"You couldn't break me" - race report from the Princeton 300k bike ride

I'm sure you've heard of the saying, "when it rains, it pours." A classic line we've all used when bad things snowball after one another, one after the next. While caught in the storm, it's impossible to think beyond it. Will it ever get better? Of course the answer to that question is yes, but rarely does this thought cross our minds in the moment. We're too engrossed in the negative to think about the positive. But, it's this resilient sense of optimism -  that things will ultimately get better (and we'll be a better person for it) - carries us through.

****

I pulled myself up off the pavement. Now wet, I look down at my right leg to see blood seeping out of my knee and ankle. I pick up my bike and gingerly move to the shoulder of the road. A friend of mine, Jeremy, and I inspect the tires. Both seem fine. I quickly check the brake calipers to ensure they are in proper alignment. I gently pat the open wound on my knee with my new gloves. Just a couple days prior I contemplated not wearing any, but a friend convinced me otherwise. For $11 a the local bike shop, they've already exceeded their value, probably preventing another gash the the palm of the hand, which happened a few weeks ago (the result of not wearing gloves).

The only light shines from the headlamp strapped around my helmet. It's just after 4:30 in the morning. The sun hasn't come up yet. There is a distinct chill in the 45 degree air. Moisture still covered the pavement, a reminder of the heavy rain from the day before. "Perfect, and now I'm wet AND cold - not a good combination," I thought to myself. 

Just three minutes into the ride, I hit a water-filled pothole. In the darkness of the early morning hour, the water masking the appearance of a pothole, and my briefly glancing at the cue sheet and not keeping my eyes on the pavement ahead combined in some cruel act of conspiracy. I reached into my pocket to grab the cue sheet, and with only one hand on the handlebars, I didn't stand a chance. Thankfully, myself, my friend Jeremy, and his friend Ryan, weren't riding too fast after just embarking on the 300 kilometer bike ride in Princeton, New Jersey. 

I mount my bike, and we continue on, my focus heightened. The next 20 miles are slow moving, our pace hovering around 10 miles per hour. Anything above that is virtually impossible, mostly because our headlamps can't illuminate too far ahead of us. And with the result of hitting a pothole cautioning us, we slowly trudge on, eagerly awaiting the sun to finally appear over the horizon. 

My right foot and finger tips begin to lose feeling. The cool dawn air combine with the residual moisture from my crash to produce a numbing chill. I have much shorter patience for the sun than Jeremy and Ryan did. 

With the moon still clearly visible, the sky finally begins to lighten. We are almost 90 minutes into a ride that would test our physical endurance, mental resilience, cause two of us to drop out, and leave only one returning back to the Village Plaza parking lot back in Princeton after a nearly sixteen and a half hour day in the saddle. Here we go.

****

I woke up Friday morning and prepared to go to work like every other morning. But, what I encountered was an omen for things to come the following day. I put my small suitcase and bag of food in the back seat of the car. Next up, time to mount my bike on the bike rack. I stepped into the basement to fetch my bike and found myself standing in a quarter inch of water. The previous night brought some of the heaviest rain our area has had in some time. Flooding was never an issue prior to that Friday morning. And, of course, it just so happened to be the day I'm scheduled to travel for an event. 

Two hours and five towels later, I finally soaked up all of the standing water. My bad luck wouldn't stop there, though. I shifted the car into reverse, glancing at the clock: 3:05 PM. "Not bad," I thought to myself. "After a three-hour drive, that still leaves me plenty of time to wash my bike in preparation for tomorrow's ride, eat dinner, and get to bed at my normal 10PM bed time." 

The digital clock on the car dashboard read 6:30 PM. Instead of sitting in my cousin's house, preparing for the next day's ride, I stared ahead to a seemingly endless stream of red brake lights on Interstate 95. I remained optimistic, trying to convince myself this was the last patch of heavy traffic (it wasn't). Five hours and fifteen minutes later, I finally pull into the driveway at my cousin's house where I stayed the weekend. "Of course, on a day that began with misfortune, it would take me twice as long as normal to get here." 

I expedited my bike wash, mostly because it's nearly dark by now, and because I needed to eat dinner. It's 9:00 PM and I finally sit down to eat my sushi and seaweed salad. Sushi actually makes a decent pre-race meal. It has a good combination of carbohydrate (rice), protein (fish), fat (fish) and micronutrients (seaweed salad and nori wrap used to hold the sushi rolls together). 

Now, it's time to run through the checklist in my head to prepare for the next day's ride. Head- and rear-light on my bike: check. Mix of raw almonds, cashews and coconut flakes into a ziplock bag: check. Ditto for coconut oil: check. UCAN Superstarch into one water bottle: check. Second batch of Superstarch in a small flask to refill halfway through the ride: check. Spare tube, CO2, sunglass lenses, bike tool, and spare contact lenses in my saddle bag: check. Breakfast ready for the next morning (a small sweet potato, avocado, coconut flakes, and coffee with coconut oil): check. Outfit laid out for the next morning: check. 

I made myself a small glass of water mixed with Natural Calm magnesium. It's 10:15 PM. I set my alarm for 3:00 AM. Finally, it's time for bed. "What a day," I thought laying in bed. I had no idea what was in store for me in just a few short hours.

****

As the sun rose over the horizon, the course's elevation begins to rise at the same time. Our pace feels more normal now. It still isn't what any of us would consider difficult or taxing, but it's a significant jump from our almost sloth-like pace in the dark. The light provides a sense of comfort, of normalcy. I rarely, if ever, ride in the dark, making the pre-dawn hours that much more challenging. 

Our group of three turn into a shopping plaza - our first check point. This is the first of four more of these so-called "control points" interspersed throughout the 300 kilometer course. One of the ride organizers emerges from a bagel shop with a clipboard. I pass him my brevet card (essentially my passport), which he quickly signs and returns to me. He notes my time on the clipboard. "How's your knee?" he asks, noticing the dried blood on my right leg. I explain the story nonchalantly before using the restroom and remounting my bike. We still have a long way to go.

We still also trail all the other riders due to our 30 minute late start. But, the gap is narrowing. As we pulled into the control point, a group of three riders were leaving. It was encouraging to know we were making up ground.

Those first miles after the sun came up are some of the most enjoyable. Few cars, open roads, light. It felt as though it's just us, the road, and the beautiful countryside lining each side of us.

The course takes a noticible turn upwards. A total of six major climbs brake up the 300 kilometers, and mostly come during the middle 100 miles. Jeremy, Ryan and I ride on, methodically climbing the slow inclines and short, punchy ascents. The first major climb arrives in a familiar place in Califon, New Jersey. Growing up in the area I would drive this road up and down Schooley's Mountain countless times. I knew all the turns, the steep ascents, the short flats. This familiarity reassures me as we begin to climb. 

My focus narrows. It becomes entirely about the task at hand, turning the pedals over, keeping a solid cadence, and enjoying my surroundings. I remain in the saddle, never standing. I don't feel as though I need to. I begin to pull several hundred meters ahead of Jeremy and Ryan. I'm trying to conserve energy, but the climbing feels relatively easy. My quads feel strong, never taxed or burning. 

I spot a group of three riders ahead. It's a huge boost in confidence. Renewed energy shoots to my legs and I methodically pass them. We would get to know this group quite well throughout the day, leap-frogging back and forth over the next 80 miles. 

The sun is higher into the sky now, providing some much needed warmth. My damp cycling jersey and shorts are finally drying. Entering the climbing sections of the route also shifts my focus from how cold I felt an hour or so before to riding. The numbness in my fingers is finally gone. The descent down Schooley's Mountain is exhilarating. 

About five hours into the ride we spot a local deli ahead. We're low on water and could use a restroom break. The few moments out of the saddle provide a nice rest, mostly just a change in body position. A few hundred meters after leaving the deli, we come to a downhill and coast down. There was one problem, though. We can't find the next turn. According to Jeremy's bike computer we've covered the mileage indicated on the cue sheet from the last turn to this turn (and then some), but no street. We pull off to the side of the road and consult the always-trusted Google Maps on our phones. 

This wouldn't be the first time we miss a turn or need to stop to look at a map. All this, of course, tacking on valuable time and miles to our already long ride. We turn around, head back up the hill, and determine the unmarked road just before the deli we stopped at is the correct turn. "You've gotta be kidding me," we thought. There would be plenty more unmarked or poorly marked turns to come. I suppose deciphering these turns is part of the challenge?

We turn onto the main street in the rural town of Blairstown, New Jersey. Small, local boutique shops line the single stretch of business in an otherwise rural and dispersed town. The second control point is outside a small coffee shop. "Man, I wish I could sit here for a while and just drink coffee." It's an absolutely beautiful spring morning. Several other riders are also at the control point. We're certainly making progress overtaking some of the field. 

I take a few minutes to top off both water bottles, refill my bottle with my second batch of Superstarch, then dive into my plastic bags of goodies. I grab several hand-fulls of nuts and coconut flakes. With a spoon I got from inside the coffee shop, I eat a few tablespoons of coconut oil. The oil is beginning to warm ever so slightly, making it a bit tougher to get down without a slight wince. But, I stomach it, mostly because I know this is what will help fuel my body the rest of the day.  

The ride's toughest climb neared. It's a roughly 600 foot ascent through Jenny Jump State Forest. The scenery is incredible. Once again, time to float on the pedal and turn 'em over. My head and shoulders bob ever so slightly, rocking from side to side as I force the pedals down. The road steepens. I come out of the saddle, each pedal stroke reminding me of a similar motion made by my foot when I run up hills. I feel a sensation that I'm running on the pedals. 

I pull away from the group and reach the summit first. I encounter a secret control point. "So we keep people honest," the guy said. "There's a much flatter route through the park and we want to make sure riders don't avoid the climb." Makes sense to me. I top off my water as Jeremy and Ryan arrive shortly after. There is also a tire pump available, so I make sure my tires are well inflated. I had no idea this might actually have been a mistake, as it was downhill from here, both literally and figuratively. 

Descents are magical. You feel free. But, danger can strike. It did. I took the descent somewhat slow, only around 30 miles per hour, which is considerably less than what I could've gone given the steep grade. Less than a minute into the descent, I hear a "ssssss" coming from one of my tires. I've been lightly breaking the entire time, but start to break even more, attempting to come to a controlled stop. It didn't work. My front tire is gashed, the tube is flat, and the unstable wheel and forward momentum send me over the handlebars. With shoes still clipped into the pedals, my bike follows my body as I tumble forward.

Through some act of luck or skill, or a combination, I emerge from the crash with only a matching cut on my left knee to match the one on the ride. I landed mostly on my left shoulder, which also sustained a cut as did my side, both of which were covered by my long sleeve compression shirt under my cycling jersey. 

I pick up my bike and move to the side of the road. Jeremy and Ryan abruptly stop when they see I crashed. I inspect my bike. Aside from the gash in my front tire, and one of my two water bottles gone (it rolled down the hill somewhere) everything else looks fine. Thankfully, I lost the water bottle with just water and not my fuel. Flashes of Mirinda Carfrae from the 2012 Ironman World Championships came to mind when she lost a bottle of fuel on the bike course. She later bonked and missed her opportunity for a repeat.

The more important issue is where am I going to get a tire? I have a spare tube, but no tire. Same goes for Jeremy and Ryan. Another group of riders slows down when they see us, asking if we're okay. These are the same riders we passed climbing up Schooley's Mountain a few hours before. With all my bad luck thus far, a stroke of good luck. One of the riders has a new tire that he graciously gives to me. Without it, my day would likely be over. 

I finally assemble both the new tire and tube onto the wheel rim. Now, time to inflate with one of my CO2 cartridges. The tire inflates and seems ready to go. I put it back onto the front fork and secure it. Slowly, we resume our descent. But, now I feel (and hear) my tire rubbing against my brake calipers. The noise is a pronounced thud with every revolution of the wheel. I stop again and inspect the tire. Sure enough, there's a small bubble in the tire right near the valve stem. 

Off the bike I go. I deflate the tube then readjust the tire, making sure it sits smoothly along the rim. I use my last CO2 to re-inflate the tire. "This better be it," I thought to myself. It wasn't.

My confidence and speed slowly increase the farther I travel. Once I feel my tire is okay, I turn my attention back to actually riding. 

Twenty-five minutes or so pass and my rear tire seems low. I look down. It's low. I dismount my bike, push down on the tire with my thumb. Sure enough, the tire is losing pressure. There's only one conclusion at this point, I need to change out the rear tube. 

Thankfully it's just the tube, but my motivation is almost entirely gone. I feel deflated, like I'm in a fight and this flat is the knock out punch. In my head I contemplate dropping out. I even say out loud, "I feel like just bagging it." Thanks to an extra CO2 from Ryan and spare tube (and extra assistance) from Jeremy, I fix the wheel. My hands are now covered in chain grease. Some even found its way onto my legs. I didn't really care how I looked though. I'm able to carry on.

We resume riding. The thing pulling me out of my abyss of doubt is knowing I'll see a few friendly faces (my parents) at the top of the upcoming climb up Schooley's Mountain in a few miles. Once again, I attack the climb. Not wanting to break the perfect rhythm produced by each pedal stroke, I focus on maintaining it. I once again leap-frog the group of four riders we must've passed three times by now. Each time, falling back behind them again after something happens. I hope this will be the final pass. I beat everyone up the climb.

****

The taste of sweet potato is blistful. After a few short bursts out of the saddle to make it up the climb, I saw my Dad's pick-up truck parked on the side of the road at the crest of the hill. Waiting for me in the cooler and bag of goodies is a warm sweet potato in tin foil. I grab for the jar of almond butter and dig myself a heaping scoop. Once again, I scoop of handful of coconut flakes and cashews from the zip lock bag tucked away in my cycling jersey pocket. The pit stock couldn't come at a better time.

Back in my hometown of Long Valley, I draw energy from the familiar roads and landmarks. We pass the historic General Store and the little white house immediately adjacent to it. The sight of both brings back memories of when my family lived there. I wonder if the General Store still sells penny candy, a treat my brother and I probably consumed far too often. Immediately after passing both, we turn right at the wood-carved eagle on the corner of Flocktown Road. I remember back to when the eagle was just a regular, old tree. 

The descent down Schooley's Mountain is fast and fun. I know every turn coming down Naughright Road from driving it on an almost daily basis. It's an entirely different sensation going down the mountain on a bike though. After seriously contemplating dropping out of the ride just a couple hours ago, I'm glad I didn't. This is why I didn't. The adrenaline rush of this is well worth it. 

****

Lightning strikes again. It isn't me this time, but one of my fellow riders. After the descent down the mountain, the course turns onto a slightly rolling West Mill Road. The cue sheet tells us we'll be on this road for several miles until we get to the next town over, Califon. I figure it's a good opportunity to put my head down and get a few solid intervals in. I pass through a really rough stretch of road. The potholes are like landmines. Once you avoid one, your attention immediately shifts to avoiding the next. "I don't remember this road being so bad," I thought to myself.

I glance back and don't see Ryan and Jeremy. I slow up for several minutes. Nothing. I get nervous. "I hope nothing happened." I stop off on the side of the road and hop off my bike. I call Jeremy. The news isn't good.

Ryan couldn't avoid one of the landmines. On one of the slight downhills he hit a pothole, catapulting him off his bike. "He cracked his helmet and is feeling pretty out of it," Jeremy tells me. "He wants to continue, but I don't think that's a good idea. I'm sure he has a concussion." 

Ryan and Jeremy drop out. Thankfully, this all happened in Long Valley, just a short drive away from my parents house. They graciously pick the two of them up to drive them back to Princeton, since they plan to drive there anyway to meet me at the finish.

I feel conflicting emotions as I continue on solo. My mind drifts off thinking about Ryan's crash, hoping it wasn't too serious and that he'll be okay. Was I somehow to blame because I pushed too hard a pace? As each negative, distracting thought pops into my head, I try to park it somewhere else. I have a solid 60 or so miles left, and I need to focus. This isn't going to be a walk in the park. 

At the same time, I did feel somewhat liberated. I do almost all of my training alone. The isolation is empowering to me. I'm hoping to feed off that mentality the rest of the way. It's now 10 miles to the final rest stop. That's my goal. I don't think about the 40 or so miles after this last opportunity to throw down a few handfuls of real food. 

I make the left turn into the park entrance and coast down a small downhill to the parking area. I notice a few familiar faces waiting to greet me. Before going back to Princeton, my parents, Jeremy, and Ryan welcomed me as I dismounted my bike, hopefully for the final time before the finish. I'm in heaven. I take heaping scoops of almond butter and plop them onto each bite of a banana. I eat more coconut. I grab a handful of individually wrapped pieces of 85% dark chocolate and put them into a ziplock bag, the one that was once filled with nuts and coconut. This is my treat at the end. I stash another banana in my jersey pocket just in case. I contemplate handing off my high-viz reflective vest to my parents because it's taking up valuable room in my pocket. I think twice and keep it just to be safe. The goal is to arrive in Princeton before dark, but my watch reads 5:45PM. That's going to be a tall order. It's doable, but I'd bet on it only on fresher legs.

Sitting on a bench, I struggle to muster the energy to continue. What's the point? My two buddies are out of the ride. All I can think about is how nice it would be to sit here in the sun and continue to stuff my face with food. I've burned well over 10,000 calories by this point. "If I can't make it up this hill, I'm coming back," I joked. The small incline was maybe 25 feet.

I say goodbye to everyone and get back on my bike. I'm ready to go. I feel a renewed sense of urgency and energy. I take it slow down the final big descent to avoid all the potholes. They seemingly fill the entire road. Some patches don't have a clear path anywhere. I ease to a gentle roll through those stretches. 

The final miles are a net downhill. In my head I think I've done all the hard work already. Almost all of the more than 10,000 feet of climbing are behind me. I finally hit some decent road surface, and traffic is almost non-existent. I put my head down, tuck into my aero position, and hammer away. I sense a car slowly moving at my pace. I glance back. It's my parents following me. Before parting ways not too long ago, they said they would follow me for a few miles just to make sure I made it safely through the final rough patches of road. Having a car following me for a few minutes is reassuring. 

Not too long into their following me, they slowly pass me and speed off into the distance. They are going to drop off Ryan and Jeremy. I'm alone again. But this time my head is in a much different place than a couple hours ago. I feel as though I'm just a few miles into the ride, rather than 150. I'm also motivated by the fear of darkness. "I really don't want to ride in the dark again," I thought to myself. Just before leaving the last rest stop, while we were talking about the potential to be finishing in the dark, someone made a comment that I will be riding in the dark when I finish.

Challenge accepted.

It's a very simple mental game. I don't know how many times I've used it before. Our brains our hardwired this way. When someone tells you that you can't do something. You want it even more. Whoever made the comment unknowingly lit a fire under me. It sounds simple, but it's the motivation I draw from for the last 40 miles. 

I ride some of my best miles over that final stretch. The pain in my right knee is getting more apparent. Every pedal stroke it shoots out. It doesn't phase me too much. In fact, some part of me yearns for it. People talk a lot about a runner's high. The rush of endorphins that happens during running, generally after long bouts of chronic, repetitive movement. There's a slight pain aspect as well. I feel that. I feel myself in this euphoric state of flow.

I near the end of my cue sheet so I know I'm getting close. I didn't reach my goal of making it back before dark, but that's okay. Off by only 30 minutes or so. I round a turn and realize I'm just a few hundred meters to the finish. "Holy shit," I say to myself out loud. I enter the same parking lot I left 16 hours and 20 minutes earlier that same day, good for 7th place.

Slowing down, I pump my fist in the air one hard, single time as if to capture everything - everything - that happened over the past 36 hours and say, "you couldn't break me!!"

Bring on the rain. 

Are you spending time on the things you care about?

A couple months ago I gave a short presentation to my co-workers on self-management. I chose the topic from a grouping of traits associated with "Level 5 Leadership," a concept articulated by Jim Collins in his book Good to Great. 

It was a bit challenging at first to try and wrap my head around the concept. There are countless strategies and habits I've developed to perform better, be more productive and optimize my health and well-being (I use this term in its broadest sense: physical, mental and spiritual). In my presentation I called this "managing your holistic self." Many of us don't really take the time to think about how we go about our day-to-day life. In a sense, we're often on autopilot. We eat a bowl of cereal for breakfast because, well, that's what we've always done. Habit loops are formed (this is another story, and the topic of a future posting). They generally persist if we don't consciously alter them.

But, I want to step back. For me, this concept of "self-management" has everything to do with time. If there is one constant to think about, it's that we'll always have 24 hours in a day. No more, no less. And this is where our management skills come in. If I only have a certain amount of time in a day, how do I want to be spending those hours? There are endless possibilities for how you can divide up the pie to spend more or less time on certain aspects of your life, whether sleeping, eating, working, your hobbies, relationships, exercising/training, and on and on. Everyday, can be thought of as a series of trade-offs.

 
The question then becomes how? How am I currently spending my time and how do I want to be spending my time? The answer to these questions lies in your priorities. What's important and am I allocating the time, energy, attention and passion to those things that I want to be.

Thanks to his interview on the Bulletproof Executive podcast a while back, I came across the leadership work of Stew Friedman from the University of Pennsylvania. He developed a program called Total Leadership, but I found one tool particularly valuable. It really gets to the crux of this question: "are you spending time on the things you care about?"

It's call the Four Way View. Here's how it works:

1. Think about your daily life in terms of four major buckets: work/career; home/family; community/society; and self. 

2. Allocate a percentage to each of these four buckets to total 100% based on their level of importance in your life. How important is work? How important is family? etc. The total for each category should add to 100. 

3. Now think about your daily life and how much you focus on each of these same four categories. Allocate the same 100% into the same four buckets.

4. Rank each of the four categories on a scale of 1-10 (1=not at all; 10=fully) in terms of your satisfaction with that aspect of your life.

5. Do the same thing in terms of how well you believe you are performing (1=poorly; 10=excellent) in that category.

And now it's time to repeat the question: Are you spending time on the things you care about?

Boston Strong: Race Report from the 2014 Boston Marathon

I thought about this race for more than a year. The anticipation was all-consuming. When I first decided to train for my first marathon some eight years ago, I set one goal for myself. I wanted to run the Boston Marathon.

For many, Boston is the Super Bowl of our sport. This is a runner's Kona. It's the holy grail we work so hard to reach, and even harder to stay in its company. If I learned one thing about the city and the people of Boston this past weekend, that's company I want to keep.

****

My year didn't start out how I wanted it to. I had an off-and-on calf strain for the better part of 6 weeks in December and January. Training was a bit erratic. I spent most of January confined to exclusive aqua running. If it were any other course than the downhill pounding from the rolling Boston course, I wouldn't be worried. But when you put your quads through that much stress, they better be ready for it. Doing almost all non-impact running in the pool wasn't the ideal solution. But, it was what I had to work with at the time.

I did spend considerably more time in the weight room over the winter, which I knew would help. Heavy squats, deadlifts, step-ups, lunges, basically anything to train the eccentric contraction in my quads and gluts that I knew would come on race day.

I came out the other side of my calf injury with essentially 12 weeks of training. For the competitive runner, a build up of almost twice that length would be ideal. But, I had 12 weeks and I was determined to make the most of it.

After the race, on the drive back, I reflected a bit on what I actually accomplished during those 12 weeks. How I gave myself a chance in Boston. How I took that relatively short amount of time to set myself up for one of my most memorable performances to date, whether triathlon or over 26.2 miles.

****

Boston is a special race regardless of the circumstances. This year was obviously different. The energy to "reclaim" this 118th running of the race for the city of Boston and runners everywhere was inspiring. I was truly honored and grateful to be apart of such a memorable event, one that brought out the strength, the resilience, the very best of Massachusetts, from Hopkinton to Boylston Street.

As much as running is an individual pursuit, I think we all do it for some higher purpose, something greater than ourselves. For some, this year's race was about healing. For others it was about redemption. For me, it reminded me of why I became a runner, why I'm grateful and proud to associate myself with a community that really stands apart in sport. For us runners, we know there are things we simply can't control. We can't control if a project gets dumped on us at work. We can't control if our young son or daughter is up all night with a fever. But, the one thing we can control, and in fact live for, are those times we get to lace up our running shoes, step into the sunshine (or down-pouring rain, snow, or sleet in some cases) and head off into the horizon, feeling completely free and alive.

I felt that same feeling in Boston, of truly living. And not just during the race, but all weekend. I don't think it was a coincidence that Christianity's most sacred, joyous holiday, Easter, a celebration of life, fell just one day before the marathon in a year when its meaning (life) was at the forefront of all of our thoughts. 

****

We arrived in Boston on Saturday afternoon, two days before the race. My wife and I drove up with my parents. The day was perfect for driving. The sun was shining. The trees of the typically picturesque Connecticut landscape were noticeably brown. Winter definitely left its mark. That didn't matter very much, though. I stared out the window. My thoughts drifted. I pictured myself on the course in Boston, attacking. I was getting into race mode.

Before arriving at the hotel, we took a slight detour through Hopkinton and Framingham. I wanted to familiarize myself with the area and the course. Were the downhills during the first few miles really that significant? Driving the first 10k of the course gave me somewhat of an answer to the question, but nothing compares to the actual experience of your feet hitting the pavement, your quads absorbing the impact. We'll see what happens on race day.

After finally checking into the hotel, we all headed for the most important pre-race destination: Whole Foods. I'll be the first to admit, I'm extremely cognizant of what I put in my body, and during the days before a race, I'm even more so. I made sure I was stocked with all my essentials: avocados, coconut oil, almonds, and white rice to add to the few things I brought from home: UCAN Superstarch, Maca powder, and Upgraded coffee beans (and the coffee grinder, of course).

Sunday morning I went for my usual pre-race jog and stretch. This is a routine that stems all the way back to my soccer days. Nothing too significant, but a few light miles to get the legs moving, a few short strides to introduce some stimulation, and a series of dynamic stretches. Now, time to head into Boston to the expo. I definitely felt the pre-race jitters by now. It was all positive energy, though.  Excitement, not nervousness.

At one point the following morning my dad referred to me as a chemist. I travel with a lot of my own foods and I'm not shy about picking only very specific items from the hotel breakfast buffet area (which was basically just a banana and hot water) and combining them with my stuff at the table. I guess at some point I stopped caring what other people thought about the things I ate or how I ate. I know the things that help me perform at my best and I stick to them.

Anyway, breakfast that morning: water, coffee with coconut oil, and a hot mixture of the following: UCAN Superstarch, a banana, avocado, coconut oil, almonds, Maca powder, and a very small amount (1/8 cup maybe) of hot oatmeal.

****

The ambiance of packet pick-up and the expo was pretty overwhelming. I've run in large races before, but this was different. I felt as though I was in different company, that I reached a new level in my endurance sports career. After a short bout of anxiety because I left my runner's passport (essentially your ticket to pick-up your bib) in the hotel room, I was relieved to see an information area where you could replace it if need be. This is pretty standard practice now with many races. You don't usually need your registration confirmation, but you always fear the worst.

With packet pick-up behind me, time for some lunch. The challenge, of course, was trying to find a place with an open table. Runners swarmed the restaurants around the Hynes Convention Center on Boylston Street. We walked a few blocks and finally came upon a decent looking cafe, with some outdoor seating nonetheless. Lunch was a big Greek salad with a side of hummus and olives.

My pre-race meals, especially dinner, don't deviate too much from my normal, everyday meals around major training sessions. And as I've written about before, I don't follow the conventional "carbo-load" approach to pre-race fueling. I think it's unnecessary to an extent and counterproductive, especially if you're goal is to control insulin, which is essentially the body's gatekeeper to fat burning (by spiking insulin, this basically triggers the body to shut down fat oxidation and rely exclusively on glycogen). That night at dinner (which was at this really cool jazz place in Cambridge called Beat Hotel) I had fluke ceviche, sweet potato, and broccoli rabe.

One final thing to do before bed and that was to layout all my gear for the following morning. Lights out.

****

I woke up race morning feeling rested. I had no issues the previous night falling asleep (thank you Natural Calm magnesium, another item in my mobile food pantry). It also helped psychologically that the time I had to wake up was about 45 minutes later than the time I normally wake up for AM training sessions. So, I actually got to sleep in!

Now, on to breakfast, which was another "science experiment." A doubly concentrated cup of Upgraded coffee with coconut oil, and another slurry with a small amount of white rice, avocado, half a mashed banana, UCAN Superstarch, a few almonds, and a small scoop of Maca powder. I also prepared my race fuel, which was pretty straightforward: a 10oz handheld flask with a concentrated solution of Superstarch that I planned to sip on from mile 8 or 9 till I finished it.

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The shuttle bus drop-off point in Hopkinton was about a mile from athlete's village. Between the time my dad dropped me off at Hopkinton State Park at the shuttle and entering athlete's village, I passed through three security checkpoints. But, I knew this was coming, so all the added security didn't phase me too much.

As I walked through the starting corrals in Hopkinton, which, in a few short hours would be packed with thousands of runners, I felt an incredible sense of calm. I'm not sure if it was the sun, the cool morning air, or the mental state I was able to put myself in, but I felt entirely present in that moment. I walked by countless volunteers, thanking them for their service, and even more spectators, thanking them for their support and hospitality. I was, in fact, simply a visitor, and I was honored they embraced my company (for all those who understand Marathon Monday in Boston, the city more than embraces the runners who compete).

Athlete's village was a sprawl of bodies claiming the smallest of plots on the ground. Most flocked into areas hit by sunlight for added warmth. It wasn't extremely cold, but there was definitely a chill in the air. Because of new gear check rules, no bags were allowed in Hopkinton. That meant anything you wore you either had to discard (all clothing was donated) or run with it. Like many others, I arrived wearing pants, a long sleeve shirt, and a fleece top straight from the 90's. Observing all the interesting pre-race outfits (from bathrobes to blankets) provided a bit of entertainment during the 90 minutes or so I spent waiting in the village. I found a spot up against one of the tent poles to sit. Now the waiting game.

Nine o'clock finally rolled around, which meant it was time for the first wave to assemble in the staging area. I stripped off my sweats and exited athlete's village to join the other runners of my wave. There was only one thing missing in this area though, port-a-johns. Runners began to line the tree line around the parking area similarly to how lines would queue to wait for a port-a-john. The only problem: there were none. It didn't seem any of the police officers were itching to pass out citations for public urination. Anyway...

All nine corrals stretched through the center part of town in Hopkinton. But, runners were able to exit to the sides to warm-up. That's where I went. Down a fairly flat side street, I got a solid warm-up in. I felt good. Legs were loose. I didn't overdue it. Breathing was under control. I felt relaxed. I re-entered my coral - coral four, just three behind the elites - just in time for the national anthem.

After introductions of the elite runners, which included a pretty stacked field on both the men's and women's side, the gun finally went off. The corals in front of me slowly made their way across the start line. It's a slow, steady walk to the start line, and then, in an instant, you turn it on.

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Ask any running coach or Boston veteran, they will all tell you the same thing. Don't go out too fast. Sure, this can be said of any race, but there's one thing that sets Boston apart from many other courses. The first 6 miles are all downhill. A few of these downhills are signficant, but many are gradual. They are deceptive. You wouldn't know it, but the course drops more than 250 feet over the first 4 miles (150 feet over the first half mile). The tendency is to take advantage of the free speed (not to mention the adrenaline that's pumping from the crowds at the start) to make up time early that you might lose later on. But, this is a slippery slope. As, the saying goes, every 1 minute you run too fast early in Boston, you lose 2 minutes later.

I felt this constant struggle during the first few miles. I wanted to push a comfortable pace, one I knew I could handle. But, I also had the continuous caution on repeat in my head. "Don't overdue it on the hills." I settled into a fairly moderate pace along the road's edge. At each mile marker I glanced down at my watch, half hoping I was ahead of my PR pace because I knew I could beat it, and half hoping I was right at my pace because I knew the challenges that lie ahead.

5k split: 20:54. 

Unlike any other event I've competed in, there were really no dead spaces along the course. Spectators formed a seemingly endless connection and flow of noise, support and energy. During the first five miles or so, I didn't even feel as though I was running. It might have also been my intense focus on not tripping over the feet in front of me. Much of the course is along a two lane road. That's not much real estate for thousands of runners jockeying for space.

But, before I knew it, I was out of Hopkinton, through Ashland, and into Framingham. Now, if you're a public health researcher like myself, Framingham holds a unique place within our community. The town has been the site of a major cohort study, beginning in 1948, looking at heart disease and its risk factors. In fact, the term "risk factor" can be traced back to the Framingham Heart Study. Okay, propeller hat is off, back to the story.

Not too long into the race, I fell into a great rhythm. One stride after the next, they felt perfect. My mind began to think 120 minutes into the future. I visualized myself striding strongly up Heartbreak Hill. I saw myself getting stronger as others suffered. Flashes of images from the YouTube clips I watched for motivation in the car on the way to the start formed a montage in my head. But, not too much of that. I needed to focus on the task at hand and keep checking in with how my body was feeling.
 
10k split: 41:41


Just after the 10k mark was when some of the early race high began to wear off. It's inevitable. It's also essential. Relying exclusively on adrenaline can only take you so far. You're more apt to make mistakes this way. Maximizing performance requires a keen awareness of your body in all aspects, muscular, cardio-repiratory, digestive, mental, and, yes, spiritual.

This is also when I started to think about if I needed to shift any of my nutrition protocol. I don't have a standard set mile marker when I begin to take on nutrition, it more depends on the conditions of the day. Hotter temperatures, like how things were shaping up that day, means a slight shift to starting my "drip" earlier in the race. Somewhat early in the race, around mile 10 or so, I also began taking several cups of water at each aid station and dumping them on my head and neck to try and keep my body temperature somewhat cool. Sixty to 65 degree temperatures aren't terribly hot, but with running, every degree makes a difference.

13.1 mile split: 1:28:32 (6:45 pace)

Ok, now it's game time. Legs were now feeling some slight fatigue from all the downhill on the first half of the race. Races are always broken up into segments. It's a series of small victories strung together that make a full performance. At 13.1, my eyes were set on the Newton hills in a few miles. I couldn't wait for them, in fact. I'm admittedly a much better uphill runner than downhill. Bring 'em.

After the halfway point, the crowds started to grow. Soon enough I came upon the famed section passing by Wellsley College. Students were out in full force, hanging over the barricades, holding their "kiss me" signs, and cheering with every ounce of air in their lungs. A few runners did stop for a quick kiss. A happily married man, I knew my boundaries (love you Steph). I did move over to run along the barricades, though, to high-five many of them. The least I could do, right?

The energy gave me an instant jolt. I needed it coming into the hills of Newton. I must say, hitting those first inclines were like heaven, a relief in many ways. I love running uphill. Climbing is all about efficiency. Your stride shortens, cadence increases. Head down. Just keep turning 'em over.

I was finally joined by that inevitable running partner. He always shows up at some point during a race. In a marathon, it's usually around mile 18 or 20 when you start asking questions of yourself. Am I strong enough? Will I make it? Can I hold this pace? I'm talking about none other than pain himself.

I spent a lot of time over the winter perfecting my mental game, working on how to deal with this partner. I meditated and did deep breathing exercises and yoga regularly. And so when pain joined me, I embraced the feeling. I knew it was coming. It always does. Don't fight it. It was in these moments that I learned to think about the unique sensations in my legs, how it felt. I channeled the suffering and used it positively. I felt I was getting stronger.

30k split - 2:07:29

And then it came. I finally arrived at the famed Heartbreak Hill. I've definitely run up steeper and longer hills during my time as a runner and triathlete, but never at mile 20 of a 3 hour marathon (at least that's what I was on pace for). I approached the hill with the same mentality as the previous: head down, steady cadence. Do the work! Keep the engine turning! I crested the hill feeling roughly the same as when I started. I didn't feel as though it really took much out of me at all.

The more painful section was the downhill afterwards. My quads were absolutely screaming at this point (and they're still feeling it even as I'm posting this). I just tried to hang on at this point, feed off the energy of the massive crowds. I took some comfort in knowing my wife and parents were somewhere in the crowds between mile 23 and 25. I had no idea where, but I kept an eye out, hoping to catch a glimpse of them. Well, as much as I could. The crowds at this point were unlike any I've experienced.

The white Adidas sign along the course with the word "Boston" on it finally came into view. It wasn't too much longer until that famous stretch of pavement on Boylston Street. I knew my paced slowed, but I still gave it everything to try and beat the 3 hour mark.

Making the left turn onto Boylston Street was unbelievable. It's really hard to put into words. You round the corner and are immediately greeted by this wave of energy. I couldn't see a vacant spot on either side in the space between the barriers and the building fronts. The cheers were booming. The finish line looked majestic. In those final few hundred meters I thought about all the hard work over the years to make it to that magical moment.

Striking the blue and yellow finish tape on the pavement, I looked up, and as I do after every race, rose my heads towards the heavens to thank all those people, past and present, deceased and alive,  who have inspired and supported me to fight for my dreams.

And that's what it means to feel alive.

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My final time was 3:02:21 (6:58 pace), good for 2747 overall and 1806 in the men's 18-39 age group. And another BQ! Maybe I'll be back.

 

And a big congrats to Meb Keflezighi, the oldest Boston Marathon winner since 1930 and the first American to win since 1983.

Disclaimer: I did not receive any form of compensation to reference the specific products mentioned in this blog post. I did so purely based on my own experience and satisfaction with those products.

I won my first race!

The countdown is on. Less than two weeks until Boston. I've started to taper, cut volume a bit, and started to focus a lot on specificity. 

So, I jumped into a local 10k last weekend up in PA outside of Philadelphia. It was held at beautiful and quiet Washington Crossing Historic Park. The goal wasn't to necessarily run a PR. I wanted to run comfortably and relaxed, treating it almost like a tempo run in training (so just a little faster than goal marathon pace). I also biked about 2 hours the day before, which provided some feeling of running on tired legs (something I'll be needing in a couple months for my first half-Ironman). 

That being said though, of course I wanted to win!

I'll get to the actual race in a second, but the best part of the day really had nothing to do with how I ran. 

The day was more of a family affair. My sister was in town to do some wedding stuff. My aunt and cousins live outside of Philly, so they were there. My parents drove down. My sister-in-law flew up from North Carolina. And Stephanie and I drove up from DC. Like I said, a family affair. 

Not everyone ran, but everyone took part in the festivities. It was all really my sister's idea, so kudos to her for making us do it. After a day of wedding stuff on Saturday (well, just for the girls, the boys did "guy things": went to my cousin's son's tee-ball game and watched sports), a bunch of us did either the 10k or 5k run on Sunday (or the 1-mile fun run). My wife and sister ran the 5k. My cousin, her husband, and I all did the 10k. And then there was my cousin's son Cal who did the 1 mile fun run (which was actually about 1.3 miles) and killed it! He came in 4th place!

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I was most proud of my wife. She ran her first 5k a few years ago, and then an 8k in Philadelphia in 2012, but hasn't done a race since. She's recently started training again (and yes, this makes for an interesting coach-athlete relationship :)) The focus hasn't all been on running, though. Actually, the majority of her sessions have been strength-based. She'll tell you how much she now loves squats and deadlifts (well, maybe). 

After the race, my wife said she felt the strength work really carry over. Though she really only runs 1-2 times per week (and those are usually higher intensity intervals, combined with walking), she still ran a 33:46, which was a PR for her by a minute.

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It was perfect running weather. The sky was clear blue. The morning air was cool and crisp. The sun was shining and starting to warm things up. Absolutely perfect. 

I got an okay warm-up in. It wasn't ideal, but I still felt ready to go. Off came the long-sleeves. I stood at the start line and took my usual moment to think about the race, that moment, and the gratitude I had for being able to run and compete. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm me down.

And then we're off.

I led from start to finish. The first half mile I had a few runners keeping pace, but I established a clear lead from early on. From there it was all about running controlled and relaxed.  

I knew going into the race that this could happen (leading the entire way). It was a smaller race and I wasn't quite sure the caliber of the other runners. This, of course, has both an upside and a downside. On one hand it provided a nice boost in confidence to run a solid race and lead the entire way. On the other hand, when you're in front my 30-60 seconds in a 10k (which is a lot for that distance) you don't have that sense of urgency, the feeling that someone is on your heals pushing you to perform better.

Nonetheless, I ran how I wanted to run, about 30 seconds per mile below goal marathon pace. 

 

I felt some sense of accomplishment running up to the finish line. My first win. I'll take it. Certainly a solid stepping-stone towards Boston. And thank you all, especially wife and family, for your support.

Now, it's all about recovery (see my article in Fit Nation Magazine on recovery) and being as prepared mentally and physically as possible for April 21st!  

Making running a team sport: My interview with American Odyssey Race Director, Bob Fleshner

Bob Fleshner is currently the race director for the American Odyssey Relay, a 36-leg running relay event from historic Gettysburg, PA to Washington, DC. He's built AOR almost single-handedly to become one of the most unique running experiences on the east coast. And that's what Bob prides the race on: the experience. If you're looking for an unforgettable adventure, don't worry, there's still time to get in on the action. The race is April 25-26 and registration is still open here. Hope to see you out there! I'll be volunteering this year.


I had the chance to interview Bob recently about the race and his background in the sport. 

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Race directing wasn't your first career path. How did you first break into the running and endurance sports community?

After working as an attorney and corporate executive for 25 years I decided to become certified as a personal trainer. After I received that certification I met a relay race director while at a race expo.  I had run in three relays and loved the concept.  He and I decided to bring one to the mid-Altantic.  So, we started the American Odyssey Relay in 2009.

The American Odyssy Relay is a one-of-a-kind event starting in Gettysburg, PA and ending in Washington, DC. What makes it so special for you?

Connecting with the runners and the communities along the way is what makes it special.  AOR is truly a community.  I email regularly with dozens of participants, volunteers and property owners, not only about the race, but about life in general.  We’ve made so many lifelong friends that it’s hard to count them!

We generally don't think of distance running (and endurance sports more generally) as a team sport? What was appealing about a relay format for the American Odyssy Relay?

Just that.  Teams make up funny names, decorate their vans and have funny t-shirts.  Seeing them running hard, not for themselves, but for their teammates, is really great.

What's been the most memorable moment or experience from your time as race director of AOR?

My most memorable moment was seeing Mark Holbert, who was seriously injured by an IED, come across the finish line on his hand cranked bicycle.  His grit and determination exemplifies all that is best about our military and about the running community in general.

You're a long-time runner yourself. What keeps you engaged in the sport?

I still feel better after I run than before.  I was tired today but met a friend and ran in the snow.  I feel energized and happy now, post run.  The feeling I get and the camaraderie from running with others are what keeps me fresh and interested.

What's been your favorite race as a competitor to date?

For some reason, I seem to run well in Philly.  The Philadelphia Distance Run (now Rock and Roll) and the Philly Marathon are mostly the same course and are my favorites.

Any races on the calendar for you this year?

The Reno Tahoe Odyssey Relay in late May.  It’s my business partner’s race.  It’s the 10th anniversary for RTO and my team and I needed another team challenge.

Anything else?

I may try to get myself mentally geared up for another try at Boston.  I finished a few minutes before the bombs went off last year and I don’t want that to be my last memory of Boston.

Where can people find out more about you and AOR?

www.americanodysseyrelay.com.