Still Running

About the furthest I'd ever run before going to college was 2 miles and I if you saw it, you'd probably not have called it running.  In high school gym class we had to do the Cooper Run, which at the time was a mile and half run  - 6 laps around the perimeter of a playing field. We were graded by how fast we ran.  I think I averaged a C+.  I wasn't much faster than the Future Farmers of America group who trudged around in the field in work boots and jeans.  (The web tells me that now the Cooper Run Test sees how far one can run in 12 minutes.)

I lacked the coordination to play competitive sports like basketball, baseball, or soccer.  As a result, I had stopped playing organized sports by the time I got to high school.  (The exception being the golf team for which I never played a single match.)  But when I went off to college I vowed to reinvent myself.  I exchanged my oft broken glasses for contact lenses and joined the crew team.  It was during my first week at UMass Amherst as I was walking near the student union that I saw the eight person crew shell staged as a recruiting tool.  They were looking for tall and athletic looking people to fill the novice ranks.  I wasn't athletic, but I was tall and thin and that was enough for them to ask me to come to an informational meeting.

There were at least a hundred young men who came to that first meeting.  I looked around the room and was convinced I was the weakest one in the room.  I was surrounded by high school varsity athletes who were a cut below collegiate skill levels in their respective sports.  Most of them had been playing organized sports for years.  The coaches outlined the program, the rigorous training schedule, and the early morning workouts.  The most important thing I heard was that there would be no cuts.   As long as I came to every practice and gave it my all, I'd be on the team (and hopefully racing in a shell one day).

When I went to my first crew practice, in the fall of 1987, there were already less young men than at the informational meeting.  My odds to make a boat had improved and all I'd done was shown up!  We were gathered in the large lobby area of Totman Gymnasium.  If I'd known that we were going to run four miles that day, I don't know that I would have shown up myself.  With little fanfare, the 60 or so of us rumbled out the lobby doors and and turned left up a steep hill leading past dormitories, the university horse barns and off campus.  By the time we reached the top of the hill, I was already toward the rear, firmly ensconced with the slower runners.  At the top of the hill we turned left again and it led down a straight, steady decline.  Far, far ahead, I could just barely see the front runners.  By the halfway point, I was just one of a half dozen runners within view. I had to frequently walk to catch my breath.  My chest burned and my legs felt like lead.  As I made the last turn back toward the gymnasium, I was ahead of just one other runner.  By the time I re-entered the gymnasium lobby, the entire team - long done with the run and soon headed to the showers - seemed to gawk at my belated appearance.

I spent much of that fall trying to catch up.  But I never stopped coming to practice and I never stopped trying.  Steadily, month by month, I grew more fit.  By late fall, I could run that four mile loop without stopping and by the following spring, I could run as much as six miles.  I never became fast, but I did become conditioned.  By my senior year, I was rowing in the first varsity boat.  We won the New England Rowing Championships and finished a heartbreaking fourth in our division's national final at the Dad Vail's.

New England MV8 Grand Final 1991

Order	Entry	Result
1	UMass-Amh	5:52.40
2	Wesleyan	5:56.76
3	USCGA	5:57.10
4	UNH	5:58.54
5	Conn Col	5:58.65
6	Holy Cross	6:05.67

I stopped rowing after college, but didn't want to forego fitness.  Running seemed the easiest way for me to stay healthy.  On and off for the next 13 years, I ran.  I'd run for several months, but then get lazy or injured and take as many months off.  During the time off I'd eat poorly, drink, and generally gain 10 or 15 pounds.  I am six foot three inches and slender enough that I can disguise a dozen pounds.  Or so I thought.  Whenever I began to run again and lose those pounds, I'd be surprised by comments from people who hadn't seen me recently.  "Have you lost some weight?" they'd inquire.  "I suppose," I'd demur.  This was the running pendulum as it swung in my life from the summer of 1991 until 2004.  I'd run for a season, stop, get lazy, put on a few pounds, get inspired to exercise and I'd repeat the cycle.  Fit, unfit.  Flabby, lean.  Able to run for miles, able to make a run to the pizza parlor.

Not long after Linda and I moved back to New England in 2004, I joined the North Shore Striders running club.  By then I was well acutely aware of my tendency to run in stints.   With high cholesterol and a directive to exercise regularly, I thought that joining a club would help get me on the roads and stay there.  I was nervous about joining a club of runners given that I wasn't in the best of shape.  The whole idea of ME joining a RUNNING club seemed daunting so before even daring to join the club on runs, I began to run on my own.  I signed up for a couple races and was just getting myself in decent enough shape to feel comfortable running with strangers (strange runners?).  But before I could, I strained my right Achilles tendon and didn't run for the next 6 months.  Several months after my tendon had healed, my laziness beginning to eat at my conscience, I joined the Striders for their regular Sunday run from the Anchor Restaurant in Beverly.

There were just a couple of people there that day, but each Sunday I returned and as the weeks passed, I began to meet more and more Striders.  Before long I was the guy greeting new club members.  I ran many races with the Striders in 2006 and into 2007 until Max arrived.  I wasn't prepared for how having baby would change my running habits and soon I was completely out of shape and paralyzingly afraid of the pain of getting back in shape.  My laziness festered for  almost the entire year.

I knew that I couldn't not exercise and I understood that realistically running was the only activity that was simple, straightforward, and easy enough for me to attempt.  Over a Christmas visit to my sister's in Texas, I went for a run.  I then went for couple more runs on that trip.  When we got back to Massachusetts, I began to run at three days a week.  I was heartened by the speed with which I was getting back into shape.  Make no mistake, I wasn't yet in shape.  I didn't run swiftly, but I was soon able to run continuously for 30 minutes.  Then 40 minutes.  Then an hour.  This was all well and good, but I knew that I needed a race to inspire me, to keep me running.

Through the North Shore Striders I learned about the United States Track and Field's New England Grand Prix, a series of 7 races beginning in February and finishing in October.  Perfect, I thought.  I decided to attempt to complete the series, to be what they call an Iron Runner.  This way, I thought, I'd be committed to running the whole year.  The first race was a 10 mile race in Amherst, MA.  Though I was not yet really in shape to race 10 miles, I went anyway, slogging my way through the cold, wet rain.
I huffed and puffed my way through the New Bedford Half Marathon in March. I felt stronger by the time I ran the Rotary 12K in New Hampshire in May.  By June when I ran the Rhody 5K I felt like I was in good shape.  I eased my way through the Ollie 5 Miler and the Lone Gull 10K in September.  The culmination of the series was the Baystate Marathon, about which I wrote in October.

Though I moved from the North Shore in September I still belong to my running club.  This past weekend I represented The North Shore Striders in the Mill Cities Relay, a 28 mile team race from Nashua, NH to Lawrence MA along the Merrimack River.  Later this month, the 27th, will mark one full year of regular running, the most consistent and productive year of running of my almost 40 years. And barring injury, I'll continue running.  The Striders have seen fit to award me one of the club's qualifying time exempt numbers for the 114th running of the Boston Marathon.

Below is a picture of me and fellow Strider, Annajean, sporting our Iron Runner jackets, which we were awarded after the Baystate Marathon for completing all 7 races in the series.

I Spy

The weather has been unseasonably warm the past few days.  Like many New Englanders who know that days like these are gifts not to be under appreciated, I spent many hours outside.  Over the weekend, I spent half a day digging a hole for a tree we planted, a Green Mountain Sugar Maple. On Sunday I woke up early and went for a 10 mile jog as the sun rose over the hillsides and was eating breakfast at the Vanilla Bean before 9am.  Yesterday I went for a shorter, but no less satisfying run.  When I'm running, I actively endeavor to step outside my brain. What I mean is that often when one is running, it's easy to fall into a conversation with oneself about the run itself - a sort of constant back and forth.  How far should I go?  How's my breathing?  What is that twinge of pain I feel in my ankle?  Will I make it up the hill?  Am I running too slow, too fast?  In an effort to staunch that kind of thinking I make sure I look around.  And yesterday, like most days, what I see is much better fodder for an internal dialog.

There's a dirt road that runs up slight, but steady hill from my house.  There are only three houses on the mile stretch.  The rest of the land one either side is field and woods.  The road is narrow and the trees on either side form a wooden canopy that folds warmly overhead.  There's a stream on the left and in a few places, if you tune your ears you can hear the babbling water winding its way over rocks and branches.  It's rare that I see any cars on the road so the only sounds other than the brook is the rustling of trees and the sound of my footfalls on the packed dirt and gravel.  That and the sound of my own breath.

At the top of that hill the road becomes paved and as I follow it to the east it leads to a farm.  The farm is not of the Normal Rockwell variety.  It's run down and dilapidated.  Rusty tractors sit abandoned on the field's edge; the cow barn's siding is pockmarked and piecemeal.  There's a dog who barks loudly at me as I jog by.  He's tethered to his weather worn plywood house by a metal chain heavy enough to tow a tank.  Ferrel cats wander back and forth across the road.  Despite its appearance, the farmers seem to have placed their limited resources in the right place.  There's plenty of hay for the cows who seem unaware of their relative poverty as they happily lumber up and down the rocky fields surrounding the ramshackle barns.  Just past the farm is as rickety a domicile as you can imagine.  It's actually not a house, but a small compound of tarp covered RVs, trailers, and pickup trucks (with a few old chicken coops smattering the grounds for good measure).  It looks more like a movie set decorator's concoction than anything from real life.

Beyond the farm and the rusty trailers the road curves around a hill and the view expands to reveal two sprawling homesteads on either side of the road.  The properties are well tended to and bucolic.  The large farm houses sit in the midst of verdant fields and neat fencing.  In the field to my right are cows with a white band encircling their midsection.  Having never seen this type of cow before, I first thought they were lawn ornaments!  It turns out that they are Belted Galloways, affectionately known as Belties, and they are one cool looking breed of cow.

Sometimes instead of going through the farm and past those farmsteads,  I'll continue up the hill to add another mile to my run.  Going this way, I wind up through some more fields before being deposited at the top of a steep hill that soon runs along property that's been turned into Vineyard Valley Golf Course.  The nine hole course is carved into a steep rise affording gorgeous views of the countryside.  Running this route permits me the same vantage without the frustration of suffering my poor golf game.

Whether I jog past the farms or the golf course, I end up turning back to the main road that leads me home.  Here I must hug the shoulder more closely than I might on the back roads - the cars tend to speed fast on this flat stretch of road.  On this more trafficked byway it's not uncommon for me to see sights somewhat less attractive.  There's usually a new bit of road kill somewhere along this stretch every few days.  Yesterday it was a possum.  Sometimes it's a squirrel or a skunk.  Occasionally there's an incredibly flat snake or frog, rolled no thicker than a penny.  When I run the same road a few days later the roadkill is gone.  Vultures?  The other thing I see too much of on these roads is discarded beer cans.  The good news is that the litterers seem to be weight conscious as the brands they toss are almost always of the less calorie variety:  Bud Light, Miller Light, Busch Light.  The bad news, of course, is that they are drinking and driving and littering to prove it.

I pass by a massive old manor (estate?) largely hidden by a leaning masonry wall and wonder who lives there and how they came to possess such a property.  Beyond that is a small campus operated by the New England Laborer's Academy.  Its collection of brick buildings is well manicured, but somehow still looks like a cross between an addiction treatment facility, a minimum security prison, and a home for little wanderers - something out of a John Irving novel.

The last mile of my run takes me down a slight decline.  I pass Babbitt Hill Road (a road I occasionally divert on and also where one finds Majilly) on my left, the Pomfret Volunteer Fire Department on my right before coming to Hull Forest Products' entrance.  I stopped in there the other day to inquire about getting some mulch for the tree we planted over the weekend.  When I asked them how little mulch I could purchase, they asked me how big my truck was.  I told them I didn't need that much and didn't mention that my truck was a Honda Civic.  I should have known better judging by the giant log trucks that rumble down the road, past my house, and up their drive.

I trot the last half mile down the hill to my house, pass a few houses set amongst the woods on my left or overlooking a field on my right.  The road is straight and I can see the bottom of the hill where the road turns just past my house.  I feel as if I am funneled home, gravity easing me down the slope and delivering me to my driveway and to a chair on my back porch.

Jogging up and down the hills I burned several hundred calories.  And in addition to the health benefits to my heart and lungs, I filled my soul with the sights and sounds my environs.  I saw dirt brown roads, felt the crush of earth beneath my feet.  I saw white girdled cows, standing like statues in still green fields.  I saw rusty trailers from which I feared the hillbilly cast of Deliverance might appear.  I enjoyed the majestic view of old vineyard hill fairways.  I sidestepped bloodstained rodents while shaking my head at the discarded shiny, silver beer cans.  Winter's coming, but it won't prevent me from dashing through the snow.  There's too much that's good to see, too much that's good to breathe.

Photo courtesy of:  www.visitpomfret.com

The Baystate Marathon - Recap

The alarm was set for 5am, but I was lying awake in the dark of my hotel room at 4:18am.  The anticipation of my first marathon was too much for my mind to allow me to go back to sleep.  This was the day marked on the calendar long before I'd even begun to actually train for it.  When I signed up for the race many months ago, I could have hardly imagined the personal significance it would hold.  And while I tried to block out the forecasted Nor'easter, I couldn't help but wonder how the weather would impact my long awaited marathon debut.

For many years I toyed with the idea of running a marathon.  Through running with the North Shore Striders I'd often been party to conversations about those long training miles and challenging race conditions.  In the training for previous half marathons, I'd contemplate doing a marathon, but by mile 12 of that race I'd summarily dismiss the notion as insanity.  After my wife and I adopted our son (at birth), Max, in late 2007 my running routines went out with the proverbial bath water for basically all of 2008.  Tired from waking up early every day, I'd opt to stay in bed, play with Max, or really do anything but commit myself to a running regimen.  As the weeks became months I fell into worse and worse shape such that the prospect of getting back into shape became all the more daunting.  Every couple of months I'd go running for a few painful miles, be reminded of how far I'd fallen out of shape, and I'd hang my sneakers up until guilt induced time came.  Running a marathon seemed an ever vanishing mirage.

In late 2008, my wife and I found out that we were pregnant.  It was a magnificent surprise as we hadn't had any success in that regard, despite numerous fertility treatments in the past.  Our inability to get pregnant led us to adoption, but because there was no medical reason found why we weren't getting pregnant, we hoped that one day it would happen for us.  We were of course elated and were excited to grow our family. The dormant runner in me also feared that with a new baby my running would be permanently relegated to best intentions.  But because running was really the only exercise I could both do easily and enjoy, I vowed to change the status quo.  My wife bought me a Garmin Forerunner on the condition that I make ample use of it.  In December 2008, just after Christmas, I took a short and slow jog in San Antonio with my wife and sister.  It would mark the beginning of my comeback.

I knew myself well enough to know that I needed a race - a date on the calendar - to focus my attention on running, to keep me honest.  Fear of a painful run is a great motivator for me.  And knowing that I also needed some specific goals to keep me motivated continuously throughout the year, I elected to attempt the US Track and Field New England Grand Prix, a series of seven races beginning in February with a 10 miler in Amherst, MA and culminating with the Baystate Marathon in Lowell.  If one completed all the races, he or she earned the title Ironrunner and got a jacket to prove it!  I was in no shape to run that first 10-miler, but I knew if I didn't participate in that race, I wouldn't be motivated to do the others.  I slogged my way through the hills of Amherst, slipped on the icy dirt roads, and was thankful just to finish.  As each race came and went, I grew stronger and more confident.  I ran three or four days a week without fail (save a 3-week stint on injury reserve).  In the spring, I joined my fellow North Shore Striders on the Peabody High School Track for weekly workouts with Coach Fernando Braz.  Coach Braz surveyed our running past, goals, and amount of running we could commit to.  Based on our answers he assigned us to workout groups and for those of us planning on running a marathon, wrote up a detailed week by week training plan.  I was at the track nearly every Thursday evening and on the days I couldn't make it I got the workout from Coach Braz and completed it on my own.

On a warm June day, I traveled to Rhode Island for the Rhody 5K.  We looped around the Twin Rivers Casino grounds on what was to be the last Grand Prix Race of the summer.  The next race in the series wasn't until early September.  My training was going well and I was looking forward to having several summer weeks off from racing to just enjoy my runs without having to focus on a race.  There were a lot of other things going on in my life, too, that were keeping me busy.  I'd been unemployed since December and planning for our family's financial stability was proving to be a challenge.  We were also edging closer to committing to moving from Salem, MA to Connecticut and there was much to think about and plan for if it was to happen.  And of course, we were expecting a baby in August.  We were taking weekly birthing classes and making plans to welcome a younger brother or sister for Max.  In July, we looked forward to the arrival of my sister and family who come up for several weeks from Texas each summer.  I was also searching the North Shore for a 'new' used car.  We were busy, burdened even, but happy.  Happiness can be all to fleeting....

In late July the worst thing that could ever happened to us did. On July 17th my wife grew nervous as she hadn't felt the baby move for what she thought was a day.  She thought she'd go into the hospital where they would check on the baby, tell her everything was okay and send her on her way.  She thought she was just being paranoid and didn't even mention to me that she was going in before she went. Everything wasn't okay.  Everything was far from okay.  I got a call from her.  She told me to come to the hospital, that something was wrong with the baby.  I insisted that she tell me what was the matter.  "They can't find the heartbeat."  The cliché is to say that you can't imagine what that was like, but I disagree.  I think most anyone can imagine what it's like and it's not far from what you would think.  It's the most awful, sinking, horrible, and incomprehensible feeling you can envision.  For the next three days we not only had to deal with this news, but with the practical and mind numbing realities. We had to stay in the hospital for the baby to be induced and that took several days.  And while we waited for the inevitable, we had to face the facts that THIS was now our new world.  On July 20th, we delivered Leonardo Mathewson Ring.  We were able to spend several hours with him and share him with our families. A few long days later we found ourselves going to the funeral home to retrieve his ashes.  I share this with you not to engender your sympathy (though I know I likely have), but to frame the context in which I completed the remainder of my marathon training.  What had begun as a way to stay fit and to achieve a near 40th birthday milestone was now a primary and necessary source of healing solace.  Running became my escape, my meditation, and my therapy.

I obviously had taken a few days off from running in late July, but as much as I had wanted to run before our baby was to be born, I now knew that if I didn't have some kind of running routine, I'd go stir crazy.  I went to track practice the very next week and I scrupulously followed Coach Braz's marathon training schedule.  I told some of my fellow runners about Leo in advance of seeing them; I received their heartfelt condolences, but quickly changed the subject back toward running.  For those hours, on the track or on the quiet roads of the North Shore, I didn't have to do anything but put one foot in front of the other.  I didn't have to think about anything much more complicated than pace times and miles to completion.  I improved my fitness, lost a few more pounds, and cleared my head.

I went on to complete the next two USTAF races, The Ollie 5 Miler in South Boston and the Lone Gull 10K in Gloucester.  Now all that was left to become a US Track and Field Ironrunner was the looming Baystate Marathon.  Throughout late August and September, I'd increased my long runs from 12 miles to 14 to 16 to 18 to 20, and 22+.  They didn't all go smoothly. On a very hot and humid day in August, I failed in my first attempt to run 16, which would have been my longest run to date.  But a few weeks later, on a cooler, rainy day in September I surpassed 20 with comparative 'ease.'  After moving to Connecticut I was further challenged by the far more hilly terrain and had both success (22 miles) and failures (a scheduled 16 miles that ended depressingly at 14).  I was also developing some needling injuries that didn't preclude running but did make it far more uncomfortable.  My right hip hurt pretty much all the time; indeed my whole right leg often felt out of sorts, from the shin, through the IT band, the hamstrings, and up to the butt.  I iced after runs, took plenty of ibuprofen, and resolved to endure.  I needed to to complete this race and I desperately yearned to finish the Grand Prix series.  It had now long ceased to be about personal fitness goals.  I was striving for some kind of purgatorial release. On my longer training runs, especially when I began to run them alone, I often used the time to think.  I thought a lot about our lost son Leo.  I often said his name, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud on my exhalations.  "Leo.  Leo.  Leo." I imagined his presence in the nature that surrounded me.  And I often sought to gain strength and energy from him.  In the weeks preceding the marathon I thought about writing his name on my shirt, to hear people say "Go Leo," but in the end, I opted not, preferring instead to invoke his name only when I felt the need.

All this and more flitted in my head as I lay in that Lowell Marriott hotel room in the pre-dawn hours before the marathon.  I had much more than just the race in my head.  And though that was the case, I did still need to mentally prepare for the most physically challenging effort of my life.  I tried to keep the weather forecast out of my mind, but there were practical considerations.  The weather forecast said low 40s, rain, and wind - a goddamn Nor'easter!  I had solicited input from experienced marathoners in the Striders and from the internet about appropriate attire.  There was no consensus, people given to their own unique running predilections.  And I had my own, too.  I elected to run in a technical long sleeve shirt and our Striders singlet on over it, shorts, a baseball style running hat (with a UConn "C"), and gloves.  I thought that as I warmed up, I'd lose the gloves and unzip the long sleeve shirt.  Warming up was to be short lived.  At 5:15am I rose from my cozy bed; I got changed, had a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel with jelly - my traditional pre long run meal.  I gathered my things, went to the lobby to wait with the other solemn (or maybe just sleepy) runners and took a 6am shuttle from the hotel to the Tsongas Arena.  We hotel shuttlers were amongst the first to arrive and worked our way past the assembling volunteers (hats off the them!).  I had about an hour and a half to kill until the 8am start.  I filled the time by walking circles inside the arena, going the bathroom (several times), stretching, and watching the Zamboni clean the ice rink.  Finally as 745am approached I donned a trash bag in hopes of staying dry until the last possible moment.

Just as I headed out the arena doors to walk the several blocks to the start the rain began to sprinkle.  It wasn't freezing cold just yet, but the thick clouds and increasing breeze made it clear it would be.  At 7:55, I stood in line at the port-a-potties for one last pre-race pee.  Though nervous about the waning minutes until the start, I was more eager to empty the bladder so as to not have to stop during the race.  I exited the port-a-potty at 7:59 and made it to the rear of the marathon start chute which was right next to the half marathon start chute.  I actually had to scale the metal fence to get in to my start area.  After some thank yous from the race organizers (to the volunteers, sponsors, the mayor) they played the National Anthem; we all took off our hats.  The start was upon us. But just before the start -  and despite the fact we were tucked between two tall brick buildings, a cold, stiff gust of wind knifed through us as if to say, "are you sure you're really ready?"  It didn't matter because before I had a moment to consider the question we were off.

The first mile, typical of any large race, was slow.  The combined mass of both the half and full marathoners - several thousand of us - were packed in tight and more than running, one is really just making sure that you don't trip on the feet in front of you.  My goal was to run the first few miles between a 9:40-9:20 per mile pace.  I was hoping to run this marathon in something under 4 hours and 20 minutes, which meant running 26.2 miles at under an average 9:55 per mile pace.  In all my long training runs, I generally settled in at a 9:45ish pace, but didn't know how the race adrenalin, weather, and extra few miles of a marathon would effect me.  After the first couple of miles, I found some running room and tried to relax and just see what felt right.  It usually takes me three or four miles to iron out the stiffness, but I was so distracted during those miles that I barely noticed myself warming up.  The rain drops were falling a bit more frequently, but it wasn't raining hard - yet.  By the 5th or 6th mile, I found that I was running closer to a 9:15 pace and it felt easy.  And while this would have put me far ahead of my goal, I was also nervous about what this pace might mean for my pace at mile 15 or mile 25.  There was a long way to go.  I tried to dial it back a bit, but without thinking would drift back to the faster pace.  I ran into my fellow North Shore Strider and training mate, Tom, somewhere around this time.  Amongst the thousands of runners, I was happy to finally see one familiar face.  But we were each running our own race strategy so after a few pleasantries, we drifted apart and ran the course on our own.   As I neared the 8 mile mark, where we cross the Merrimack River at Rt. 113 in Tyngsboro, the rain began in earnest and with it, the more acute sensation of it being cold.  And though I'd warmed up prior to that, it was from this point forward that the weather began to impose its will.  Instead of thawing out more as the race wore on, I ran the rest in a clothes-soaking, bone-chilling, hand-numbing, wind-driven rain.  My extremities chilled by mile by mile.

Marathon Route Map

I ran east back toward Lowell on the north side of the river along Pawtucket Blvd. and despite the chill, I still felt strong.  I even began to run somewhat faster - under a 9 minute/mile pace.  I tried not to look at my pace watch and just go by how I felt, but I couldn't help but fear that it might be a painful mistake.  Around mile 9, I heard someone calling my name.  Without my glasses and with my iPod in my ears, it was hard to tell, but I was almost certain it was Coach Braz cheering me on (I later confirmed it was).  He was the first - and only person - I'd see who I knew until the finish approached.  I leaned up the slight, but long incline to mile 13 where we crossed the Merrimack at the Rourke Bridge and retraced about 5 miles west back toward our first crossing point.  By this point it was raining quite steadily and it felt as if the temperature was dropping  (And I was right - see the weather here).  Instead of my hands growing warmer as the race wore on, they grew ever colder.  My gloves had helped me at the outset, but now they seemed to isolate the chill around my fingers; I didn't dare remove them for fear of it being worse without them.  I let my arms hang lower in hopes of draining some blood into my fingers.  I opened and closed my fists to stimulate circulation; if it helped, I couldn't feel enough to tell.  I was taking my Gu gel supplements beginning at mile 13, every 3 miles, but by mile 16, it was already becoming difficult to pull the packets out, let alone manipulate them to my mouth.  By mile 19, I could hold the packet in my hand, but couldn't squeeze the Gu out (after having to have used my teeth to tear the packet open).  I shoved the whole pack in my mouth and tried to chew the Gu out.  It worked enough.  By mile 22, I really felt as though I had two frozen blocks on the ends of my arms.  On the plus side, my right hip and leg were posing none of the anticipated aches I'd feared.   As I ran the last 8 miles fatigue began to creep into my stride.   My average pace crept up from 9:14 for mile 18 to 9:34 for mile 19.  The cold and the distance were beginning to make themselves felt.  It didn't help that while the overall course was flat, there was a steady incline on these last miles which were further complicated by a headwind.  It wasn't the 20 MPH winds forecasted, but it was consistent.  I lowered my head and chest into it.  On Coach Braz's training schedule the only thing he had written for October 18th was "Tunnel Vision."  I now knew what he meant; I took it to heart and zeroed in on the road in front of me.

Around mile 20, I began to feel that I was really going to be able to finish the race.  I knew there were very challenging miles ahead, but I knew in my core that there was no doubt that I would make it - that we would make it.  It wasn't especially graceful running, but it was determined forward progress.  Sometimes a stiff breeze or bit of uneven road would tilt me to one side or the other and I noticed that my legs didn't right me as quickly as they otherwise might have.  I kept running.  I began to pass people that were truly laboring.  They were wet, cold, massaging cramped muscles, or just needed to walk for a bit.  Few - if any - looked happy.  I trudged on.  Indeed the only time I walked at all during the race was to focus on opening the second to last Gu at around mile 22.5.  I simply had to concentrate all my dexterity into opening that tiny packet of carbohydrate energy.  By around mile 24 I'd slowed to that 9:55 pace and my 25th mile was really hard work, slowing to a 10:34 pace.  But I was almost there and my Garmin was telling me that my overall average pace was still excellent and several minutes ahead of my goal.  I picked up the pace again and willed myself toward the finish.  I crossed the river one last time at Aiken Street and made my way around the final bend that led into Lelacheur Park, home to the Lowell Spinners baseball team and the race's finish.  I heard my name and was deeply heartened to see my wife and son as well as my best friend and his daughter.  I finished strong, running the uneven outfield perimeter to the finish chute.  As I approached the end my friend and training partner, Linda, yelled my name and gave me a high five (due to injury she was unable to run the race).

I looked ahead to the last few steps to the sign that said, "Finish."  A very brief, but intense wave of cathartic emotion passed quickly through me - a quick shudder that somehow encompassed everything this meant to me.  This race began as a notion to keep fit.  It became something that sustained me through the most difficult months of my life.  The weather for the race, as inhospitable as it was, seemed apropos and was an almost welcome symbolic representation of the challenges I felt I faced all year long.  I finished in 4 hours, 8 minutes, and 3 seconds - well ahead of my goal.  I know the conditions were not ideal, but to me, it was the most beautiful day I've had in a long time.

I want to append a few special thank yous to this note.  To my fellow North Shore Striders, and in particular my regular North Shore Striders running partners: Linda, Dennis, Vicky, Giuseppe, Tom, Annajean, and President Mike Pelletier -  thank you for your companionship, encouragement, and friendship.  To Coach Braz, I couldn't have been more pleased with your training regimen, constant support, and running expertise. And most importantly, I offer my humble and heartfelt gratitude to my amazing wife, Linda.  Thank you, my dear, for supporting me in this effort, for trailing after our tireless toddler during all those long hours I ran, and for diagnosing all the aches and pains along the way.  I want to acknowledge the many sacrifices you made in order to help me complete this race.  My finishing is most definitely our achievement.

Official Results

The Accidental Athlete

In 1981 The University of Connecticut Mens' Soccer Team won the National Championship.  Long before UConn football and basketball were household names, soccer was a national powerhouse.  Football and basketball were after thoughts.  I was 11 years old then and basically grew up on campus.  There were NO bigger heroes than the UConn mens' soccer team.  And if you were actually from Storrs and made the team, you were the best of both worlds, a local hero.  Even today, the town of Mansfield (Storrs is a village of Mansfield) runs a first rate recreation program that feeds athletes right up to the high school level and beyond.  I was not fed up the chain.  I was not to be one of those local heroes.

Like many boys and girls I joined town sports leagues.  They handed me a bat and a ball and a glove.  I knew what I was to do with each.  But when it came to doing any, let alone at the same time, I proved  - let's be kind - ineffective.  I swung wildly, early, late, high, low, erratically, and often.   I rarely made it to on base and if I did it was because I got beaned by someone who pitched worse than I.   On base, I'd try to run, but I was never sure what I was supposed to be paying attention to; my timing was, shall we say, off.  As a fielder, I remember distinctly catching a pop fly with my forehead. Playing defense required things like speed, agility, and something called arm strength.  Before long I was consistently playing right field.  As youth baseball coaches across the world know, right field is where you put your worst player.  There just aren't many power lefty tykes or kid righties hitting the opposite way.  I rarely saw a play.  I did though incur the ire of teammates and fans when a that was ball hit my way went unnoticed because I was looking for four leaf clovers.

Season by season I played every town sport.  I tied my legs in knots playing soccer, tripping on the ball, players, and my own two feet.  In basketball, the lay-up was a shot I'd make 1 in 10 times.  The further away from the basket, the more likely I'd miss the backboard, to say nothing of the rim or the bottom of the net.  The concept of dribbling, passing, shooting, and retaining possession of the ball was straightforward.  My execution was anything but.  There wasn't a player on either team who wanted me to have the ball.

I think the only reason I am probably still alive today is because our town was so small it didn't have a football team then.

If you wanted to win you DID NOT want me on your team.  I heard all the names and they were all pretty accurate.  Goof, Klutz, Spaz, Dork, Retard.  My eyeglasses (usually taped together) didn't help the 'more creative' name callers.  "Four-eyed Spaz Attack."  "Blind Retard Ring-a-Ling-a-Ding-Bat."  Ironically, my social life didn't suffer.  Indeed I was well-regarded and had many friends.  I was fun and best of all I was funny.  I might not have been an agile athlete, but my I had a quick wit.  Still it was not enough to keep these same friends from necessarily leaving me the last person standing when captains chose the teams.

As if it wasn't hard enough for me to control my appendages, puberty (coming seemingly years after all my friends) brought on a monster growth spurt.  I grew nearly a half a foot in three months. Even in that brief time, classmates who I saw in the summer didn't recognize me by fall.  My feet seemed miles from my hips and hands that rarely acted in concert were no longer even in the same time zone.  I tripped over my feet,  stumbling over curbs, rocks, and even the plain old flat floor.  And I would have been the first one to tell you how funny it was.  I played the goofball better than its inventor.  This all might sound like the laments of an unhappy childhood, it most surely is not.  There were painful times to be sure - several ball/foot/knee to the groin moments.  Believe me, I wanted to be more coordinated.  And to this day I wish my parents had passed down more athletic genes.   Luckily, they blessed me by giving me a terrific sense of humor.

It wasn't that I didn't want to play these sports, it was just that I wasn't really able to.  At least not at the same pace as my more agile peers.  They could control their bodies in ways that I had (have?) yet to discover.  I wasn't in aerobic shape to run, winded within a half-mile.  By the time I'd reached high school the town recreational mill had turn me into grist.  But I still wanted to play sports.

I realized that I needed a simpler sport or at least one with less variables.  I was on the golf team in high school.  There were no try-outs and there were no cuts.  I never played a single competitive match, but I got to play nine holes for free every day after school.  I had to run to keep up with my teammates as it took me usually twice as many strokes to play each hole.  Luckily hitting 80 shots over 9 holes allowed me to practice my stroke at double the rate of my fellow golfers.  I never got to be a good golfer, so I focused instead on having a good, if unathletic, time. Eventually the repetition improved my stroke, marginally.  At last, here was a sport I could almost play!  The ball sat still.  It wasn't being thrown or hit at me and there weren't other golfers trying to hit it at the same time.  It was a start.

In college I willed myself to become an oarsman.  Learning how to row - learning the stroke, getting in shape for the very first time of my life, and waking up that early in the morning  - was the most significant life change I'd ever made.  And again it was the repetitive nature of the stroke that allowed me to persist (and there were no cuts).  With the oar locked in position, my feet literally strapped in to a fixed footboard, and my butt planted it a rolling seat, I have few variables to consider.  These was a skill I could master.  But I was still weaker than to most of my teammates.  And that weakness resulted in me catching a boat stopping crab* at the Dad Vail National Championships in 1988, still the worst and most painful moment of my athletic career.  Getting in shape took me the better part of four years and by my senior year through (choose one) twists of fate, Providence, destiny, hard-work, good coaching, or coincidence,  I found myself sitting in 5-seat of the 1991 New England Heavyweight Mens' Championship boat, a boat that finished a heartbreaking 4th in our division's National Championship.

Since college and to this day, I have been a runner (another repetitive sport!).  There have been periods in my life when I've taken as much as years off from the sport, but it pulls me back.  And running consistently all these years has to a slight degree improved my overall agility.  Today, I can play a friendly game of volleyball, whiffle ball, or even basketball with little if any personal injuries sustained or inflicted.  But if it turns into a contest, you still don't want me on your team.  Unless you're 8.  If you're 8, I am going to be your second or third best player.





*Crab 

A rowing error where the rower is unable to timely remove or release the oar blade from the water and the oar blade acts as a brake on the boat until it is removed from the water. This results in slowing the boat down. A severe crab can even eject a rower out of the shell or make the boat capsize (unlikely except in small boats). Occasionally, in a severe crab, the oar handle will knock the rower flat and end up behind him/her, in which case it is referred to as an 'over-the-head crab.'