Huddart 35k: Have a Plan. Run the Plan. The Plan Works

“Gatorade. Gatorade!” she gasps at the aid station volunteers. They’re slow to react.

My bottle is already open and by the time she finds her Gatorade, I’m full. A little voice whispers into my ear, “just go.” I throw back a banana and take off. I snap the elastic. Charging the short climb leading back to Huddart, I get into the orange then red for the first time today. I ran within myself all morning, ran smart. I ran to win.

She never saw me again.

The gun goes off and the pack races across the dead summer grass towards a skinny gap in the wooden fence. A narrow single track leads half a mile down to Richards Road, the first real chance to make a pass. I zoom ahead and find myself in the lead. I go through the gate first thinking, this is weird.

I pick my way down the twisty trail and try to take it light, adrenaline surging. I never go out in front. In fact, just before I broke the plane of the fence, I glanced back as if to look for someone else to go through first.

We plunge into the redwood canopy and out of the steadily rising heat. Richards is a wide, pine needle-laden path that winds along a creek for almost a mile with some gentle downs, flats and very few ups. It’s a great way to start a race.

I chat briefly with the other front-runner, only to find out he’s running the 50k. I sheepishly admit that I’m running “the short one,” the 35k (22 miles). As the rest of the pack catches up and I start getting passed, I remind myself “you have a plan, run the plan.” Race plans are meant to be broken, but if you torpedo yours before mile 1, what’s the point?

The first person to join our pair is a thin brunette, white singlet and blue shorts. She runs well, with an efficient road-runners gait. She isn’t very talkative but said says she's also running the 22-mile. I peg her as competition, along with a shirtless, Hoka-wearing super fit guy with a white running hat.

The trail winds uphill for the first time and several more runners pass me. I let them go. We dip back onto single track and wind into the redwoods, emerging briefly into the sun as if to remind us that it may not feel it, but its going to be hot today.

The next four miles are a steady climb 1,400 feet or so to Skyline. There are a few steep parts, especially in the final half mile, but for the most part the trails are soft and runnable. Switchbacks give you good vantage ahead. The elastic is long, but fragile. Ease up for too long and you’ll quickly lose the group in front.

I settle into my climbing rhythm, which isn’t going to win any speed awards, but I’m consistent and can now handle reasonably steep grades without too much strain. Training mostly here and Mt. Montara, another long grinder, I can hold this pace for several miles of climbing and preserve valuable energy.

All of a sudden it’s raining. As we rise into the mist, droplets appear and land pleasantly, cooling my warm face. I look up and sunbeams blast between the trees, reflecting off the pockets of rain. This is why I run. This is why I run out here, for these tiny moments, these snippets of perfection with which every once in a while nature blesses us.

I cruise into the King’s Mountain aid station in sixth place, grabbing a banana and nothing else. I’m sticking to the plan. I have plenty of food and water to make it the five miles to the next aid station. These few saved seconds are the first step to reeling them in.

It happens sooner than I expect. In almost no time I pass one guy and have fit Hoka guy in my sights. But the plan doesn’t say reel ‘em in the first two miles of the ridge trail. The plan knows the first two miles are actually uphill and going too hard here is a really good way run out of gas while you’re still on the ridge. The plan says wait. So I wait.

But the plan doesn’t know that before I’ve gone much more than a mile, I’ll come around a corner and catch a glimpse of the lead pack. I’m thrilled. I took it easy on the ascent and now after not that time spent in my next gear, I’m within striking distance. The elastic hadn’t broken and I’m back in the race.

A moment to explain the elastic. KJ tells me that this is a cycling term describing your connection to the rider or riders (in our case runners) you’re chasing. If the gap is small enough, you can pace off the group in front and catch up with a short burst of speed. Visualize a rubber band pulling you along the trail. But the rubber band is only so long. Don’t let it break. If the gap grows too large, the elastic snaps and you’re all alone.

In other words, you just got dropped. You lose the mental benefit of chasing and the group ahead can break away and you won’t have any idea. If the elastic snaps, you’re then forced to either chase them down or just hope you can catch them later. Hope is not a viable race strategy.

That’s when you’re behind. When you’re in front, you want to snap the shit out of that elastic. But this comes at a cost. Your legs only have so many bursts in them that you can use to try and gap people. Misfire and you just wasted precious energy while they gradually reel you in, expending much less to get to the same place.

So here I am, at the same place, running at a really smooth, comfortable pace. I consider passing everyone, but for what? They’re generally better climbers than me and there are enough rolling hills between here and when we drop down off the ridge that I’d have to work extremely hard to actually drop them. And this early in the race, a few would likely go with me so I’d have to push even harder.

In short, not worth it. I settle into fifth place, sizing up the competition in front of me. Turns out two of us are going on at the turnaround to run the marathon distance, so I’m really in third. But I don’t know that yet. The guy in front has long spandex sticking out below his shorts and …

BAM! I’m down. I had drifted off into some vignette, probably imagining my glorious descent at top speed, and lost concentration on the trail. My right toe had clipped a root and I skidded into the dirt.

The guy in front of me, the strongest natural climber of the group, whirls around to make sure I’m OK. I hop to my feet, dazed, and catch back up with the group. I’ve started tripping more than I used to, especially in flat sections where my mind can drift. It’s annoying more than it is painful, but one of these days I’ll land on a rock.

We wind along the ridge just under Skyline Boulevard in single file, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The occasional roar of a motorcycle interrupts the tranquility, the long eastward vista popping into view as we wrap south.

As we near the aid station and turnaround, the group starts to spread out. Long spandex guy and Brunette break away, as Hoka-fit guy eases the pace noticeably. Climber and I are behind him and slow down in kind. I don’t mind though, I know we climb up to the aid station and it gets a bit hectic with the out and back. I’ll eat for real here with another quick stop at the final aid station before the descent. I’m ahead of schedule anyway and happy to drift behind for now.

Spandex and Climber continue on ahead, adding the four-mile loop to make a marathon. It’s now just Brunette, Hoka thenme.

I stay within myself, gradually reeling in Hoka as we climb back up to the ridge. I can tell he’s fading, and while I don’t feel amazing I go for the pass anyway. I’m not worried about gapping him here though, since I can tell just maintaining my pace will put space between us.

I now have five miles to catch Brunette and set up for the descent. I catch glimpses of her up ahead as the narrow trail winds through redwoods, poison oak and other runners. Until now we had the trail to ourselves, save the occasional hiker. But now on the way back, we’re constantly having to weave through oncoming traffic.

I pass Tyler, fist bumping and whizzing on. He looks strong and there aren’t many places between us. My confidence grows that he’ll actually enjoy himself and not swear off trail running forever after his first 20+ mile run.

With every turn, every slope, I close the gap. Brunette is running well and I’m having to hustle to make up time. But I can coast on the downs and not lose time. My legs are starting to tighten up a bit and are complaining, ever so slightly, on the ascents.

I come around a corner and there she is. I’ve closed the gap and still have two miles left on the ridge. I know that this is now my race to lose. There’s no way she can keep up with me descending off Skyline and I should be able to get far enough ahead that even if I fall apart on the last little climb, I’ve got this so long as I don’t …

BAM! I’m on the ground again. Another loss of focus. I glance up from the ground and blue shorts sail on, disappearing around the bend. No turn around, no checking to see if I’m OK. Now maybe she didn’t hear me, that’s entirely possible. But I am pretty sure she just kept running.

As we’re milling around the starting line, hopping up and down and calming nerves before the gun goes off, pretty much everyone around me is my friend. I harbor no ill will towards other runners. Until we start and one of them tries to run faster than me. I’m a polite competitor, don’t talk shit and remain respectful, but you also really don’t want to piss me off unless you are much, much faster than me. I express anger, as it turns out, most effectively through running beyond what should be my natural limits.

And now this chick had pissed me off.

I’ve done a lot of trail runs in the past four years, and not once have I been so concerned about winning that it occurred to me unscrew the top to my water bottle before I arrived at the aid station. You know, to save three valuable seconds.

The last of my water sloshes out of the open top as we veer onto King’s Mountain. I am right on her tail and for the past mile have noticed her lagging. She kept pace, but you can tell when someone goes from running easy to running hard. And after 17 miles, running hard is just a lot harder than it was two hours ago.

Her gasping for Gatorade confirms my assessment. The plan calls for a mellow climb to Chinquapin then laying down the hammer. I change the plan.

I almost sprint up to the trailhead, not looking back. I imagine her seeing me leave and either chasing after, leaving before she wanted to, or grabbing more food and losing valuable time. Either way, she’s about to get dropped.

I should know: it happened to me.

The infamous Bernardo gapped me out of this aid station, at this same race, almost two years ago. I never recovered. But I ran an altogether stupid race that day. I went out and tried to win, but mistakenly thought that trying to win meant trying be in front at mile 11 rather than mile 22. Turns out it’s the guy who gets to the finish first, who wins.

KJ says that when you pass someone, crush their will. Take off hard without warning, leaving them so hopeless, so exasperated, so sure they don’t have a prayer of catching you that they crack. Or maybe it’s me who says that.

I hit the Chinquapin trail head panting, my legs screaming for the first time all day. They can scream all they want, but I’m not letting up. I ease into downhill mode, pass a few slower runners and release my legs.

My love affair with descents are as varied as the trails themselves. Some are steep and technical where the advisable speed is just beyond out of control. Others are gradual and wide where you can really move. This one is amazing because it’s the perfect slope for running. To actually sprint downhill.

I duck around trees, lean into turns and do my best not to fly off the edge of the trail. I’m passing tons of people now, mostly without incident. I’m very conscious of not being the A-hole fast guy blowing past pregnant women and weekend warriors without regard for their safety. I’m too old for that shit.

But that doesn’t mean getting lost in your earbuds and losing awareness of the trail is OK. I actually wish race organizers were stricter about enforcing no-headphone rules on single tracks. It’s as much for their own safety as it is mine.

“On the left!” I yell, in my most pleasant voice. “Coming up on your left!”

Nothing. “Hello!” I scream, not as polite this time. I try again, nothing. I’m now basically right on top of her and have to screech to a halt to avoid bowling her over. Still no semblance of awareness. The trail is narrow, with a ledge on one side and a mountain on the other. I can’t pass safely unless she pulls over – which is trail etiquette when a faster runner wants to come through. But it’s also etiquette not to blow by someone on a narrow trail if they don’t know you’re coming.

I can reach out and touch her now. “Hey! Take out your music!” I’m literally screaming in her ear at this point. Exasperated, I tap her shoulder as delicately as possible while we run in sync and yell again directly into her ear. She jumps, I think more from how incredibly close I was rather than the fact that I was there in the first place.

Blathering apologies, she moves over to let me by. “Pay attention!” I yell, not polite at all, immediately realizing that even though she was in the wrong here, I was still being the A-hole fast guy. The vast majority of the runners here aren’t thinking about winning, haven’t been thinking about winning all week and aren’t in the midst of some adrenaline-riddled sprint down a thousand feet to crush the will of some brown-haired runner they don’t even know. And that's totally cool.

As I go past, I turn around, put my hands up and stammer, “I’m sorry. Sorry. But please pay attention when you’re on the trail.” I turn the corner, not waiting for a reply.

I take it easy for the next few turns and get back to my usual polite passing of usually polite people who urge me on as I fly past. This is the tail end of the half marathon and while no one is in any danger of winning, that doesn’t mean they aren’t working as hard as I am. It’s the beauty of trial running, that no matter where you are in the pack, you’re probably suffering just as much as anyone else on the trail. Sure, as you become more serious about the sport you learn to push past higher degrees of pain and discomfort, but slower times are not synonymous with less suffering. Sometimes it’s actually harder to be out there for longer, going slower, than to just get it over with.

Chinquapin dead-ends and we veer left onto the Dean trail, wide by comparison and littered with half-marathoners. I weave through and prep for the final climb, which more than a few times has been my undoing on this course. It’s not long, it’s not steep, but at mile 20 it’s an easy place to melt down, or at the very least lose a bunch of the time you just worked so hard for ripping down.

It’s over before I know it. “Wow, that was easy,” I think. I definitely have more in the tank.

A few more twists and I’m onto the home stretch, about a mile and a half of a crumbly road that’s part uneven gravel and part pockmarked pavement. For as enjoyable as the first mile of this course is, the last mile is equally unpleasant simply due to the crappiness of this road.

Thankfully its downhill and the road allows wide-berth passing with no sketchiness to speak of. The bottoms of my feet start to hurt, the downside of sporting my lighter, smaller Saucony’s over my bulkier and more forgiving Salomons. But this was race day, and on this track, this distance, I wanted the speed and agility of the minimalist shoes.

The parking lot appears in the distance and I know I’m home. I haven’t looked back since the top, but I don’t need to. If Brunette, or Hoka guy for that matter, had managed to catch me then god bless 'em, I’d deal with it when they passed. But they’re nowhere to be seen. I blend in with half marathon finishers and quietly breeze over the finish line.

First Place.

Race Report: TNF 50k Bear Mountain - So. Many. Rocks.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I underestimated this race, but on paper it shouldn’t have been that hard. Sure, finishing times were slow and I saw the course described as “the hardest 50k in the country,” but pain is quickly forgotten and runners are apt to recall their most recent race as the “hardest ever,” forgetting the same level of pain just months before. The elevation gain wasn’t that bad, the profile and climbs seemed modest and after all, it was upstate New York. How hard could it really be?

As I lay on the ground half-eavesdropping on the 50-mile winner chatting with the masseuse, waiting my turn and surveying damage inflicted on the raw skin of my lower legs, I heard him say “I think that was the hardest 50-mile I’ve ever done.” So there’s that.

I had been running well leading up to the race. No injuries to speak of, a half marathon PR on a not-PR course, and I had finished several long runs feeling strong, including a 33-mile training run with over 7,500ft of elevation gain just two weeks before. If anything, I was worried I had over-trained and under-tapered, but that is an affliction with which I am quite happy to live these days.

I did my best to survey the course ahead of time, scrolling through photos and reading race reports. I even found a local San Francisco runner who finished last year’s race in about my goal time and pinged him for some tips.

So when I toed the line for my second race in New York in the past six months, I felt confident and ready to run. Within a mile, I learned what “technical” really means, and for the third time in as many 50ks this year, resigned myself to the fact that I’d be running the entire race with wet feet. So it goes.

The race kicks off for about 14 miles of gradual climbing with some short descents interspersed. My strategy was simple: take it easy for the first 15, then race it home. I settled in with the lead two women, who literally chatted the entire time I was near them. Impressive. It sounded like they were just out for a training run, and given that they finished together – literally at the same time, I guess they really were.

For the first few miles there were 10-15 runners ahead of me, which was actually a bit further ahead than I had planned on being. As we climbed up out of the second aid station, a group of about six runners pushed past. I let them go. I stayed with the ladies and we wound our way up, scrambling at times, to the ridge and the top.

A bit about the trails on Bear Mountain.

Imagine a trail that isn’t so much dirt as it is rocks. Just rocks. Jagged rocks that range in size from baseballs to watermelons. Then layer on creeks that, as one fellow-runner put it, prefer the trail to their own creek bed. Where it wasn’t wet, leaves had fallen from the trees last fall where they had remained, undisturbed, concealing the rocky terrain below. You’d put your foot down and it would either go left, right, forward or back. If it stuck, it was likely because you mashed down right onto the point of one of the little bastards. Now try to run.

Where the rocks weren’t wet or hidden by leaves, we were running through mud. Mud you sunk into shin-deep. Mud that threatened to suck your shoes off – which it succeeded in doing to more than a few other runners. You could avoid the mud by skirting the edge of the “trail” and crashing through dried bushes that ripped the skin off your calves.

Sometimes, as a respite from the mud and rocks, you’d get to ford a river. For a while I tried to avoid these, rock-hopping across. But as the morning wore on and the temperature rose, dunking my battered feet into refreshingly cool water trumped dancing waterlogged shoes over the rocks, risking a slip and a dunk.

There were perhaps 10 runnable miles on the entire course. And two of them were on pavement which, for the first time in my trail running career, I couldn’t have been more thrilled to see. I’ve never been happier to run on hard, unforgiving, solid ground.

But really all you need to know about these trails is that on a 5-star rating system for "Technical Terrain,", North Face gives the Marin Headlands, including the Dipsea, a two out of five. Bear Mountain got all five.

But despite this so-called “technical” terrain, the first 15 miles were positively enjoyable. I took it easy, ate and drank comfortably, and my legs felt strong. They were tired, but not overly so, when I reached the top and I was happy with my position and how I felt. It was time to race.

Or, do my best to race when keeping anything resembling a reasonable pace was so incredibly difficult. I picked it up and gradually started reeling in the pack of six who had left me at the bottom of the hill. We hit pavement and looped around a lake where I could see a handful of runners ahead of me, stretched out along a gradual upslope into the mile 14 aid station.

What these east coasters had on me technique-wise on their silly not-trail-trails, I had on them on anything even remotely smooth. Cherishing the road, I made up time and eased into the aid station pumped and ready to run.

I took off in tandem with a guy I had seen a while back who seemed to know the trails well. I settled in behind, chatted a bit and hit a long gradual downslope. It was definitely the highlight of the run. The trail was challenging, but not overly rocky. Hopping fallen logs every 50 yards or so, we zigzagged our way through meadows and woods, through creeks and over boulders. We were running, albeit not all that fast. But we were running.

If you let your concentration drift, even for a moment, you’ll eat shit. And eat shit I did, tripping on a rock that seemed to pop out of nowhere. I was down before I could process what happened, but fortunately found a soft spot to fall and popped back up. The guy I was following didn’t notice I had tripped, ear buds blaring.

I eased off just a bit, but more than anything kept my head down and focus aimed at the trail.

Rocks and fallen trees gave way to an actual trail, so I passed my descent partner and another runner we had caught. I had now recaptured all the spots I lost on the descent and set out hunting the group I hadn’t seen since the start. Reveling in the smooth trails, I settled into a comfortable pace and for the next half hour, ran basically alone for the first time all day.

We wove through rolling hills, tracing the flattest path back to the parking lot and the mile 20 aid station. I felt strong and was thrilled to be running, but knew that the toughest miles were yet to come.

At Way Too Cool this year, I forgot to eat starting at about mile 22 and melted down around mile 28. So today I ate. And ate. And ate. I ate early and I ate often. I left every aid station with something in my hand, usually a banana, just like my plan. I ate potatoes and oranges and blocks and Gu. I even found papaya out there, which was amazing. But as the miles wore on, I became more and more parched, finding it harder to force down food. I had the usual bouts with indigestion but dry mouth was my nutrition enemy.

At one point I could only get though half a Picky Bar because my mouth was just too dry to eat and I didn’t want to deploy my entire water bottle to get it down.

I won the nutrition battle though, and never melted down, never bonked.

Rolling out of the Anthony Wayne parking lot with just 10 miles to go, I reveled in pavement once again. I even caught up to two runners who I hadn’t seen since the early miles. Both were walking, which seemed strange on flat ground. I was moving well but not blistering, and I blew past. We had now fully mixed with runners of different distances, but I did notice two blue 50k bibs move past me on the pleasant, winding trails. That’ll teach me to pull over for a piss.

I tried to close the gap but was once again thwarted by rocky trails and poor footing. I was even losing ground on descents, which is a rarity for me.

Miles 23-26 are a blur. I was mostly by myself, and the trail wound through bushes and trees and hills and everything just sort of blended together. I remember short, steep climbs and tricky, rocky descents. I remember fording knee-deep creeks and dancing on tired legs when dirt gave way to those all familiar rocks. I checked my watch more often than I should have, knowing there was an aid station at mile 25.0 and that a mile later we’d summit Timp Pass, a grueling, Goat Hill-esque climb with just a few miles left in the race.

After a few false summits, Timp Pass reared before me. It’s not that tall, maybe a couple hundred feet. And while steep, Goat Hill is far worse. But the footing was characteristically terrible, the temperature seemed to rise 10 degrees and the bugs. Oh the bugs. Swarming my face as I struggled upwards, I hit what was at then time a low point in the race. In crept the thought that every trail runner has at some point in a race, “Why the hell do I do this?”

But at least I was at the top. It was all downhill from here.

The descent was miserable. The worst footing yet, wet, slippery rocks as far as I could see on this glorious downhill that I couldn’t run. I was moving barely faster than a walk and got passed by a guy who just hopped down the trail as if the rocks weren’t there. I tried to speed up but rolled my ankle and almost fell.

So I resigned to just picking my way down, cursing the course and the goddamn rocks. It was my lowest point of the race. Here I was at mile 27, feeling fit and strong, ready to run, and I had to navigate these damn rocks. I fully realize that technical ability is an important part of trail racing, and that I generally have an advantage in technical situations – or what I thought were technical situations – but this was something altogether different.

After what seemed like an hour-long descent, the rocks gave way to actual trail and I pulled into the final aid station. I downed some oranges, chatted with the friendly aid station crew and took off, running. I knew the last mile or so of the course would be technical again as we retraced our steps back to the start/finish, so I ran the smooth trails hard. I had gas in the tank, running the little ups strong and sailing down the flats.

I had been running for almost five hours and was ready to be done, but it was more of a mental exhaustion than a physical one. I was tired of course, and my legs and feet ached, but given actual trails I know I had more miles in me today.

At the mile 25 aid station one of the crew had told me that I was in 11^th place, which lifted my spirits. I dropped to 12^th when the guy passed me doing down Timp Pass, so was determined to either chase him or someone else down to get back to 11^th. Top 10 would be fantastic, but I knew time was winding down and I just wanted to take it one place at a time.

Up ahead I saw my new 11^th place target, a guy running with trekking poles. I’m sure they helped, and at times I could have used poles on the tricky footing, but I’m just not sure it would be worth lugging them 30 miles across hill and dale.

I gained ground and when he started walking up a rocky, slippery hill I made my move. Probably a foolish place to pass, but I had energy where I’ve never had energy before and wanted to make the most of it. I went by sloppily, tripping and slipping my way up the rocks, finally slowing to a hike when I had put 10 or 20 yards between us.

The trail topped out and got smooth again. But no sooner than I had started running again when the rocks were back again. 

But before I knew it I was back to the home stretch and gentle, glorious grass that led to the finish line. 5:12 and 11^th place. I felt that rush of emotion like my first Way Too Cool, a mix of relief and sadness welling up. Relief that the race is over, that you’re not running any more. Sadness for the exact same reason.

I wandered over to sign up for a post-race massage, retrieved my drop bag and changed out of my soaking shoes and socks while chatting it up with a guy who turned out to have won the 50-mile. Not bad company. A massage, ice bath (amazing post-race amenity by the way), plate of food and a beer and I settled into spectator mode.

Luchi and Miguel finished a couple hours later and with that, my trail racing career in New York had more than likely ground to a halt. I'll take my steep, grueling trails back in California any day. Because at least you get to run.

Way Too Cool 50k 2014 -- Race Report: Fun in the Mud

“Careless in our summer clothes, splashing around in the muck and the mire.”

- Hang Me Up To Dry, Cold War Kids

A brilliant springtime sun shone down on Cool as a thousand fools sought 31 miles of soggy feet, mud-splattered legs and sweet, sweet suffering.

I eased towards the front and the fringe of the ultra “scene,” watching racers I knew only by name or by face joke and jeer and get ready to run. A tinge of envy crept into my body as I marveled at those willing and able to dedicate enough of their lives to this crazy sport to be part of the elite.

And while I wasn’t quite part of the gritty crew at the front of the pack, this year I was ready. After my meltdown at mile 20 in the 2013 Way Too Cool, I have spent the better part of the past 12 months training my mind and body for redemption on these trails. I think back to last year and am amazed at how little I knew, how woefully unprepared I was for the time I ended up running. And I paid for it with the most miserable 100 minutes of running in my life.

Luchi and I arrived in Auburn the day before, grabbed our race packets, checked into our hotel and cruised out to Cool to check out the trails. Crimson dirt crunching under my feet, I remembered how smooth and fast these trails are. But less than a half mile into the run we were greeted by the muck and the mire.

An unseasonably warm and rainy past few weeks turned meadows and creeks into a muddy bog. The trail sliced through and creeks which had run up over their shores. I thought back to last month’s 50k in the Headlands where I was soaked the entire way, wind and driving rain for five hours. But there is something different about running the rain (read: awesome) and running in the sun with soggy, heavy feet (read: not nearly as awesome).

After a leisurely dinner and night cap in Auburn, Maura and Jessica arrived and we turned in, alarm set to blare with a 5-handle. I slept terribly, pretty standard pre-race fits of jerking awake to look at the clock, just to realize it had only been an hour since last time I thought I had slept through my alarm.

5:15 finally came and we dragged ourselves into the nippy air, through the hotel parking and past a dozen or so other runners prepping for the 15-minute haul into Cool.

Nor Cal Ultras puts on a generally phenomenal race, but this year they were short on bathrooms and the line wrapped around the parking lot, even at this early hour. And as toilet paper began to run short, I was reminded why arriving early to races is a win-win proposition.

This was Luchi’s first 50k and he was a bit nervous, understandably so. But ultimately his excitement took over and we fist bumped good luck as I trotted off to join the starting line and my aspirational group of elite and semi-elite ultrarunners.

I couldn’t have asked to be better prepared at the starting line: Legs felt good, mind felt good and I had a decent race plan based primarily on correcting my mistakes from last year and having fun. I knew that if I had fun, a better time would follow. In the back of my mind was the past week’s atrocious tapering, which included only one run and 5-nights straight of socializing, crab-feasting and booze. But when my feet launched over the starting line, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I could only run.

In the days leading up to a race, I revel in the anticipation. I am reminded that time marches inexorably on and that whether you’re ready or not, the future will eventually become the present. And in that present all the waiting and imagining is wrapped up in the moment. You start running and its happening. There’s nothing left to do but do it.

The first mile of Way Too Cool is notoriously fast, down a gradually sloped road where almost everyone goes out to fast. I settled into a comfortable pace and went by the first mile in just under 6:20. I knew it was too fast, but over the past year my cruising pace has slipped down into this range so I wasn’t alarmed. What alarmed me was the company I kept.

When I recognize you from nothing but your full back tattoo, you’re a real runner. I ran on, listening to the banter of the runners around me catching up, talking goal times and sharing war stories. Those around me were aiming for the 4-hour mark, which is what I had quietly set as my goal time.

We hopped off the road and onto the trail, descending down some fun and technical down hills. The volume of chatter told me that everyone was still warming up, enjoying those first few easy miles before the real race begins.

We were cruising, keeping a great pace through the winding trails. I felt fast and strong, and in these short moments I wandered into a world where I didn’t quite belong, keeping pace with runners I knew were better than me, thousands more miles under their respective belts. It didn’t really occur to me that I should slow down until I heard the following exchange, as the two guys in front of me were discussing a couple very fit-looking women ahead.

“Who’s Caitlin running with up there?”

“That’s Magdalena, Olympic marathoner.”

Oh. Those two ladies finished 1-2, with third place 20 minutes behind.

So I backed it down. Or, put another way, I got dropped.

But for those first few miles, I felt like a real ultra-runner. I wasn’t worried about pace, wasn’t keeping it in third gear because I had 28 miles and 5,000 feet of elevation left to go. I was just running, chasing the guy in front of me, surrounded by some of the most accomplished and fearless ultra-runners in the sport. It was a privilege just to be on the trail with them.

But I was here to have fun, and blowing myself out in the first hour was a sure fire way to have a repeat performance of last year. So I let the pack of elites drift off into the distance. Maybe next year, maybe next year.

My ostensible goal was to come through the first aid station at mile 8 keeping a pace around 7:30-7:45. As the trail wound up and down hills, through creeks and mud pits, the numbers on my watch ticked up towards that mark. I let them go. I chatted with a few friendly runners, including a guy named Andy with whom I would crisscross paths for the rest of the day.

The sun was out, not too warm, not too cold. A bright new day in the pristine foothills and we were the chosen few lucky enough to be out there running through it all.

With the opening loop nearly done, I saw Maura cheering on the right side of the trail. She shouted encouragement and high-fived me as I went past. I stopped at the aid station, grabbed some water and a banana and sped off. With flat then down ahead, I’d load up at mile 11.

Last year I spent the entire race dehydrated. I would fill my water bottle at the aid station then take off without drinking anything. I’d rehydrate from my bottle for the first mile and feel great, but have to ration water until the next aid station. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I cruised down at an even pace, passing where possible but conserving energy. I used to fly on the downs but have become more disciplined, conserving energy while still making hay. Andy flew past me, shouting, “See, I love the downs!”

We popped out across Highway 49 and down the steep gravel path to the American River. What a view, straight upriver with steep canyon slopes on either side. In the distance, you can see the trail wrapping along the bank, the lone truly flat section of the course.

I slid into the aid station and jammed a big potato into the salt bowl. Woah, too much salt. But I’d need it later so I forced it down. I also grabbed some of the Gu they were handing out, that Rocktane stuff which is truly disgusting. I carried it but never touched the stuff. Turns out I should have.

Last year at this point I felt great and ran the river section hard. I hadn’t expected the rollers and blew precious energy in the mid-section of the race. So this year I took the opposite approach and settled into an easy cruising pace on the flats. I still hovered around 7-minute miles but was getting passed rather than the opposite like last year. That was OK, I had my plan and was sticking to it.

As the ups and downs rolled out, I hiked the ups, the only one around me doing it. I was losing ground but I wasn’t worried -- I’d see them on the ridge (or so I thought).

As the trail turned back up towards the ridge and Cool, I settled into a comfortable hiking pace. Still getting passed periodically I fought them temptation to run. I still had juice left, but kept disciplined. There was plenty of up left and I wanted to save it for that ridge trail.

We neared the top and I started getting passed by more runners. The trail flattened out and I started to run, but was pretty gassed. I knew there was an aid station up ahead, so I settled in behind one of the guys who had passed me and we ran evenly towards an aid station that seemed to never come.

It was about this time, mile 20, when I realized the race was on. Here I was at the same place I fell apart last year, starting to fall apart again, starting to make bad decisions. Descending down a trail from which its hard to return.

I snapped myself out of it. I had been waiting for the aid station to take more salt, but what for? I popped the salt and told myself to take control of the race, rather than the other way around. I heard cheers in the distance and said to the guy in front of me “best sound you can hear out here.” He agreed, commending that he could have handled it coming sooner. No doubt.

I swigged some soda, took more water, salt, an orange and jammed potatoes into my food pouch. I felt worlds better and raced off down the hill. Next stop: Goat Hill.

Doing my best to avoid peaking and crashing, I eased into the first half mile or so after the aid station. I didn’t want to blow through all my energy with that gnarly hill yet to come. 

In reflecting on the race, this is where I started to lose it. I’d be OK for the next few miles and even managed to stay hydrated. But I forgot the other element of nutrition, and perhaps the more obvious one: calories. I almost abandoned food. As I reflect on what I did wrong, why I ended up falling apart with a few miles left, I basically forgot to keep eating. It’s truly amazing how such a simple and seemingly obvious thing can just disappear from your consciousness.

I tucked in behind the next runner I came to and when the trail opened up, passed. I took off, racing the gradual down, looking for that wonderful zone where the surroundings blur and instinct takes over. You can’t think your way through this terrain, you have to feel it. I passed perhaps a half dozen runners before starting to feel fatigued.

I once again settled in behind a runner in front of me who was keeping an even pace. I remembered being tortured last year as the trail emerged from the shade into the beating sun, heat soaring up the canyons. It sapped my strength then, it fueled me now. I gritted my teeth and ran through it. 

I passed again and hit the next down in stride. Up ahead I found Andy running tandem with a lady who had passed me by the river, and I called out. Andy said what’s up and as I blew past, said I looked strong. I told him I was faking it. Which was only partly true. I did feel strong, but knew my ups were limited and more than likely would be gassed by the end.

Goat Hill rears straight up after a gradual grade pulls you out of the canyon. Strava sponsored the climb this year with a big orange starting flag at the base. Just before I made the right hand turn up the dizzyingly steep pitch, two ladies leapt past me and took the hill like it wasn’t there. I laughed – some people are damn fit. I never saw them again.

I trudged up the hill, which unsurprisingly was not as bad as I had remembered. It was steep as hell, to be sure, but whereas last year I described getting up that hill as one of the hardest things I had ever done, this year it was just a steep climb. When I emerged at the top and hit the aid station, a pack of runners was on my heels. I refueled, filled my bottle and ran off.

A few minutes later though, I realized that I had not restocked on salt. I checked my pockets and to my chagrin, was empty. There was nothing I could do about it, but knew I’d pay for this error in nutrition management. This, coupled with a neglect of calories, would catch up to me just down the trail.

A steep, twisting, rocky descent meets you after Goal Hill, and my legs were shaky after the steep climb. But I kept pushing, knowing that my only chance to gain ground was on these downs, that once the trail turned up again I’d be making backwards progress.

There isn’t a lot of fun going on in this section of the race. Once you hit the bottom, miles 28 and 29 click off in slow motion through winding bogs, berry bushes and more creeks. At this point, even the slightest incline was a killer. I was barely jogging them. I started getting passed again on these gradual ups and images of last year started flashing through my mind.

I did make a couple more passes on the intermittent downs, but the grade was working against me. I tried not think about the salt I didn’t have, but at this point in the race your mind is really not working that well. I kept forgetting to pop blocks into my mouth, and the ones I did I couldn’t choke down. I had a Gu left along with some potatoes, but it never occurred to me to eat. I was just trying to make it to that last aid station.

As a woman passed me and gave me some words of encouragement, she reminded me “Just one last big climb.” “That’s one more than I have left," I responded.” “No way, you got this,” she said. I cursed myself for the negativity, but I was cracking.

The trail finally flattened out and I’ve never been so happy to hear the roar of cars as we emerged across the highway.

I probably took too long at that last aid station, but needed some courage to tackle the last mile and-a-half climb back to the finish. I popped more salt, filled my water and watched Andy run past and up the hill. I tried to catch him, to no avail.

At this point last year, I just wanted to stop. I was walking up the last hill with what felt like hoards of runners blowing by me. I’ve never been so close to the finish and wanted to badly to quit.

So I took it moderately easy, knowing the climb was for real and that the last mile doesn’t ignore the fact that you’ve put 30 behind you. With a half mile to go, I was struggling. The gradual incline allowed me to run, but at a miserably slow pace. Spectators started dotting the trail, encouraging us upward. As a roar went up, I glanced back and saw a woman charging towards me, finishing strong.

I resolved to not let her beat me to the finish. I found some strength left in my legs and kicked up the hill to the last quick down, right turn and to the finish. Catching the glimpse of the finish line, I couldn’t believe it took so long.

Finishing is always bitter sweet. I couldn’t wait to be off my feet, but the race is over. The experience done. The present is once again the past, memories now fighting anticipation in my crowded mind.

Maura greeted me at the finish and helped me find a place to sit. She retrieved my bag with a change of shoes and a dry shirt, and as I tried to recount the race I found myself breathing heavy just talking. Somehow she figured out that I just wanted to be by myself for a bit and went back to rejoin Jessica. I took some deep breaths but wasn’t feeling any better. My arms and head started to tingle.

I drank some water, choked down a couple grapes and tried to relax. I am a veteran of “is it getting worse?” self-assessments and while it wasn’t actually getting worse, it certainly wasn’t getting better. I had never felt like this before and while I wasn’t worried per se, I also didn’t really like it. As I got to my feet, no real plan in mind, the world started slowly spinning and I resolved to wander to the medic tent, just to be sure.

Upon arrival, I explained that I felt tingly and light-headed. With friendly smiles, they reminded me that I had just run 30 miles and if I didn’t feel like that, I probably didn’t go hard enough. They gave me Gatorade and a couple salt pills and sent me on my way.

Maura had smartly convinced me to sign up for a post-race massage right away and checking back in the table was mine. I lied down, got my calves kneaded for about 10 minutes and let my body soak in the electrolytes. I felt like a different person getting up and was ready to resume the post-race festivities.

In other words, I was ready for a beer.

Race Report: Kaiser 5k 2014

Mileage
Today: 3
Present: 961
Count: 133

All week I had been thinking about the race. Envisioning the start, the middle, the finish. It's been a long time since I ran a 5k for pace, even longer since I ran one in a race. I knew I had a fast time in me, I just had to trust myself and not get intimidated by the relatively large stage. I had something to run for, to release everything that's been bottled up.

The morning didn't exactly go as planned, despite my early arrival. Rain mucked things up, but I got in a good warm up and despite the wet, I was not cold. The elements don't generally bother me -- and on a relative scale when other people crumple in the wind and rain, I excel. Mental toughness I guess.

I looked around for my dad at the start but couldn't find him -- the rose garden failing as a meeting place. I eased up towards the starting line, lost on a sea of runners. With a couple minutes to spare, KJ showed up, typical late arrival. We briefly shot the shit and got ready to rock.

The trolley bell rang and off we went. As it goes in these races, some slow people thought it would be fun to start up front so I had to weave through traffic for the first 20-30 yards. But all clear, I took off after the leaders. I looked ahead and saw a ton of people. My heart dropped a little but I kept my pace.

As the half marathon diverged and the 5k cut left, most of the leaders kept on. I was reminded that this is one of the most competitive half marathons in the area, and the fast guys come out for that one. I tucked into about 10th place as we sped past the museum. I felt strong, felt fast, but held within myself. I didn't want to get into the red too early. No time to slow down.

And from that moment on, no one passed me. I gradually picked people off, running smart. Easing up the hills and accelerating the downs, using my technical downhill ability to my advantage.

On the flats I felt smooth, gliding along through the falling rain. As we left JFK and dipped south, there weren't that many people ahead of me, but I couldn't see the leaders anymore. I knew 7th would be no problem, and eyed 6th.

My limiting factor was my lungs, not my legs. A great problem to have. I just don't do that much speed training, but all those hills have strengthened up my legs considerably. Looks like more mile repeats are in my future.

We hit the two-mile mark and the road drifted down. I took off, catching 7th with my eyes on 6th. And despite the fact that he was running fast, I still looked at him and thought there's no way I am losing to this guy. I didn't look back. 5th was in sight.

I pushed it. The 3-mile mark came into view and 5th turned around. He kept turning around all the way to the finish, but stayed just out of reach. By this time I was borderline wheezing, a dull burn emanating from my chest, slowly enveloping the rest of my body. The knowledge that I just couldn't go much faster was numbing.

The last 0.1 took forever. Probably because it was 0.2. But I didn't know that, so when I crossed the finish line at 18:06 I thought to myself, shit, 18 minutes is a FAST 5k if I couldn't even do it on this course, running that well. But when I found out that the course was actually 3.2 and I ran 3.3, that my "true" 5k pace was just over 17 and my race 5k (with added distance for not running a perfect line) was 17:30 or so, I was thrilled.

I crushed my PR and couldn't have been happier about the way I ran. I left it all out there, but ran smart. Perhaps I could have started a bit faster to keep up with the elites, but I ran within myself and can't complain about how it shook out.

The blueberry would be proud.

http://app.strava.com/activities/110777155

Race Report: Inside Trails Mt Tam Half Marathon

Mileage
Today: 13
Present: 711
Count: 101

My last two trail races have been anything but stellar, so I wanted to go into the Mt. Tam Half with Inside Trails with a totally different mindset.

Sure I had placed OK and run reasonably fast, but one triggered a months-long injury and the other almost put me out of the marathon. In each case, I went into the run with the decidedly wrong attitude. Its not that I was trying to win per se -- there's nothing wrong with that -- but I had completely forgotten why I got into trail running in the first place: its damn fun. In both races, I set off with nothing but my place, my time and my performance in mind.

In short, I was too focused on the destination and was neglecting the journey.

So this crisp morning as we took off from Stinson, up the Dipsea and into Muir Woods, I really, truly wanted nothing more than to have fun.

Mission accomplished.

As a bonus, I also figured out the best trail running race-day strategy to finish strong and run a great race: Expect a 1,000ft climb straight up three miles before the finish that never comes.

Having failed to run the whole course last weekend, I relied on the course elevations posted on the race website to plan my strategy. Over miles 4-8, the trail plunged down into the woods then rocketed straight up for two miles back to the final aid station before you picked up the Dipsea again for the final descent back to Stinson.

It seemed simple enough: save gas for that final push and hope the people in front of me struggled up while I breezed past them to glory.

KJ and I stuck together on the first climb up Steep Ravine, content to even be chicked in the pursuit of running smart. We hit the top and flew down. Literally flew.

The descent down Ben Johnson Trail into Muir Woods was one of my top three trail running segments of all time. Lush woods, damp fresh air as the salty sea mist mixed with the towering redwood forest. Steep but runnable, soft trails that were highly technical with roots and rocks leaping out at your feet. Keeping pace required intense concentration. I followed another runner down, weaving through hikers who were surprisingly understanding and there were no near-crashes.

This was the first time I had let loose downhill in my new trail shoes and they performed admirably. I was nimble, dancing down at speed.

I had extended a lead over KJ on the flats before the aid station, but expected him to pass me at any moment on the down. He is a better technical downhill runner than me, but he didn't catch me until the bottom. When he did, he yelled out "damn AJ, you're not supposed to run downhill so fast!"

But the descent could only last for so long, and I settled into what I expected to be a series of short ups and downs, a meander back to near sea level. The plunge never happened.

The crowds of tourists thinned out as we crossed over to a narrow single track that wound back uphill. Strange, I thought, I didn't remember this long a climb on the map. But I kept the throttle light, taking it easy, preserving energy. What was more likely, the elevation chart was wrong or I didn't remember the course perfectly?

But as the miles wore on and we kept climbing, I began to doubt myself. Was I on the wrong trail? Nope, I saw other runners and never left the orange ribbons. But I stuck to my race plan and took it easy.

At one point, one the lead runners charged past me, asking what race I was running. He had gotten lost and was now trying to make up time. He blew by me, effortless. Some people can really run.

Miles ticking by, I really started to wonder where that descent was. When we crossed 1,000 feet at mile 8, I gave up trying to figure out where I was and just ran. I settled into a comfortable pace, finally passing the runner in front of me who had kept a 100 yard or so lead on me for the last half an hour.

And almost out of nowhere, we popped off the single track. I momentarily thought I recognized the trail as what I had flown down earlier, and there was the final aid station.

What the what? At that point I convinced myself I had somehow run the wrong trail and had missed that final climb. I popped a salt pill, refilled my water and raced down the Dipsea, guiltily chasing runners I was sure had run longer, and suffered more than me.

The legendary Dipsea Trail is pretty much as advertised. Steep climbs, breathtaking views, tons of stairs and really easy to crash on. But that first mile or so along the ridge is unforgettable as you look up the coast at Stinson and beyond, sun shining on the golden hills. The trail is oddly tricky to run hard, with subtly uneven ground making for tough going. Really easy to turn and ankle and I was glad KJ and I had run this section in our recon.

I passed the guy I had flown downhill with, later finding out her had been saddled with cramps. I pushed on, down the long series of steps before the junction with Steep Ravine, up the final couple insulting climbs before emerging at the top of the Dipsea's first gradual climb away from the beach. Down below, perhaps a quarter mile ahead, I spotted my next target.

He was a ways out there and moving well, but I felt strong and fresh. I knew I had plenty of time to catch him, and that the only way I wouldn't is if I crashed. So I remained reserved and gradually reeled him in.

When I got close enough for him to hear me, I knew he knew it and he picked up the pace. But I held back, not wanting to risk either of our safety passing on the spaced out wooden steps that dot this section of trail. We hit a gap in the stairs, I advised him of the pass and flew by. I never looked back.

I don't look back, ever. Or at least I try not to. Looking back shows weakness, and if I see someone ahead of me doing it, I know they're mine.

I didn't want to get repassed, so opened it up and sprinted the last section of trail, down onto the pavement, across the little bridge and to the finish line.

I ducked in just under two hours and felt like I had two more hours left in me. I chatted with some friends and others who had just run the race, discussing the course and the phantom climb. KJ came in a couple minutes later and confirmed that the elevation map had been wrong. We later figured out that it had been for last year's course, which evidently was a lot harder.

What followed was precisely why trail running is infinitely better than road running. KJ got a call from one of the race volunteers telling him that his wife Abra had accidentally run the pink not the orange course and would be completing the 30k rather than the half marathon. She had toyed with the idea of running the 10k all along, only opting for the half at the last minute so now would be running 3x her plan.

But she was in good spirits and was in plenty good shape to finish.

It turns out Maura's brother Luchi, who had joined us for the half, also got lost and ended up running 16 miles. His first trail race and the longest he had ever run. He had an amazing time. We all did.

KJ ran out to grab a case of beers and we lounged on the grass, chatting with other runners, cheering on finishers and waiting for Abra. She cruised in, a mere 4.5 hours after she started and about 3 hours longer than she had planned on running. But she was all smiles.

We crushed our last beers, wandered over to get brunch and enjoyed some well-earned greasy burgers and fries.

Quite a day. Reminders of why I run trails throughout, good times with good people in a beautiful setting. It makes getting up at 5am on a Saturday and not getting home until 4pm all worth it.

http://app.strava.com/activities/95865433

Race Report: New York Marathon 2013

I remember the moment it happened. Like so many before me, I cracked in the Bronx.

Crossing the Willis Avenue Bridge at mile 20, the upwind four-mile slog on First Avenue was finally behind me. But I was suffering. My legs heavy, throat parched, I knew the phantom wall loomed. So I bore down.

The simplest marathon advice I've ever heard is to run the first 20 miles comfortably then race that last 10k. Great plan, hard to execute.

20 miles into a marathon is where most runners hit the wall. Glory fades, confidence gives way to misery and the wheels start to come off. You’re exhausted and your mind is in a precarious state. Your pace slackens and you start getting passed. It’s the getting passed that crushes your will. And your race is over. It’s all you can do to finish.

But what most runners don’t know is that the wall doesn't exist. What people experience as the wall is actually the mind’s inability to overcome the body’s urge to stop. You still have the energy to push through, to keep your pace, even to speed up. To race that last 10k. But at that point in the race your body wants nothing to do with it. 20 miles is far enough, thank you very much.

Hitting rock bottom in a marathon is the easy part – it’s kind of the point. Bouncing off is the hard part.

Seven hours earlier, pulling myself out of bed at three-something in the morning, that imaginary wall seemed worlds away.

The subway floor was all running shoes, a smattering of neon colors crammed together, their owners bundled up in expectation of the Staten Island wind. The worlds’ shoe brands were well-represented as the 5am 1-train rumbled downtown to South Ferry.

Nervous feet jostled a spent condom, crumpled and limp. Newcomers piled in and didn’t notice, all but the tip disappearing under a misplaced foot. The guy next to me chuckled, snapped a picture with his phone.

The logistics required to pull of the New York City Marathon are staggering. Just to get to the starting line I had to take a subway to a ferry to a bus and walk a half mile past what seemed like the entirety of the NYPD. I then had the privilege of waiting around for three hours until I could get into my starting corral where I would wait another hour.

But all that waiting builds the anticipation and when the cannon booms and the crowd surges forward onto the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, holy shit you’re actually running the New York City Marathon.

Riding outside on the ferry, I soaked in the views, began the slow absorption of the scene. I was hyper-aware all morning. After a night of fitful sleep, I was wired and bit delirious. Alone, no intention of talking to anyone, I paid attention to the details.

Two Coast Guard escorts, guns mounted, shadowed the ferry as it sliced through the black water. A drunk girl, one of a few non-runners aboard, hollered at our shadows. To her dismay, they either couldn’t hear her cries or chose not to respond. She kept yelling anyway, strikingly out of place given what the rest of us were there preparing to do.

A Russian runner asked a British guy to take his picture as we passed the Statue of Liberty. The British guy tried to zoom out, but couldn’t. The Russian guy didn’t seem to care that the picture was going to be too close. Communication was a struggle. Time was running out and the Russian kept looking nervously behind him as Lady Liberty slid slowly away into the black. Finally the Brit gave up and snapped the picture. The Russian thanked him and looked, displeased, at the result as he walked away.

It was one of those weird moments when you realize that runners travel halfway around the world for the chance to run this race, which is part world-class sporting event, part tourist attraction.

Doing my best to stay warm in my throw away sweats, I wandered around the starting village. At this early hour, the seemingly endless supply of port-a-potties was sufficient and there was no waiting – a race-day rarity.

I found a quiet place to lie on the ground and closed my eyes. I let my mind go blank, thinking about the race. It wandered, and I let it go. It started filing through the major milestones of my life since that Monday in August 2001 when I bought a one-way ticket from San Diego to New York that left on Friday.

That one decision that set my life on a path I never could have predicted. The jobs, the adventures. Meeting my wife. The nights I don’t quite remember. Pickup football at the East River Park in the middle of a blizzard. Sunday morning walks with the city all to myself.

I didn’t lie down with the intention of reliving my previous 12 years, but it seemed like a natural thing to do to pass the time. I hoped the memories of my New York experiences would push me through the race. I ended up thinking of none of these as I ran, but the exercise helped put me in a good place when the gun went off.

With 30 minutes before my corral opened, I started to warm up. Jogging, I wove through the throngs. My legs felt good. Everything felt good. I just wanted to start running.

A final trip to the bathroom and I found my starting corral, the second in a long line of orange bibs. For the first time all morning it started to feel like an actual race. The runners around me looked like real runners. Space at a premium, some were trying to stay warm while others listened to music and tried to relax.

At just before 9am the corral fence dropped and we were led towards the bridge. It felt like what I can only imagine it feels like to march off to battle, save the whole thing about impending death. Lined up just short of the bridge, the crowd started to hum.

The elite women go out 30 minutes before the rest of us, part chivalry part practicality. The race announcer said something I’ll never forget. It set the hair on the back of my neck on edge.

“Ladies, the streets of New York are yours!”

The streets of New York were really ours. For a single day runners had the right of way. It was only a sliver of the city, but it was ours.

Adrenaline pumping. I started a bounce, trying to warm back up. I had to pee again. Fortunately, there was a line forming to go up against the buses separating the starting groups. Even the women got into the act, with three or four forming a wall to protect the decency of the one squatting against the tires. Another of those little details that gives the New York experience a unique depth.

With five minutes to go, I shed my sweats. After all the logistics, all the waiting, I was ready.

Bloomberg blessed the race, the canon boomed and we were off.

We rose steadily up the bridge and the crowd started to thin out. Every article I had read about race strategy says everyone – everyone – goes out too fast. They sail down the bridge and into Brooklyn, feeding off the adrenaline built up from hours of waiting in the wind. 

I glanced to my left, recalling advice not to miss the view from the top of the bridge. A police helicopter hovered, suspended at bridge-level, the Manhattan skyline looking impossibly far away. I snapped a mental picture and burned it into my memory.

I flew down the bridge just like they said I would. I felt amazing. I love running gradual declines and can burn out fast miles with little effort. I passed a ton of runners and slid off the bridge, turning left into Brooklyn. And with that, the marathon was on. All that anticipation, all those logistics and condoms and ferries and crowds were gone. It was just me and the road.

The streets of New York were mine.

Everything I read said take it easy in Brooklyn. Don’t blow yourself out in Brooklyn. Slow down through Brooklyn. Let them go, you’ll catch ‘em in the park.

I ignored it all. I didn't care. I felt too good.

I kept looking at my watch and audibly laughing. I’d feel like I was running too fast and consciously slow down, then look down and see my pace at something like 6:05, 6:12. Hilariously too fast. I knew it and I didn’t care. I was just running.

I’ve never run that fast for longer than a 10k. My pace after five miles was 6:26, just off my half marathon PR pace. Way too fast. You’re supposed to run the first eight miles of a marathon 10 seconds behind your goal pace. I was 10 seconds faster. Way. Too. Fast.

But I really didn’t care. I was here to run. I was lucky just to be here, healthy. I figured why not go out and see what I've got. See if I can hang.

I heard a great anecdote recently about a world class ice climber and his reaction to setting the world record for a particular ascent. He wasn’t satisfied or necessarily proud. He acknowledged that while he had in fact pushed human limits, he hadn’t pushed his own. Already having the world record, he spent the next year training to go back and better his own mark.

You don’t have to be a world class athlete to have that attitude. 

The amazing thing about running is that save for a very few elite athletes, none of us are going out there to win the race. We’re racing against ourselves. We're pushing ourselves as far as we can reasonably go, both physically and mentally.

What's unique about New York, at least my take having now completed the race and heard the stories of others who did, is what a different mindset you need to have to run a great race. Those first 10 miles are just too fast – the only way you can hope to start slow enough to give yourself a chance to finish strong is by running for something more than yourself. (Or to be like Maura and have a well of self-discipline few are lucky enough to possess.)

The vast majority of people who go out there with a goal time melt down. The wheels come off in the Bronx and even though they trained their body, their mind isn’t strong enough on race day to contain the excitement, to keep the adrenaline at bay. They can’t let the foolish pass them in Brooklyn, silently wishing them luck and whispering, “see you in the park, bitch.”

So most people who go to New York with a goal time come up short. There are exceptions, of course, like my wife who PR’d and had an incredible, cathartic experience, bursting into tears of joy at the finish line. But she was also running for much more than just a number.

The runners who have the best New York experience are the ones out there without a watch.

Like my friend who didn’t train at all in the months leading up to the race. He didn’t have the time. He has a wife and kids and his own business and a mother dying of cancer. He would have loved to train, but he had to keep flying to Arizona to meet with attorneys, doctors and morticians.

He showed up in New York, put on his shoes and ran.

For the first half the race, he kept passing then getting passed by a woman wearing an orange shirt from Fred’s Team, a charity whose race donations support the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. On the back of her shirt, the woman had written “I miss my mom.”

My friend’s mom had passed away one month earlier, to the day. He grew up in New York.

Whenever he passed the woman and saw her shirt, he burst into tears. He’d pull it together, walk a bit, she’d pass him, he’d pass her, tears again. The cycle continued until the base of the Queensborough Bridge, 15 miles into the race. He came upon the woman standing on the side of the course, hands on her knees. She wanted to quit.

He stopped, put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Hey, you want to run with me a little?”

“Sure.”

He told her his story. How he had been crying the entire race, the tears set off whenever he saw her shirt. About his mom who had just passed away. He missed his mom too.

They finished the race together. They exchanged no contact information. They will never see each other again. He knows her first name and that she’s from Maine. That’s it.

It’s those small experiences that make long distance races what they are. It’s what keeps us coming back. It’s that for the rest of us, those that won’t end up on the podium, no matter how fast or slow we run, we’re all out there suffering together. Physical, emotional pain, it doesn’t matter. I can run an entire race, hours on my feet, and when asked how it was, the first story I tell is about the random guy I ran with for 15 feet, about how we encouraged each other just enough to get through a hard time.

It’s that ultimate paradox of running, how it can be so personal, so private, yet in a matter of seconds you form an illogically deep bond with a  total stranger and can be forever changed. You never see that person again, and you don’t want to. It would almost ruin the moment.

I started to crack as soon as I hit the Bronx and I knew it. I’ve cracked before and I know what it feels like. I bore down. I went to that place where the world fades away and my vision blurs. The edges get hazy and disappear. Purely present.

For a moment, I felt good again. I remembered back to San Francisco this year, when I hit bottom coming out of the park but pulled it together and raced the last 10k. My heart rose and I was racing. 

And then I made a fateful mistake: I looked at my watch. My pace read 7:30. A full minute slower than I wanted to be at that time.

And I cracked.

In hindsight it was probably just a blip in the GPS, the unreliable current pace I know is usually wrong. But at the time it was a killer. Your mind is so fragile that it doesn’t take a lot to break. And at that moment, knowing I had just found my groove, only to be told that my groove wasn’t nearly fast enough, and that I still had six miles left, I couldn’t recover.

If I ever run a marathon again (I am sure I will), I’m going to turn my watch off at mile 20. All that matters is whether you are passing people or getting passed. All that matters is your state of mind. Getting passed will crush your will and your last 10k will be miserable. Passing people will give you wings. You’ll find energy reserves you never knew you had.

The course winds through the Bronx and I struggled. I was lost. I had abandoned my water and food plan and was just stumbling through aid stations, throwing water at my face. Illogically, I shunned bananas I knew would give me fuel. I’d surge for a few seconds, then lapse again into misery.

I hit the 5^th Avenue incline at mile 24 in a bad place. I was getting passed regularly. My pen-written initials had washed off my shirt. No one was cheering for me. I was alone, struggling up what felt like a mountain, watching my average pace tick up, second by second.

I finally hit the park and tried to pull it together. I ran easily for a few minutes, collecting myself. Just a couple miles to go.

I walked through the next aid station and passed a guy with his hands on his knees. I tapped him on the shoulder, “come on man, let’s do this.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I hit the next incline and there he was, running on my left shoulder. “Let’s go.”

We pushed that hill together, wordlessly sharing our pain. I snapped out of my funk. I felt strong again – or as strong as I could hope to feel at that point.

We hit the crest of the hill and I let my legs tumble down the other side. I looked to my left and he was gone. I turned briefly around but couldn't find him. I never saw him again, but that tiny interaction, that modicum of camaraderie was all I needed to finish the race.

I started to look around, appreciate autumn in the greatest city on earth. The leaves seemed to fall from the trees in slow motion all around me. The crowds got louder as I rolled through the park. I stopped looking at my watch. It didn’t matter anymore.

Popping out of the park briefly, you’re met with one last insulting incline up Central Park South. I finally started passing people, even though my legs felt like lumps of clay.

Back into the park and you pass under the mile 26 marker. From there, signs count down the meters to the finish. 400, 300, 200, 100. And it was over.

Steps across the finish line, my legs basically stopped working. Walking was nearly impossible. I chatted with a fellow finisher, he in better spirits than me. We had both PR’d, but he’d obviously run a smarter race – I remember seeing him pass me in the park.

A volunteer tossed a medal over my neck, I tried to smile for the camera, picked up a bag of post-race supplies and followed the crowds through the park. I couldn’t believe how far they make you walk. It just kept going. I really wanted to stop walking.

I finally made it out of the park but they make you keep walking down Central Park West. I picked up my orange finishing parka and hobbled to the side of the road to soak in the last rays of sun before it disappeared and shadows descended on the crowds. Dazed, I had an hour and a half to wait for Maura.

I sat down on the sidewalk and just watched the people go by. Runners, fans, tourists wandered past. Everyone once in a while, I’d catch the eye of another runner. An almost imperceptible nod of the head and in that look of half misery half pride, we’d have a moment. Congratulations, a silent acknowledgement of suffering shared.

I finally found Maura and she was all smiles. She had crushed her PR and had an amazing race. Someone gave her an Ecuadorian flag in the park and she finished in tears.

It took me a few days to digest the race. When you crack like that you literally run out of emotion and it takes a while to recharge. At first I felt disappointed, even ashamed that I couldn't pull it together and finish strong.

But as time passed I thought back to the fact that a month before, I could barely walk. And that somehow my body had cooperated and when that cannon went off, I was ready to race. And I did. I pushed it, I left it all out there on the course.

I ran through New York as well as I could have that day. The first half marathon through Brooklyn was sheer bliss. I ran strong and felt amazing. I gave the crowd high fives, I clapped and thanked them for coming out. I ran smoother and faster than I've ever run and learned that I do in fact have a gear I never thought I did.

I didn't go out there with a goal time, I went out there to challenge myself. And that's the point.