Racing Uwharrie

Those who have read my blog for a while know how I dog my Mizunos, possibly, the best sneakers I ever had. But, you don't know my other dark secret: buried in the deep recesses of my car trunk exists a hungry pair of beasts... my New Balance trail shoes.

For more than a year, they survived without stimulation. No grass cutting, no hiking, no plain old kicking around, and certainly no running. In fact, I forgot they were there... until Uwharrie. Driving through my second rain shower on the way to the 500 million year old mountain range, possibily the oldest in the world, I grew worried for my pretty-boy Asics, having never seen a speck of mud. Then I remembered my New Balance, sitting in the trunk just waiting for the right moment... waiting for Uwharrie.

Like my New Balance, the Uwharrie Moutains have seen better days. Once more than 10,000 feet, the Uwharrie's now rise only a 1,000 feet at their highest peak.
That's not to say there isn't some elevation gain in the race. We were reminded by the director early on not to leave it on the first ascent. Congestion on the narrow double track of that first hill caused most to resort to walking.

Though time has worn the mountain down nearly 9,000 feet it's trail reminded me that my 36 years on this planet meant comparatively little to it. Rocks and roots and trees and streams were obstacles at every turn. The quick footwork I developed with my early cadence work this season proved invaluable in thwarting the mountain from tripping me. Keeping my eyes on it's trail nearly the entire race, I slipped only once when I looked over my shoulder to check on another runner who fell. I never took my eyes of the trail again.

Techincally, it was a difficult run. My heart rate surged and dropped dramatically as I encountered peaks, passed runners, and eased my way down slippery slopes. Passing in itself required great skill and tactics as you never really looked up until you saw someone's sneakers at which point you were too close for a clear view of the single track trail. Quite often I'd catch up to someone, then back off to pick my lane for passing, if one was available. Sometimes, I just had to hang back and wait. Truthfully, I welcomed every one of those opportunities!

Nearing the five mile mark and only aid station on the 8-mile course my calves felt dead. I was certain I could sustain my pace but not so sure I could keep up the fancy foot work that kept me from stumbling like so many others I witnessed. I hit the aid station at exactly 50 minutes for a 10:00 per mile pace... truly amazing considering I walked the first ascent.

A small cup of Gatorade, an orange slice and less than a quarter banana later, my legs were back. Concerned about dead legs for the last ascent, I cooled down to a more moderate pace and 170-something heart rate when I caught up to a woman from Chapel Hill.

We talked about kids and daycare and triathlons and ocassionally her older son would pass us then drop back until eventually he moved ahead for good. Then a guy from Salisbury, NC caught up and we all ran together single file through a couple of streams and up some difficult climbs. We almost lost the trail once but, luckily I spotted the white blaze to our left.

We all cruised in together and shook hands over oatmeal cookies and Gatorade and thanked each other for the conversation on those last few miles. I never got the woman's name, but the guy behind me was Dave from Salisbury, NC. Waiting for the "Dead Legs Express" to transport us back to our cars, we met up with Rich from Hillsborough, NC, I believe.

Throughout the entire race, my New Balance trail shoes played bodyguard for my ankles protecting me from several possible twists and turns.
I couldn't have asked for a better performance from a pair of shoes I keep in the trunk of my car. For their effort, I took their picture with probably the most unique finisher's medal I've ever received: a handcrafted clay medallion.

Without a doubt, Uwharrie will see me next year at the 20 or 40-mile distance. And I can't help but think that a November Ironman just might be adequate training for the 40-mile effort in early February 2007.

Alas! Poor Gold Toe, I Knew Ye

I have never run a marathon, triathlon, or recent road race without these socks, bought by mistake nearly 10 years ago. And now, an era comes to an end, as my final pair, shipped back to me from Florida several months ago, developed this hole *sigh*. What now IM Florida? What sock is going to fill this gaping hole in my gear?

And then, there was one... and one is the lonliest number when you're a sock.

Rocky

Easily my favorite movie of all time. As I get older, it keeps getting easier to get all choked up and near tears at the end. Okay, okay... sometimes a few tears slip out. Little ones though!

That all started a few years ago and now that I have children of my own and have put their hopes and dreams before mine, it doesn't take much for me to let those little tears slip out. Laying on the floor watching Finding Nemo with Claudia... it has happened.

I was talking about this at work and someone thought it odd that I got choked up at Rocky, too. You say Rocky to someone and they think "underdog". Oh, you like stories of underdogs. Little fish with gimpy fin... bum from Philly.

Maybe.

But the real story isn't about being an underdog. Sure, both Nemo and Rocky are underdogs, but that's not why I love them. I love them because I have been there. I have pushed myself past where others will go, to places where no one can help me... and I made it.

At Florida I will do it again.

And just like Rocky, it matters little who gets the decision, because the winner is the person who realizes his dreams.

Superman, Part I

NOTE: Originally written in February 2006.

Never completely trusting the Weather Channel, I stuck my head out the door yesterday morning: 42 degrees and pouring rain. Being one of the few days with only one workout scheduled, I took the liberty of postponing my hour easy run until the afternoon.

By 10 am, the rain broke and by noon it was sunny. Then it warmed. Sweet!

I sped home like a bat out of hell trying to take advantage of the remaining daylight. It lingered I think just for me. Just for this run. I parked the car and ran into T1 (my house) practically ripping off my tie and unbuttoning my shirt as I bounded up stairs. I was changed in a flash and after a few quick stretches I was out the door.

Low fifties, sunlight, shorts, a long sleeve shirt and a cruise down Raven Ridge in hopes of making it to the lake before sunset. I crested the last hill and knew I had made it. A flock of geese honked overhead and the lake bugs were making their evening racket as if it were summer. I stopped for just a second to appreciate the otherwise silent view amongst the surrounding pines while the sun set here in North Carolina.

I could have run all night.

Superman, Part II

NOTE: This was originally written in February 2006.
In was a blistering 80 degrees Monday and I absolutely could not waste that kind of weather on my trainer. I left work right at 5 pm and was soon bounding up the my steps, once again ripping off my shirt, just like Superman. I quickly changed into bike shorts and a short-sleeve bike shirt (yes, I said short-sleeve!) and was out the door. Rush-hour traffic was a bitch at the two major roads I had to cross, but once across Falls of Neuse, it was clear riding to the lake. I even unzipped the shirt a bit, it was that nice! I covered 13 miles in 45 minutes, cruising back home just as the darkness set in.

I had hoped for the same thing yesterday, but realized I just couldn't get an hour ride in before it was too dark, so I set the trainer up in the yard. I averaged 18.5 for just over and hour, then set out for a 30-minute recovery run. Average pace was 9:52 and I covered just under 3 miles.

It's amazing how I can bike for an hour, than run 30-minutes at a 9:52 pace and not feel tired at all, but put me in a 10k at an 8:30 pace and I'm dying. I guess everyone has their kryptonite.

Cycling Carolina

Pedalling over the wooded hill I breathe in the smell of warm pine heated by the sun and watch the road shimmer at the peak of the next hill. Beyond it, the road dips again and crosses NC 96 at the immaculate white wooden church just before a small tobacco farm on the left. I pull a wrinkled hand-written map from the pocket of my Pearl Izumi bike shirt and dexterously unfold it with my right hand without breaking cadence. 21.5 miles: Bailout Point #1, and all is good. I keep cadence and pedal on anticipating my PB&J.

There is something about peanut butter that puts me at ease. To say it is my comfort food would be the understatement of the century and unlike many, I have fond memories of eating it in MRE's (Meals, Ready-to-Eat) while serving in the Marines. In fact, a lot of things about this ride remind me of Parris Island: the smell of pine, the sun, the old white church and the old highway. Not many people know that Parris Island was once an airfield and much of our training was spent on the sun bleached tarmac that resembled many of the country roads I'd cover on this Wilton Ruins ride.



So many abandoned barns lay by the roadside covered with young trees and vegetation as if the earth was trying to reclaim what was once hers long ago. I couldn't help but think there were memories too that would finally be exorcised when the barns were eventually overtaken and decomposed back to earth. And, as I rode these Carolina roads, I knew too that Parris Island was trying to reclaim me.

I thought (you can't help but think when riding six hours) that maybe I really was like Wil. Maybe there was a deep-seated reason why I did this, this training that takes me away from my family and pushes me to my limits... just like Parris Island did. Parris Island was elemental and primal and if you could train your mind to dig deep and claw for every inch of ground, you would survive. Don't ever waste your thoughts on fanciful ideas there...

I reach back and pull out my zip-lock bag of clementine oranges. Gripping it with my teeth, I peel it open and hold it against the aero bars to grab a few slices and stuff them in my mouth. The sugar hits fast and I stop my fanciful thinking and check my map. 41.9 miles: the final Bailout Point and I am still strong.

I put my head down and push hard towards 50 miles and my first rest stop.

The Citgo was not quite the country store I pass at the beginning of each ride so no fresh fruit was available. Instead, I fuel up on a Red Bull and replenish my water and Gatorade mixture.

The further I get into the countryside, the closer the roads resemble the tarmac at Parris Island. The dilapidated barns are in increasingly worse condition and I soon realize that I am not going to make it either. It is too hot, I am too sun-burned, and I have been gone too long.

After calling Sandi on the cell, I make my way to the intersection of NC 56 and NC 96, where I am hoping there is another church or country store, but find only another Citgo. Before I can even sit in the shade Sandi arrives. From the back of the Odyssey I load my bike and talk to CB while realizing that there will be other rides and things are not so final as they were once in my life.