I think it would be a little dramatic to call it an identity crisis; identity reassessment maybe? I haven’t been spending much mental energy thinking about what’s going on in the running world, barefoot or otherwise, lately. Studies, criticisms, revelations, celebrity sightings, all very interesting and important I’m sure, just outside of my inward-focused radar. So what is that radar picking up? Oh, you know, randomness.

I hear minimalist shoe sales are down, which makes sense. That’s what happens when you make a product that doesn’t get worn out in a few months.

Speaking of shoes, not a single shoe company has expressed any disappointment in my decision to retire from the shoe reviewing business. Not even so much of a “please, just one more shoe review, for old times sake.” Instead, I have been sent something shoe-related to review: a de-stinker spritz. So far, this product has kept my work shoes smelling not too bad after over a week of sockless prancing in the dog yard. Stay tuned for this revolutionary development.

The dog yard is pretty much the only place you’ll see shoes on my feet now that winter has transitioned to summer, skipping spring almost entirely. While my feet are happy to be out in fresh air, the warmer weather serves as a frustrating reminder that we haven’t sold our house yet. So does my first tick bite of the year.

Iris and I decided to switch to the half-marathon on the North Olympic Discovery Trail (it’s a path, not a “trail” trail) in June. I’m actually the one who suggested it. Marathon training just doesn’t feel like where my body is at right now, and the thought of trying, again, to figure out how to fuel for that distance leaves me feeling more anxious than the long runs I’d rather not be running. I do feel like running, though, and I have a plan in mind that should hopefully get me a new PR without much strain: streaking. No, not naked running (the universe just sighed in relief). The goal is to never run so hard that I feel a need to take a day off, making consistency and moderation the main objectives. “Moderation” and “consistency” are new words in my vocabulary. For structure, I’m following a Lydiard-style training program for marathon base-building. To keep myself in check, I’m keeping track of my resting heart rate, weight, and sleep. Today will be my eighth day running in a row, and I feel pretty good. This could be an enlightening experience.

Wow, this post isn’t entertaining at all, but I spent all morning writing it and the cobwebs of this neglected blog need dusting off. Just curious, is there anything you, dear reader, would like me to write about? Or is there a general blogging malaise? If not, that’s fine. Maybe a stable running life rarely makes for funny blogging. That’s a sad trade-off, if it’s true, but one I will happily make right now.

There’s nothing quite like the anxiety of waiting for pictures from the race in which you wore tights publicly for the first time. I think all things functioned properly in a wardrobe sense, and the bright neon orange Umstead Duck Shirt certainly helped train the eyes of onlookers upward.

The weather felt warmer than the sub-thirties in the forecast, and apparently it was. Almost ten-degrees warmer. I considered taking off the Vapors, but doing so would still be pushing my cold-tolerance levels. I also considered just wearing socks (or the Sockiplasts), but with the tights it looked like I was wearing footy pyjamas. I don’t know, maybe that could become a thing, but I don’t think the time for the footy pyjama aesthetic has yet come. So I went with the Vapors (the black ones; the orange pair of a different hue than the duck shirt, creating a clash) even though I think they’re a trail shoe, and my feet maintained a happy temperature. I think my decision was a good one, because it got considerably colder by the end of the race.

I should note this is at least the third race now where I’ve been outbarefooted. Steve Perkins ran the course au natufoot, and apparently was comfortable the whole way. So maybe I could have run in similar fashion, but I think I would have suffered at least a little. Anyway, congrats Steve! Be sure to work on your soundbites!

The tights were exceptionally comfortable. 2XU Thermal Tights is what they say on the label, and I paid retail for them. By “I” I mean “we,” since money is a fungible commodity in this house. However, 20% of the sale went to Red Dog Farm, a cool place that takes care of all sorts of animals until they can get adopted out. This was all part of a local runner’s charity for the Boston Marathon this year. So I decided to believe in destiny for a moment and came to the conclusion it was meant to be, and bought them. Very pricey, but I don’t really know how to assign value to these things. It was nice not having the flapping fabric, and I never felt too warm. I don’t know if the compression (mild, I’d say) helped in any way performance-wise, since it’s hard to maintain objectivity and perceptive accuracy when you’re dancing precariously close to the red line up and down the hills of Martinsville.

Ooh, the prose is flowery today. What a treat for you!

None of that matters because I don’t know what I look like in them yet. No, mirrors don’t count. Not for me. I have this condition where I have an insurmountable urge to flex my muscles whenever I pass a mirror, accompanied by an eye squint, which has the effect of blurring the harsh lines of reality into something more proportionally pleasing. There’s no cure. Very sad. It is only the truthful capture of the camera that determines the success or failure of an outfit in action. So patiently I wait.

The race went well, by the way. I finished third out of everybody who ran it.

Oh wait! A picture has been posted:

OK, that’s not so bad. I don’t look particularly offensive. Like the buff? That I got cheap from a guy I know who knows a guy who knows a guy in China. I just put the thing on my head to cover my ears, and let the excess fabric flow like the mane of a proud lion. Or Bon Jovi in the Living On A Prayer days. Take my hand, we’ll make it! I totally swear!

My finish time was 1:24:17, a 13.1 mile PR by a little over a minute and a half, and a P course R by almost three. I’m quite happy with that, especially so soon after Umstead.

Did you note the gloves, and how they match the shirt? Apparently being a believer in destiny, even if only for a moment, has some perks like fortuitous color coordinations: I was unaware at the time of purchase what color the Umstead shirt would be. I bought the gloves with the tights. Basically, I was hemorrhaging money that day. You should have been there. Too late now, my wallet is all stitched up and I’m back to being my regular cheap, “there’s no such thing as destiny it’s all chaos” self.

This was the third Martinsville Half, and I’ve run every one of them. 1:28:32 the first year, which was a PR by about four minutes at the time. 1:27:15 the next year, faster even though I added a third of a mile with an impromptu outnback. Would have been another PR if I had a decent sense of direction. It’s a tough course, but I seem to do well there. Which is weird, because not only have I never trained for it, but the race is always just three weeks after the Umstead Marathon. Maybe the reason I struggle at Umstead is that I’m actually training for Martinsville without realizing it.

Who knows. Anyway, thank you Martinsville for another great race!

Everything was perfect for a perfect race. The weather was beautiful, just on the tolerable side of cold. I was well rested, well trained, well fed, and well dressed. I carried two handheld squeezable flasks filled with Hammer Gel, providing easy access to fuel whenever I needed. If every there was a day to swing for the fences, this was it. Umstead, however, is like a well-trained boxer. It throws perfectly timed jabs and counters, hooks and straights. It sees your punches before you even think to throw them. Umstead might let you win a round or two, only because it’s easier to beat up someone who isn’t running away. You can either try to outsmart the course, or outfight the course. I chose fight, and started a-swingin before the bell stopped a-ringin.

Before we begin, I would like to apologize to those of you who were hoping for the debut of a new addition to my running wardrobe, tights. For a while the forecast was predicting colder weather, and I was strongly considering such drastic measures. Instead, the conditions were perfect for bareleggedness. Which may or may not be better or worse.

photo by Scott Lynch

Big congrats are in order to the Wife for finishing her first “official” marathon. Welcome to the club! Sorry I got you involved in this running cult. Also to ac, it was a pleasure beating you to and through the trails. Shannon and Scott, nice PRs for the course!

This is my favorite marathon. Everything about it is perfect. The organization is great, the people are wonderful, and the logistics are so stress-free with the easy parking and the lodge. The park is beautiful. The course has a little bit of everything. Well, except for flat.

There was a guy giving out free massages after the race. I took advantage of the offering, but forgot to tip. I thought he did a good job, so here’s a plug instead: anyone in the Durham area looking for a massage therapist should check out Stiner Massage.

Without further ado, I present The Rock n’ Roll Umstead Marathon!

Check Yourself Before You Wet Yourself
I finished the race in 3:21:51, twelve minutes slower than hoped for but ten minutes faster than last year. This was the plan that got me there:

1. Get to the single track (mile two) as far up front as comfortably possible.
2. Run the trails fast, but without racing anyone. DON’T TRIP OR TWIST ANKLES.
3. Get to Mile eight in about an hour.
4. Start racing and chasing on the familiar hills of the bridal path.
5. Get to halfway around 1:35.
6. Continue racing and chasing till the end.
7. If at any point I start feeling overworked, slow down to a recovery pace. Recover. Resume racing and chasing.
8. Don’t drink too much water so I wouldn’t wet myself.

Satellite’s Gone
I should mention, by the way, that the Garmin signal was all wackado throughout the park, especially on the single track. My watch read the course three-quarters of a mile short, Iris’ about a mile-and-a-half. The race directors suggest the course might actually be a little long. Who knows, it’s trails. Who cares. So any splits mentioned are from memory at the mile markers.

Hammer Time
I arrived at the trailhead in 13:30, in around seventh place. The effort felt a little harder than I wanted it to, so I took a small gulp of gel and expected to get in the groove. The trails felt good, and I ran them faster than I thought I would. No ankle twists, no trips. Have some gel, just to be safe. This was the part I was most worried about, and I ran it really well. Ta da! Reaching mile eight I was a little tired, but two minutes ahead of schedule and very confident. I took some more gel, this time with a little water. Pushing on up and over the hills to mile thirteen, I maintained the pace but it felt harder than I wanted it to. My stomach was complaining a bit, and my legs were feeling tired. Surely I’ll get a second wind, I thought as I sucked down more gel. I didn’t have to pee, fortunately, because I was hardly drinking anything at all.

Mean Mister Mustard
I thought about bringing along a packet of mustard in case I started to cramp. I never tested it out, because I never cramped in training. I couldn’t find the mustard packet race morning, because I had already put it in my shorts pocket and forgot about it. So as my left hamstring started to cramp, I was cursing myself for not bringing the mustard when in fact I had indeed brought the mustard.

Oh, We’re Halfway There
I made it to the thirteen mile marker in 1:34:xx, but wasn’t feeling so chipper. Time to employ the recovery pace strategy, which is tough to do on the choppy steep hills of Turkey Creek. I felt the presence of a runner slowly reeling me in as I spent the next few miles trying to convince myself I felt fine and that I would feel better soon, which is kind of a hard thing to do at the same time.

Shiny Happy People
Running towards the field on the outnback, I was greeted by so many cheering friends. They apparently chose to outsmart the course instead of fight it. I still held good field position, and their shouts of encouragement reminded me to not waste what I had and hang on. But the recovery never came. Some runners passed me as I continued to relent under Umstead’s relentlessness, all the while I passed a few other relenting runners who were relenting harder than I was. It was a relentfest. What do you give up for reLent? Time!

Ships Passing in the Night
I saw Iris. She said “Gnurgh.” I replied “Ack.”

My Body is a Cage
While definitely miserable, I didn’t hit anything resembling a wall. I was just stuck in a low gear. The fumes were enough to get me up and down and up and up and up and down to the finish, but I didn’t dare to press the gas pedal. Two more runners passed me. I was offered and took some Fritos, but forgot the water. That’s ok, I still had two miles left and I wouldn’t want to have to pee, right? That was a new level of drymouth. What the hell, let’s wash it down with some more gel. Why not? A third runner was bearing down, getting closer. In the last mile, I picked it up enough to hold my position: tenth overall, ninth dude.

photo by Helen Bac

This year’s mascot was a handsome ringneck duck, and I’m pleased as punch to have another wood for the wall:

I’m a little disappointed to not have met my goal, or to beat ac’s PR, but given the struggles of the day I think I should be proud to have done as well as I did. Now I rest and do the “should I or should I not take Advil” dance. Thank you, Umstead people, for everything you do to make the perfect race.