Twice I have been invited, and twice it has tried to kill me. I was unprepared for a nice day on each of my prior Boston attempts, and the marathon gods made me pay for it each time. By the time I'd gotten to Boylston street soaked in sweat, salt, and tears, I felt like the guy at the end of "American Pie" when Alyson Hannigan is screaming, "Say my name, B@*%^!"

This year I might not be as thin as I want or as fast as I want come April 18, but d@mmit if I'm not going to do everything I can with every moment I've got before I get there. Getting the miles in is all part of the bigger picture.

So on Sunday morning the alarm went off bright and early, and I dragged myself out of bed. St. Lynda asked me while still sleepy, "How are you?" "Fine!" I replied. "Ready to run." I assured her. Of course, I was lying. I couldn't turn my head to the left (the result of trying to hold an upholstered chair over my head with one arm as I lost my balance, but it beat dropping it on the girlfriend's mother's car), my eyes were barely open, and my legs were essentially trash. In other words, it was a perfect day to run. If I could have a good race with all that stacked against me, that had to mean something, right?

Drove on down to Wilmington, and met up with Dave Decker pre-race. He'd agreed to join me in this early-season test, and it was nice to have some company. Since I was scheduled for 16 miles and not 13.1, we ran 27 minutes before the start - just a nice, easy reconnaissance run of the last 1.5 miles of the course while chit-chatting away. I tried to talk him out of running the Boston-Hopkinton-Boston double, and he tried to talk me into running a 50K the following weekend. Typical Dave.

As we gathered for the start, someone nearby remarked, "The cannon always scares me - they never warn when they're gonna' star-"

*BOOOOM*

As is the tradition, 1,151 runners jumped straight up in the air, and fell back to Earth as car alarms for 4 square blocks tripped. Bloody farking Howitzer. Maryland and Pennsylvania probably think Delaware tries to start a war the second Sunday in March every year, and then immediately surrenders to itself.

So off we went. Dave had asked me pre-race, "Are you going to run this thing, or are you training?" I had to admit - I wanted to run this thing. I wanted to go as hard as I could and see what happened. I was going to just run stupid, and if I died in the process, so be it. I was so d#mn tired that I figured the harder I ran, the sooner I'd be done. Plunging down the first mile, I remembered that in 2001 I'd nailed a 7:14 to start things off right - I wondered how close I'd be to that today.

I quickly looked back - drat. Dave? Dave. Dave? I'd lost him already. The guy had run a 1:45 here in 2003 with Mark Markley and I, so I knew he'd find me again soon enough - I had to watch where I was going, since things were still pretty tightly packed from the start.

Mile 1 - 7:56. Not too bad, but it felt like I'd worked harder than that. No PR today - no worries. New plan - How about running 8-minute miles all the way? Sure. I don't think I could run another one. Let's run 12 more. Hah!

Mile 2 - 8:00. How about that. My HR is staying in the mid-140's, too. Am I that efficient? Um, no. That would be because my body is (1) Wasted, (2) Tired, and (3) Partially frozen. I'd decided to wear shorts today, because I just can't race in tights. I did wear a long-sleeve top and a sleeveless to cover my torso, and that felt fine - and my hands were starting to warm up...even if the air temperature was just now reaching the mid 30's.

Mile 3 - 8:08 (144). Down by the stadium section, running near the Delaware Waterfront. The sun was out, and the wind was quiet. It actually started to almost feel warm; warm enough to take my gloves off, and chuck them in a storm drain as I trundled past. I was carrying a Gel Flask of Hammer Gel, and took a quick shot to keep fueled. When I followed it up with a quick grab of water from the first water station, it was like swallowing glass. The water must have been stored somewhere outdoors (car trunk?) overnight, and nearly frozen there. My stomach reacted like I'd pulled the pin and swallowed the grenade. In my head, red warning lights went up all over the place - I made a note to myself, "Right. No more water. Too cold."

As I trundled onwards, my HRM strap kept on slipping down...and it was really starting to bug me. I quickly hitched my shirts up, and tightened up the slide on the back... "CLICK!"

Oh. My. God. Did I just pass a race photographer with a gel flask in my mouth, my hands up the back of my shirt, and my stomach just...out there? 13.1 miles. 21,100 meters. That race photographer had to be RIGHT THERE? Argh. I hoped I'd been seeing things.

Mile 4 came and went in 8:17. My HR was staying nice and steady (147), but I could tell that my early pace was probably a little too optimistic. I wondered, "Man, why do I feel this bad after only 4 miles?" Of course, I'd forgotten I'd run 3 to start...and this was really mile 7, but such an insignificant detail was lost in the fog my brain always seems to enter when running distance.

Mile 5 - 8:33. Hello first long hill of the day. Gravity - she's a harsh mistress.

Mile 6 - 8:37. My rule is a simple one: If all you can think about is whether or not you need to heed the call of nature, find a tree and heed the call of nature. Took my break on the long and winding stretch (and the first one with TREES all day) next to the Brandywine River, and got ready to climb, climb, climb. It's worth noting that sometime along here, the early morning sunshine disappeared and was replaced by some unpredicted clouds...and wind. Lots of wind.

Mile 7 - 8:55. Hills, hills, hills. Actually, that's not true. The middle of Caesar Rodney is just one large hill, so it should be written out as Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll. One long, winding climb past the Rockford Park Water Tower, to the highest point in the state. Sounds impressive, doesn't it? Until you remember that it's Delaware. Not exactly the Alps.

Mile 8 - 8:23, but I think it was actually an 8:20. However, that glove-toss I'd made at mile 3 was now coming back to haunt me. Without sun, and now with a 15-20mph wind blowing right in our faces, my hands quickly froze into two unusable lumps. I couldn't get my fingers to work, so I took the split by whacking my Polar against my head. Took a few swipes until I got the angle right. *thwackthwackthwackBEEP*

Mile 9 - 8:30. My legs were this color once before - that bright, shocking pink that usually means Frostbite is nearby - Oh, right! Around the Bay, last year! That was Hamilton, Ontario. Another one of my ill-advised shorts-wearing days. I started to feel like my blood was freezing up or turning into maple syrup. My legs were getting more and more sluggish with each passing mile. Of course, once again lost in the fog of my brain was the key fact that I hadn't had anything to drink since that one sip of ice back at mile 3. So I'm 12 miles into a run on a frozen day, without having taken on any water. Chances are, my blood really is turning into maple syrup.

It was somewhere in here I saw two things:

1. My own breath. Argh.

2. Dave Decker, heading towards mile 9. He didn't look happy. Seeing Dave in a race without a smile is rare, so I knew he had to be having a rough day. Since I'd invited him to run, this was of course, my fault. I hoped he'd hang in there and finish well enough...

Mile 10 - 8:17. Hey - a faster mile! Am I feeling better? No. Am I running harder to get warmer? No. You see, when you help someone move, don't they always buy snacks for the movers? Sure. Matt was great - he got donuts, bagels, chips, and subs for lunch. Then there were the Fritos. I love Fritos. Problem is, I shouldn't love Fritos the day before a long run. Even though I only took a few handfuls throughout the day, such a seemingly innocent munching here and there (and here and there, and here again) is now coming back to haunt me. So with the gleuts held tight while trying to maintain good, relaxed running form, I plunged downhill looking like I was being kicked from behind by an unseen Ghost. While taking mile splits by whacking myself in the head, since my hands were still pretty much frozen solid. PlodPlodPlodPlodPlodThwackThwackBEEP! (Only two tries that time - I'm getting better at this).

Mile 11 - 8:21. Gleuts are holding. Legs are holding. Hands are grey. Thighs are bright pink. ThwackBEEP!

Mile 12 - 8:10. Hard to believe that in 2003 when trying to chase down Markley, I ran a 6:59 here on this downhill mile. Who knew that'd be the last sub-7 mile I'd see for a long, long time? All I can think about is getting this thing over with, and getting this thing over with. If I was paying attention, I'd have seen that my brain was starting to freeze up and skip due to the bumps...but I was too busy trying to get to where I could get a drink. A warm drink. Like a Cafe Toledo, or a Hot Chocolate...ahhh...but I was too busy trying to get to where I could get a drink. A warm drink. Like a Cafe Toledo, or a Hot Chocolate...ahhh......but I was too busy trying to get to where I could get a drink. A warm drink. Like a Cafe Toledo, or a Hot Chocolate...ahhh.....but I was too busy trying to get to where I could get a drink. A warm drink. Like a Cafe Toledo, or a Hot Chocolate...ahhh....

(BEEPThwackBEEP) D@mn. Double-split.

As I turned the final corner towards the finish line, I was never so happy to finish Caesar Rodney in all the times I'd run it. The long climb to the line is never easy, and even though I wasn't sprinting it, I heard the alarm on the HR start chirping like mad as I neared the end. I managed to run an 8:20 last mile, and a :52 last 1/10th. I thought at the beginning of the day, I might sneak under 1:50 if I could hold it together....

1:49:57

1:49:58

1:49:59...

I passed under the line right on 1:50...and then saw the timing mats mounted a seemingly insignificant 3 feet past the clock.

1:50:01. Sonsab%tches.

BUT WAIT! Ah, but for the beauty of chip-time! Another lost detail that came rushing back to me - the 35 seconds I'd waited to cross the start line! That meant 1:49:25 for the 13.1 miles, and 2:16:42 for my 16 mile 'training run.' Later on that day I'd realize that I'd just run 16 miles at 8:32 pace and had a heckuva day, regardless of everything I'd tossed in my own way...

...of course, I didn't have time to savor anything like mathematics at the moment - I had another 'natural call' to heed. Foregoing the usual slowdown one partakes after a long race I ran through the chutes, through the finish line volunteers, past a startled Senator Carper (DE-D) (How'd be beat me AGAIN?) and, well, you know.

Post-break, I came back to the finish line to wait for Dave, but the wind was positively howling up there. It was a 1/4 mile walk back to the YMCA and dry clothes, so after 10 minutes I couldn't wait anymore - I had to bail on a friend. That bugged me, but I was so cold I couldn't take it anymore - I trudged back to the YMCA, and hit the showers. The warm showers. Ahhh.

Walking out to my car post-race, Dave spotted me. I apologized for not waiting for his finish, but he was very understanding. He asked me, "Have you got any water?" I only had one bottle in the car, but I knew Dave needed his Endurox - I gave it up. Wotdahell. I'd already gone 16 miles without any - I could certainly drive 2 miles without any worries; I was just glad I got to say goodbye to him before heading for home.

Once the feeling had returned to my hands and I could reach my wallet, I hit the local McDonald's Drive-Through to remedy my hydration woes. Following absolutely nothing intelligent regarding recovery drinking I ordered a large vanilla shake, a large Diet Coke, and two bottles of water.

It was all gone in 15 minutes. No shake has ever tasted so good.

4 weeks to Boston.

Hurricane Bob
* That was a very good 'bad' day. *