42) had a bit of an uphill in the middle while mile nine (6:39) was a gradual downhill.
We’re still dealing with this gravel road. It’s annoying, as much as anything. It’s loose gravel, not the packed down stuff. And trying to find a running line that works makes for a bit of weaving. Especially if the three of us try to run side by side. I’ve taken to falling back a little to see if I can follow one of the locals. That doesn’t really work any better. Mile ten goes by in 7:03.
I do have a good idea of what splits I’ve been running. As opposed to some past races, I set up my watch to just display the current lap, as it were. The numbers are large enough that my over the hill eyes can see them. I haven’t yet flipped screens to see what the total elapsed time is. If I would have looked, I would have seen that I covered the first ten miles in 1:07:34. Pretty damn close to that 1:07:30 which would have been 6:45 pace.
At some point, the three of us (Jason, Auston, and me) have intermixed with the lead female and her bike escort. She’s wondering about the duration of the gravel road. And whether or not it’s going to get worse. That might have been all the way back at mile eight. I don’t recall. (As I tell all the lawyers.)
Jason seems to be the resident expert and he’s talking her through things. I quip that he’s never actually run this stuff before so it’s all BS. Auston says, “Yeah, Google Earth is a wonderful thing.” (Actually, Google Earth isn’t all that helpful as I’m accessing it to write this report. Maybe the fact that we’re currently running on the Fort Richardson Military Reservation has something to do with that.)
Anyway, Natasha (as I found her name to be after looking at the results) and her biker soon drop back behind us a bit and it’s just the three of us. I’m doing ok hanging on. There are a couple of reasons, in addition to pacing, that I’m doing my best to keep with Jason and Auston. First off, I don’t want to be bear bait. Though I recognize that I’m probably the slowest of us three, I’m gambling that we’re making enough noise that the bears will stay away. The other reason is that I don’t want to get lost. There’s really no danger of that, but if I get lost I’m sure I’ll be bear bait. Well, I have my Road ID bracelet on so at least my remains could be identified. Unless the bear eats that, too.
We continue running.
Miles 11 (6:56) and 12 (6:46) have some twists, some turns, some ups, some downs. Nothing major, for any of that. It does seem like the gravel is getting a bit larger and a bit looser, but that could just be that I’m sick of it. It’s frustrating me physically and mentally. I try to get a grip on things, but I’m struggling. Mile 13 goes by in 6:47. I still haven’t checked my overall time. I’m just not into this race to the degree that I should be. My hip is bothering me off and on. Nothing major, just an annoyance. Like the damn gravel. You know, I knew it was out there, I knew it was part of the race, it shouldn’t have been the mental hit it was turning out to be.
There was a bit of a steep bump early in mile 14. Jason and Auston start to gap me a little bit. Then, around the bend, there’s more uphill. Uphill rots. Uphill on gravel rots lots. Hearing little bear dinner bells off in the woods doesn’t help. Jason and Auston have left me. I contemplate singing. Based on my musical abilities, that would just piss off the bears even more. Maybe that bear whistle was included in the goodie bag for a reason, but I neglected to bring it along. Just as well. For all I know, it could be similar to those dog whistles. The bear whistle might have just summoned them. I quietly shuffle up the hill. Mile 14 is a stellar 7:52.
And dirty trails . . .
Oh, there’s more to that mile than I reported. I’ve (I had to change that from we’ve since I’ve lost my traveling companions) left the gravel road for some good old fashioned trail running. You know, I was kind of hoping to hold off on that until next year. Again, I knew it was on the course so I wasn’t totally surprised. Though I did stop, and I even turned around and re-traced my steps a bit, when I was unsure if I had missed a turn. I hadn’t seen any markers, any acknowledgement that I was on course. So, of course, I experience doubt. It wasn’t long, a few seconds really, when I saw a fellow runner coming up behind me. Well, two lost souls were better than one. Plus, it appeared that he was a bit slower, so I was no longer bear bait.
Back to the gravel road for a second. There would be the random couple of people walking in the opposite direction, apparently heading towards an aid station. Most of them seemed to be involved with Team In Training – coaches, supporters, hangers-on – while a couple had bib numbers pinned on and I took them to be relay runners heading towards the exchange point. Which, after looking at where the relay exchange points were, doesn’t make any sense. The first exchange was way back at the seven mile aid station, right as we got on the gravel road. The second exchange point was at the 15 mile marker which I haven’t gotten to as far as this report goes, but was on this trail section. So, I must not have seen what I thought I saw.
And writing of miss-remembering, I vaguely remember a couple of little stream crossings along the trail section, little springs actually as opposed to little streams. No salmon leaping upspring. No bears snatching leaping salmon.
I see the 15 mile marker standing on the side of the trail, all by its lonesome. A split check shows I just ran a 6:11 mile. My fastest mile of the day. By far. Something tells me that the 7:52 for mile 14, the slowest mile of the day, might have been a bit long and mile 15 might have been a bit short. Ah, the randomness of mile markers in the woods. Maybe the bears moved them. No matter, combining the two miles, I still would have been off-pace for my 6:45s. Well, the majority of the uphill stuff was done and, soon, I should be speeding downhill. First a bit more trail to run.
On the road, again . . .
Ah, back to civilization. Good old-fashioned, all-American asphalt. And quite a few people as, I guess, this was a relay exchange point. As well as an aid station.
According to my GPS numbers (which have all the accuracy of . . . I don’t know, not much), I left the trail and returned to road racing about 15.5 miles into the day, getting on Basher Drive. I remember looking at my elapsed time and seeing a 1:45:xx. That roughly meant a bit less than 75 minutes to cover a bit less than 11 miles. My mental calculator was on the fritz, so I couldn’t come up with a targeted pace. (Had I been able to compute, I would have found that I needed to run just under 6:50 miles to break three hours.)
Basher Drive, which turns into Campbell Airstrip Road is a good bit of semi-steep downhill running. I can see Jason and Auston cruising along in the distance. I vaguely think that I’ll be able to connect back up with them. A 6:44 for mile 16 followed by a 6:35 for mile 17. Jason and Auston aren’t getting any closer, but at least I’m running well.
Towards the end of mile 18 I make a left turn onto Tudor Road. Well, actually, the bike path paralleling Tudor Road. I think this was the section of freshly paved bike path. Where the parts where it crossed side streets were in a state of construction and hadn’t been paved, yet.
Mile 18 is a 6:48 followed by a 6:41 for mile 19. I’m planning on getting an elapsed race time at mile 20 so I can attempt some mental calculations for the final 10k.
Physically, I’m doing so-so. My right hip crease is bothersome, but doesn’t appear to be a major negative issue. More of an issue is my feet. Particularly the left one. I can’t feel it. I occasionally look down to make sure it’s still there. I think I may have tied my shoes too tight. And they’re heavy. Which may be more a case of me latching onto the negatives that crop up at this point in a marathon than anything.
About 19.5 miles into the day, I’m directed across Tudor Road onto a bike path that, I gather, is the edge of the University of Alaska-Anchorage campus. I thank the volunteers and police folks. At least I think I did. No, I take all that back. Looking at Google Earth, there’s a bridge over Tudor Road that I ran on. So, no need to thank anybody, thank you very much.
Under Ambassador Drive, around the eastern edge of University Lake and onto University Lake Drive. The 20 mile marker is at the end of University Lake Drive as I make a right hand turn. It’s a slow 6:59 mile. Maybe I was soaking in all the scenery. Maybe the lack of foot feeling was affecting my running. I was just under 2:16 for the day. I needed to run a 44 minute final 10k to break three hours. I couldn’t, however, do the math. Had I been able, I would have calculated a final pace of right around 7:06 per mile for the last 6.2 miles to break three hours. Furthermore, I couldn’t recall my average final 10k for my sub-three hour marathons. For what it’s worth, the average finishing 10k for my 18 sub-3 marathons is just over 42 minutes, a 6:48 pace. However, the last two races, Boston and Flying Pig, the final 10k has been a 43:55 and a 43:47. So, it certainly wasn’t going to be a run in the park. Even though I was kind of running in a park. I resolved to shoot for seven minute miles and let the math take care of itself.
The final 10k . . .
I don’t think I ran under University Drive, so there must have been some traffic control as I crossed it. I started running, or continued running, on the path system for the University of Alaska-Anchorage. It’s quite involved. Fortunately, there was orange ribbon blocking off the wrong directions. Plus a volunteer, usually sitting, right there. I certainly couldn’t see any other runners. Well, until the one guy passed me. “Good pace,” I told the guy. “You’re going to break three hours.” He said something in return that I didn’t catch and continued pulling away. I was able to keep him in sight, off and on, through the twists and turns of the bike paths.
Mile 21 was a 7:04 followed by a 6:59 for mile 22. I was doing kind of so-so with the seven minute target.
The bike paths aren’t showing up real well on Google Earth, and I don’t recall how I got from one side of Northern Lights Boulevard to the other. I either tunneled under or bridged over. The same for Lake Otis Parkway. (All that excitement was during mile 22.)
Mile 23 is 7:01. Another guy passed me with such velocity that I assumed he was a relay runner. When I asked, he said, “No. I’m running the full.” Maybe he really wasn’t moving that quickly. I was just running that slowly. He was a youngster, so I wasn’t too concerned with losing an age group place. Not that I could have done anything about it. The guy who passed me a bit ago, who I could still see on occasion, was older and he could be in my age group. So it goes. The apparent cream of the crop of local 50 to 54 Anchorage men had been pointed out to me very early in the race. He was a mid-2:40’s type, as I was told, so I figured I was racing for, at best, second place in the age group. So it goes.
There are a couple more tunnels under the roads. Mile 24 goes by in 6:37. I’m semi-stunned. I’ve switched my watch display to include race time along with the current lap time. I have sixteen minutes to cover the last 2.2 miles and I’ll break three hours. A couple of seven minute miles and then a good finish. I perk up just a bit.
Mile 25 goes by in 6:46 and was the standard, for these last few miles, anyway, bike paths with tunnels under the big roads. I’m hurting big-time but, I’m figuring, in less than nine minutes I’ll be done.
About a half mile into my the 26th mile and the marathoners merge in with the half marathoners. Under normal circumstances, if the two races started at the same time, I’d be looking for Renate. For Mayor’s, the halfers started an hour after we did, so I’m intermixed with folks trying to break two hours. It’s good in that they’re, for the most part, runners and they don’t tend to run three and four abreast while chatting. There are still a bunch of them and they’re scattered all over the road, so it did necessitate some bobbing and weaving.
Oh, and the road goes uphill. Pretty massively uphill. It’s a tough one, but I’m powering up it to the best of my ability. I am passing quite a few halfers. Nobody has any oxygen available for comments. Pretty much everybody just has their head down, staring at their own two feet. I have to look up a bit so I don’t run into anybody. Finally I crest the hill and try to get back on pace. I know that was the worst of it and it’s smooth sailing to the finish line.
I glance at my watch to see where I am, time-wise. Seven minutes into this last mile. Well, I’m sure that hill slowed me down a bit. Another look . . . 7:30. Maybe I lost a bit more to the hill. 8:00 . . . guess there isn’t going to be a sign for the 26th mile. Ah, ratcrap! There it is. An 8:26 mile. That really popped the weasel. I see a big fat 2:59:00 on my watch. Guess my string of sub-three hour marathons was going to come to an end up here in the last frontier.
I’m fairly disappointed. I’m running to finish, but it’s going to be a bittersweet finish. Onto the West High School track for a finishing 100 meters. A 3:00:18. So it goes.
Post-race . . .
I’m bummed out. And I’m not feeling so great. I get my medal from Miss Alaska (I think) and venture out to try and find my clothes bag. I get that with not too much difficulty and change into dry stuff. A little more difficulty involved with that. Then I go in search of beer. I don’t find any. I feel horrible, but I still want a beer. It’s tradition. It’s recovery, damn it. Instead I mix up my protein powder with some water and start sipping on that. It’s time to head over near the finish line to await Renate.
And await. And await.
She’s hoping to break 2:50 which with the hour later start will mean she should finish . . . right about now. Maybe now. How about now.
There she is. All smiles. Of course. With an official finishing time of 2:51:42. She might have achieved her sub-2:50 goal if she hadn’t stopped to take pictures of the moose.
Awards . . .
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Checking out the posted results, I see I managed to score a second place in the age group and a 14th place overall. Thirteen guys broke three hours. The fourteenth didn’t. Seven of the 13 ahead of me were from Anchorage, including my age group winner, and two others were from nearby. I guess a bit of local knowledge of the course, the ability to train on some of the gravel and dirt, was a help. Despite the lack of beer, we hung around for the awards ceremony. I managed to get a soda down my throat. Renate offered me a hot dog, but that didn’t have much appeal.
I’m still pretty disappointed with the finishing time. Renate seems to think it was the lack of Guinness the night before. As it was, Mayor’s was the first time I broke three hours, in the wrong direction, after 18 sub-3’s. I could possibly rationalize it out of the way by saying that the approximately eight miles on gravel roads and trails means it’s not really a road marathon and therefore it shouldn’t be included in that list. I could put it in with the Trail Dawgs Trail Marathon, a race that’s kind of in a category all by itself as it isn’t a road marathon and it isn’t an ultra. But, no, I can’t put Mayor’s in there. Mayor’s is a certified course. It’s a Boston Qualifier. The terrain is kind of incidental. As it will be for the Mesa Falls Marathon I’m doing in August in Idaho which has 9.8 miles of gravel roads and 2.8 miles of packed trails. A bit more than Mayor’s. Another possible shoe dilemma. |
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Post post-race . . .
With no beer in the area, there was no need to hang around after the awards. The walk back to the hotel, maybe a mile, turned out to be a bit more of a struggle than I would have liked. But the walking was probably good for me. As we’re shuffling along – well, I’m shuffling, Renate is walking normally – near a section of the course, a girl on a bike stops and congratulates us. She then asks which aid station we liked the most. Apparently they were themed and they had a contest and she was the overall aid station person and she was curious. I had absolutely no recollection of any costumed aid station volunteers – I really have to start paying closer attention to things – but Renate mentioned one that was on her course – folks dressed up like Dalmatians with a Cruella DeVille – and that seemed to make the girl happy. I did mention that the aid stations were great, I just couldn’t recall any themes. She thanked us, congratulated us again, and rode away as we continued walking back to the hotel.
Because of a rental car mix-up, Renate had to go get the car we would be using for the tourist part of the trip after the race. And that took forever. I’m back in the hotel room dying from a lack of beer. Finally I give her a call and we decide to meet at McGinley’s Pub. A couple pints of Guinness, a bowl of clam chowder, and a plate of fries and I’m feeling fairly restored. Still upset with my race, but getting over it. Yeah, right.
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We walk around a bit in search of a party. It’s the longest day of the year, the summer solstice. There are supposed to be parties everywhere. We walk up and down a street with artists with various arts and crafts on display. Nothing appeals. Plus it’d be a pain to get anything back home. Down a couple of blocks it looks like something is happening. Nope. At least not anything where beer is being sold. Back to the hotel room as Renate wants a nap. I’m getting to my post-race wound up state and I’m not sleepy. I venture down to the hotel bar for an Alaskan Amber or two. I chat with a few fellow racers. Then I decide to head over to Humpy’s.
We had been there for lunch the day before the race. Good food and beer. Horrible service. Well, their advertised party was supposed to take place in the alley behind the place. And it was. Alaskan Amber on tap and a band making noise. Plus it’s, what?, 7 PM or so and the sun is shining brightly. Renate wakes up and texts me to find out where I am. I have the oldest cell phone on the planet and it’s a pain to text back with it. So, I call her and she says she’ll wander over. I’m wearing my Boston Marathon jacket, getting much more use out of than I ever really expected. I notice another jacket, from a different year. I strike up a conversation – I’ve had enough beer by now that I’ll talk to strangers. |
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I guess we stayed at Humpy’s until after the sun set. Which was 11:45 PM. Pretty entertaining. There were lots of laughs with quite few people. (I thought I had some notes about some of the folks, but I can’t find anything. I do know there was one guy who had just climbed Denali and commented that it messed up his marathon training, though he still ran a 3:34. There was another group, a bachelor party who ran the marathon as a relay. And the guy with the Boston jacket. Amongst a few others that popped in and out of the group.) Renate wanted food and, since it was on the way back to the hotel, we stopped at McGinley’s. No food but a pint of Guinness. And catching the last few songs of the only Alaskan Zydeco band in existence. I’m sure.
Finally, even I was starting to drag and it was off to the hotel for some sleep. And that pretty much wraps up the Mayor’s Marathon portion of the trip. It was kind of entertaining that this was the third time in the last four marathons where we ran into some kind of village party. Snickers in Albany, Georgia had their version of a Mardi Gras party in March (during Lent, no less) and Flying Pig in Cincinnati had Cinco de Cincy in May. Wonder what’s going to happen in Missoula in July.
Some post-race analysis . . .
I don’t think I did a very good job of fueling and hydrating during the race. I finished up with a half full gel flask. Which means I had four of the six servings of fuel I usually take. (The flask holds four servings and I tape two additional packets to the outside of the flask.) Based on my practice of taking gel every four to five miles, I probably didn’t have anything – or very little – the last eight to ten miles of the day. I’m sure that had a negative impact, but I just didn’t feel like taking anything. A bit of an upset stomach contributed.
A possible bigger issue was that I didn’t take in enough water. I mentioned the plastic cups at the aid stations. Plus the aid stations were relatively short. Both of those things shouldn’t have been a problem. In hindsight – a wonderful way to look at life – I should have slowed to a walk and made sure I got enough water into my system. Even though weather conditions were good for running – temps in the low 50s, overcast with no wind to speak of – I still needed to replenish the stuff I was sweating out.
Another negative, mentally and physically, was the use of training shoes. You know, I didn’t notice the footwear of choice for Jason and Auston, but, I think, if I were to do the race again, I’d go with the racing flats. The gravel road might have been a bit uncomfortable in lighter, less protective shoes, but I don’t think the rocks were all that bad. And racing flats would have been no problem on the trail section. Furthermore, it would have been nice to have the lighter shoes once I got back on the roads. This thought process will come into play for Mesa Falls in Idaho in August, what with close to 13 miles on gravel and dirt. From what I can tell, it’s the opening half of the marathon with that stuff and then roads for the second half.
The future . . .
The result did cause me to re-evaluate my future goals. I had already decided that I wasn’t going to be making a serious stab at running a marathon (or further) in all 50 states – to the point that I didn’t renew my membership in the 50 States Club – even though Alaska makes the count 21 states completed. I’ll, hopefully, get two more the next couple of months with Montana and Idaho and I’ll continue to knock out the states here and there. I just won’t make it a consuming task. But my really far out there goal of running a sub-three hour marathon in all 50 states is now gone for good. Which is really fine. This means I don’t have to go back to Hawaii or Wyoming for marathons. A sub-three in Wyoming would have been tough, because of the availability of races and the possible altitude issues.
I also decided that I would probably not attempt a 13th marathon (and 13th state) in the 12 month period of MAMFAY. The only reason the Clarence DeMar Marathon was on my schedule was so that I could get a fifth Marathon Maniacs star. Right now I’m planning on a PR attempt at Kiawah Island in December, instead. I want to get back to a quality instead of quantity thing.
Finally, I wasn’t going to be running the Good Neighbor Day 15k in Downingtown on July 4th. I had run it nine years in a row, winning my age group the last five, but it just didn’t make sense with another marathon coming up on July 12th. Not if I wanted to get back to my sub-three hour marathons.
Jackson, part two . . .
This Alaska trip was a big one for book reading. Lots of time on planes, as much as anything. One of the books I read, The Art of Racing in the Rain, is from a dog’s point of view. I read it at the beginning of the trip, on the flight from Cincinnati to Seattle to Anchorage. In the opening chapter, Enzo, the dog, is an old dog, at the end stage of his life telling how he doesn’t want extraordinary means used to keep him going. He hears Denny, his human, asking a friend to cover for him at work. Denny is going to take Enzo to the vet. Enzo hears Denny say “I’m not sure it’s a round trip visit.” That really got to me and I had tears in my eyes. The book continued, going back to when Enzo was a puppy, being chosen by Denny, and progressing through his life. In the final chapter, Enzo dies, peacefully at home, in Denny’s arms. It was good that Renate was looking out the window at all the high mountains as we were flying into Anchorage.
Another book I read, while in Alaska, If You Lived Here, I’d Know Your Name, basically about life in small-town Alaska. In the final chapter, which I read after Jackson’s passing, the author writes about having to put down her old black Lab because of cancer. And I cry some more.
I just re-read those sections of those books, while writing this bit. I still keep looking around to see how Jackson’s doing. Every time I come down the stairs, I look for him. I come back from a run and expect to find him laying in the same position as when I left. (He didn’t move much, those last few months.) I wonder how long all this is going to go on. July 4th, we put his ashes under the puppy rock in the puppy puddle, joining his brother, Laramie, and our earlier dog, Cody. Supposedly that’s closure. Right? It’s not working. Guess it’ll just take some more time.
