Mulling over the marathon

I make it a habit of worrying about things far in advance. Unfortunately, this often has the effect of obscuring my view of what’s happening right now. Or, rather, what’s going well.

While I’m not yet collecting any PRs at shorter distances this season, I am having a great time running all these races. I still am not yet back to where I was roughly 20 months ago, at least as far as race times are concerned. That is a depressing reality that I try not to dwell on.

I do know that things are looking up in that I do seem to be improving and, perhaps most important, I’m not feeling anywhere close to entering the danger zone of overtraining that I spent so much of last year wallowing in. I was flat out exhausted so much of the time last year that it started to feel normal. After a break I’m realizing that it’s not normal. There’s the regular fatigue that comes with stepping up training, but that you can recover from during a pre-race taper. Then there’s the other kind — a kind of tiredness that settles in and becomes a part of you, then takes months to shake.

It’s only April. Yet I feel at a crossroads as far as the marathon is concerned. I’ve been burned by that lady five times out of my six tries. I really don’t know that I want to sit down and roast marshmallows with her again. Yeah, it’s only April, but if I want to do a fall race during the normal window of fall marathons (Oct/Nov) then that means I have to start getting my training ass in gear around July. That’s 10-12 weeks from now. Not so much time to consider the implications anymore.

From day to day, I swing wildly between wanting to give the long race another go, then realizing that the thought of bombing out again makes me feel physically and spiritually ill. I also can’t get my head around going back to running 90 mile weeks. I just don’t want to. It’s too much running. The more miles I run, the slower I have to run the bulk of them and the harder it is to do my faster workouts. What’s the point? Especially if all roads lead to a crap goal race as the reward.

The fatigue of training, it seems, is not the only thing that lingers. I seem to still be carrying the fatigue of failure and disappointment in my bones. I do know that every time I read someone’s post about the spring marathon they’ve got coming up, I am just so incredibly glad to not be them. That’s got to be telling me something.

These days, as I think about what to do in the fall, I find myself gravitating more and more toward the idea of making the fall a transition back to the full marathon distance in 2011 (assuming I ever go back). This is about all my brain can handle.

Once I’ve concluded my spring fling spent whoring around among various distances and dipping my toe (as I intend to) into crazy ultra relays, track racing and cross-country racing, I could then turn my attention to becoming a very good half marathon racer. It’s a distance that I love — long enough that you’ve accomplished something of significance, but short enough that you can do one every month if you want to.

What if I could run a 1:30 by the new year? Or a 1:26? What if.

If I knew you were runnin’ I’d’ve baked a cake

For everyone running the Loucks Games in White Plains next month. Now you’ve got your own cake! Sort of.


Here’s the original song. (Warning: Play at your own risk. The incidence of brain stickage is high with this song. I can’t be held responsible for any acts of homicide, puppy kickings or property damage that may result from your having listened to it.)

Race Report: Scarsdale 15K

Who will survive the coming zombie invasion?

I’ll tell you who: masters runners.

The finish of the Scarsdale 15K today was a testament to two things: the value of running small local races if your goal is load up on cheap hardware from China; the dedication of racers who are on the wrong side of 40.

The top 10 finishers included the entire 50+ masters men’s team (positions 1, 3, 4, 6 and 8). The winner (Jonathan) is 53. The female winner (Emmy Stocker, who regularly beats me) is 51. Emmy’s racing pal, Frank Colella, also placed in the top 10, at age 47. He was second in his AG, which means another 40+ guy (I don’t know who) was also in the top 10. So, uh, let’s see…that means that at least 8 of the top 10 finishers today were well over 40 years of age.

Yes, it’s the youngsters who will make delicious, easily attainable zombie food while the rest of us dash off to the local gun shops and gardening centers to prepare.

Before the race I spotted Emmy and knew she’d beat me. Because she always does! I didn’t recognize any other women. This wasn’t a big race for me, meaning I wasn’t going in with any particular goals or concern for how I’d do relative to other people. I had a rough goal of wanting to at least break 1:09. I’d end up with a 1:09:37. While I wasn’t thrilled with that time, I was happy to place 2nd female and 16th overall.

The Scarsdale course is really tough. It trends toward uphill, most of it gradual, but there are a few short, steep ones thrown in. I ran the first 4 miles slightly too fast: between 7:00 and 7:10. I probably should have run 7:15 instead. My pace started to fall off after mile 5 and I’d end up with an average 7:22 pace. But given the course and the headwind in the last two miles, I’m pretty happy with that. I didn’t hit the tangents as well this time around, but that was primarily because the roads weren’t closed to traffic and I didn’t think weaving back and forth constantly was a good idea. My total distance was 9.44.

My effort was quite high, averaging 93%. It was a bit warm too, so I’m sure that pushed the HR up a bit. But I was able to run the last quarter (through a parking lot and about 300m of a track) at 6:17 (97%). So I’ve got something resembling a kick, at least when I’m finishing up on a flat section.

Emmy came in around 1:08, so the margin wasn’t that wide. I was in 6th place (F) for the first few miles, then managed to pass three women in pretty quick succession midway through the race. So I ran most of it figuring I’d get 3rd, since I’d seen Emmy and another woman ahead during the first mile or two. But apparently Emmy’s companion dropped out at some point, so I was surprised to get 2nd.

Jonathan won in 55:30, beating a youngster by about a minute. I saw him at the out and back toward the end of the race, when he had a little over a mile to go, running behind the lead vehicle and no one with him. That was a little thrill for both of us and he managed something approximating a smile when we passed each other.

Jonathan had teamed up with four other 50+ guys, including Joe, for the team competition. Apparently, decades ago, this race was larger and much more competitive. Team competition meant something. This year, they were told that they could just pick the fastest guys at the end of the race to define their team. What? But they entered their names beforehand and ended up taking half of the top 10 spots anyway.

I haven’t run this race since 2006, when I was at the very start of my racing “career” (cough cough). My time then was 1:25:something. I remember seeing the little, crappy silver-plated bowls AG winners got and feeling envious. Now I have my peanut bowl.

Suitable for serving nuts, olives or beer.

To be honest, I was nervous about racing 9+ miles. I’ve been racing distances half that length or shorter, for the most part. I did go out too fast and I need to not make that a habit. But I feel good about my endurance, and a lot more confident heading into the Long Island Half in three weeks than I would have had I not raced this one all out today.

I’ve saved the best for last. After I picked up my AG award, a woman came up to me and said, “I’m so glad you beat [name withheld]. She’s the biggest snob in Scarsdale!”

I didn’t press for details. Meaning I’m not sure if this person is the biggest running snob or the biggest snob overall. If it’s the latter, that’s quite an accomplishment, although the former is not too shabby either. Now I’m wondering what exactly you have to do to inspire such schadenfreude among your neighbors.

From Serial Mom, John Waters’ study of a June Cleaveresque serial killer on the loose in leafy suburbia:
Sloppy: Will you believe that god damn litter bugger?
Beverly: I have told her and told her. It takes ninety to a hundred years for a tin can to decompose, and she still won’t recycle.
Gus: Cost the tax payers millions of dollars last year. But she don’t care nothing about the national budget!
Beverly: I hate Mrs. Ackerman.
Gus: I hate her too.
Sloppy: I hate her guts. You know, somebody ought to kill her.
Gus: Yeah, give her a happy face, and then recycle her.
Beverly: For the sake of this planet, someone just might.

Also, Scarsdale High School has a picture gallery of distinguished alumni/alumnae, which I took the time to review since the awards ceremony took forever to start. Luminaries include: Richard Holbrooke, Tovah Feldshuh, Linda McCartney and an NPR contingent: Mara Liasson and Nina Totenberg.

Random crap

TK calls these posts “Ellipses…”

I call them a great way to unwind on Friday afternoon, after the steam whistle has blown. Toot!

The Green Mountain Relay, and my commitment to it, is becoming more of a reality every day. I had to register and input my most recent (terrible) 10K time. Then I had to pick a shirt style (because that is the most important part of all of this — how I look).

Now I’m scrutinizing the various “race leg” sets and, like some clueless roundeye who’s wandered into a Dim Sum palace, I’m pointing helplessly at a few and saying, “Yes, I’d like to run these! I have no concept of exactly how running extreme changes in elevation, for around 18 miles over a 24 hour period — some of those miles in the dead of night — will affect me. But, dammit, I’m choosing with confidence and authority!”

Oh, right. It's the Green MOUNTAIN Relay.

The way it works is, the race is 200 miles long, divided up in to 36 “legs.” They are numbered (surprise!) 1-36. On a 12 person team, each runner will run three legs, evenly distributed. So, for example, runner 1 will run legs 1, 13 and 25. Some legs are harder than others, and a couple of them are fucking brutal. I’ll let some 25-year-old studs claim those.

But I am nevertheless among the masochistic majority, clamboring for the three-leg sets that are on the “hard” side of the spectrum. And I may not get one of the harder sets, since it seems I may be one of the slower team members. I still don’t yet know how I feel about this piece of information.

Also, on a related and disturbing note, the phrase “baby wipes” is beginning to appear frequently among team member communications. What have I gotten myself into?

So far, at least in email, the team is a fun crowd. (I’ve met two of them exactly once, although we’ve been members of the Running Blog Mutual Appreciation Society for quite some time.) Someone shared this photo snapped during last year’s race (this man was not on their team, by the way).

According to co-captain TK, "It was some freak running down the highway we saw while we were all in the van. It was the funniest thing ever and we all mocked him from the confines of our vehicle."

Edited: When I saw this photo, I knew this man reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think of whom. This morning, it hit me. He looks quite a lot like a running Ron Jeremy. (That Wikipedia entry is worth a read, not the least of which because it reveals the existence of something call the Adult Star Path of Fame, located in Edison, NJ.)

On a totally different topic, I am cleaning up on the 2009 shoe closeouts. I’ve picked up Saucony Fastwitch 3s for $40 and Asics Hyperspeed 3s for $55 (Holabird Sports). Holabird doesn’t like grabby people, so they only let you buy one pair of the Hyperspeeds. I’m going to put Jonathan up to buying another pair (or maybe I can drop the cloak and dagger and just place a separate order). At this point, I’m doing almost all of my training in “racing” shoes (7.5 oz or lighter). I can’t imagine how I used to train in 12 oz. tugboats.

My shorts (or, rather, the elastic) have all decided to expire at once too. My mesh “comfort liners” have taken to flapping about like sails. I’m already showing way to much flesh when I go out as it is. I draw the line at sunkissed butt cheeks. I’ve got four pairs of new shorts on the way from Running Whorehouse.

I managed to destroy the watch face of my 301XT last week. I knocked it off the counter and broke the glass face right up the center. The watch still functions, but I’m sure it’s not waterproof anymore. I’m quite annoyed that Garmin thought it was a good idea to not only make the front of a sports watch out of glass, but actually raise the glass so it’s guaranteed to shatter if it gets hit. Great job!

On the running front, I’ve had nothing but good workouts this week (two of them, rather than just one; playing with fire), despite the freak heat wave, and I was zippy on my 7 mile recovery run this morning. So I don’t know what to think about Sunday’s 15K race. Maybe I’ll do well, despite my doubts.

Joe has posted about the upcoming Masters Mile at the Louck Games in White Plains early next month. I’m skipping it since it’s just a few days after the Long Island Half Marathon. I know my limits. But I mention it here because, like a lot of outdoor track stuff, not many people are aware that it’s there for the running. The more the merrier. I’m screwing up my courage these days to perhaps try a track race at Icahn.

We shall see. But, again, people, it’s out there, and that’s why I mention it. These are open races, no invitation or qualifying time required. Take advantage or this stuff will go away. And then you’ll have a bunch of sad people noisily clacking around in spikes.

It’s April. And that means insane geese.

I see a pattern. In early-to-mid April, the geese go mad.

First, there was this haiku from April 14, 2007:

Today on my run
A mad goose chased after me
Vermin with feathers

On April 27, 2008 I wrote this:

Sighted today:
Badass Goose Dad: I know it’s spring because the geese couples are beginning to show up with their little fluffball chick children. Which means Dad Goose goes batshit if you get with 10 yards of the family. I was chased by a hissing goose a year or two back, and it’s an image seared into my brain. Today I gave them wide berth and even had to employ the “make yourself look really big” trick (arms akimbo) to psyche out the goose. One time we were in a car and a goose charged the car!

Finally, this from a post of April 19, 2009. Incidentally, I find that reading this post makes me particularly sad, as it was written while I was at the height of fitness last year, mere days before I began my slow, steady descent into a months-long period of overtraining syndrome.

And today I had my first bonafide smackdown with a male goose. He came charging at me, hissing and tongue-wagging. I couldn’t find a stick in time (my usual defensive move, stick waving). So I threw my arms akimbo, ran straight at the goose and screamed, “Fuck off!” Goose reversed course and scurried away. Unfortunately, there were no witnesses to capture the moment for YouTube posterity.

I had my first encounter with an ornery goose this morning. It wasn’t even that bad. Just wait until the eggs have hatched. Fortunately, I have Photoshop.

Spring Training: Weeks Twelve and Thirteen

With the crazy weather, insane workload and race-heavy weekends, I’ve neglected posting training.

A planet yawns.

Mileage has been very low the past couple of weeks, owing to all the racing. My pattern of one just one workout a week + race has continued. I had one very good race, one just so-so. Let’s review:

The last week of March featured just 50 miles (okay, 49.9, but who’s counting?) and was punctuated with a very good speed session on the track and then another good race on Sunday. Aside from feeling like crap that Saturday, primarily due to overindulgence the night before, I felt like a running god all week.

The following (last) week was a measly 35 miles. I took Monday off because my legs were totally shot from the race and I think it was a very busy work day too. Or maybe the weather sucked. I honestly can’t remember and I’ve been bad about filling in my training diary.

Since I was racing on Saturday, I did my speedwork on Wednesday evening. It went okay, but wasn’t anything to write home about like the previous week’s session. I probably should have seen it as a harbinger of things to come, but I figured I was just having a down day.

Saturday came and I struggled to break 45:30 in Central Park for a 10K. I’m somewhat inclined to blame it on hormones, since I tend to be very slow during the end of my cycle. Yeah, it’s the female troubles. This sort of thing has happened before (paragraphs 4-6).

Whatever. I’m glad it wasn’t a goal race. I took the day after off primarily because I had a monster work project to complete and after 10 hours of staring at a screen, then an abortive attempt to go shopping afterwards (stuff is closed on Easter; who knew?), I decided that I didn’t need the extra pressure of trying to get a run in before the sun went down.

Coach Kevin has been having major computer and connectivity issues lately so I’m winging it for the time being and just running however I feel like running from day to day.

I’ve got yet another race, a hilly 15K in Scarsdale, coming up on Sunday. Normally I’d be worried about not having a plan for the week. But like last week’s race, this isn’t one I care about particularly, so I’m not that concerned about what I do this coming week to prepare. It feels a bit like I’m coasting from week to week as it is.

Best. Birthday. Ever.

Warning: This is a really long post and there’s barely anything in here that’s running related. You’ve been warned.

I rarely do anything that would qualify as exciting or special on my birthday. Since I generally don’t care about things like going to restaurants or “shows” (gag), my birthday plans usually revolve around three things: gastronimical pleasure, home entertainment and the temporary removal of all sources of stress.

Unfortunately, with a freelance deadline looming, I couldn’t totally remove all stress, but I worked all day Sunday and took today (which is my actual birthday) off. But the celebration began in earnest last night. This year, the food bit translated into $20/lb. filet mignon wrapped in bacon for the main (and, really, who gives a shit what else you serve with that), decent wine and something called a Belgian Chocolate Mousse Cake (which is as good as it sounds), with some ice cream thrown in there. For home entertainment, we laughed our way through “Whiteout” — a movie that went wrong in the first five seconds and could quite possibly spell the end of Kate Beckinsale’s career.

So now I’m 45 years old. This means several things to me. For one, if I’m lucky, I’ve still got roughly half a life left. I’ve got good longevity genes, and no senility or dementia in the line on either side, so I should be good to go — and fully cognizant — for at least another 45-50 years. It also means, once again, that I awoke on birthday morning thinking, “Do I feel older? Do I feel different?” The answer is no. I am just as confused, awkward and immature as I was at 25. But I take a strange pleasure and comfort in that. I like to think of myself at 80, still swearing up a storm and making stupid Photoshop collages. Why not.

As often happens first thing in the morning as I lie in bed, before the cat has started to bat at my face, my mind wanders to odd places. Today the number “45” brought to mind 45’s — or “singles” as we called them. These were small circular discs of plastic — or “records” — with two songs on them, one to each side. They were named to reflect the number of revolutions made per minute. We played them on something called a “record player” (or sometimes, “turntable”). We purchased them at places with names like “Record World” and “Tower Records.”

I recalled the first 45 I ever owned: “Rainy Days and Mondays” by The Carpenters. I acquired this single when I was six years old, having won it at a classmate’s birthday party. Since my record collection at the time was quite limited, and included no “grownup” music, I played this record somewhat obsessively on my little box turntable/speaker combo. The flip side, a nondescript song called “Saturday,” held no interest for me. It was the mournful yet uptempo strains of the hit single that gripped me.

Why would someone give this single to a six year old, when other hits of the day were more appropriate? The buyer could have gone with any number of cheerful songs: “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night, “Knock Three Times” by Tony Orlando and Dawn, or “I Hear You Knocking” by Dave Edmunds (a tune I think still holds up today). To be fair, if you look at the Billboard 100 from 1971, it was a grim year for music. There’s nary a happy tune here.

Where am I going with all of this? Well, I’ve always credited that single for having simulateously warped me and turned me on to the talents of the songwriters of that day: Richard Carpenter, Paul Williams, Jimmy Webb and Burt Bacharach. I hadn’t been in the States that long, having spent the majority of my wee years living overseas in southeast Asia. I was so out of it culturally that when we got to California I took an IQ test and scored well below average because I couldn’t identify simple, common objects, such as a shopping cart.

So, in addition to a general fascination with music and sound, I suspect that I was also going through a period of overcompensation, soaking up everything having to do with American culture. With that single, I got into the habit of listening to songs over and over again and scrutinizing them. I still do that today. If something hooks me, I can listen to it repeatedly for several hours.* So I would like to thank whatever clueless parent picked that single.

Onto what else made this day great. There are so many things, I have to go with bullet points:

  • I had a long conversation with Jonathan’s 78-year-old Mum, Margaret. We made each other laugh several times. After our last trip to South Africa in October, I was doubtful she’d do any major travel again. But now they’ve got plans to go to England next spring to explore the eastern part of the countryside. Even if I’m unemployed then, we’re going too.
  • I also spoke with my mother, who has plans to come here next year, also in the spring. The last trip they made was something of a disaster, so I’m glad we’ll get another try.
  • I got a nice card (and some cash, which at my age is really unnecessary, but who’s complaining) from my Dad and stepmother. I’ve already spent it on some new running clothes.
  • I received a kind note out of the blue from Tom in Iowa, who is also coached by my coach, Kevin Beck. Another masters runner struggling and trying to make a breakthrough. He likes this blog.
  • I managed to keep my promise to reign in the birthday drinking so I wouldn’t be hung over on my birthday. I got up this morning feeling great and went out and motored through a 12 mile progression run. Then I came back and spent an hour looking at French and Saunders clips on You Tube. Sure, I was wasting my time. But I didn’t care. It’s my damned birthday.
  • My Facebook page was inundated with birthday wishes. As much as I denigrate Facebook and loathe my addiction to it, there’s a real charm to having a bunch of people, both friends and “friends,” saying “Happy Birthday!” to you.
  • I heard from one of the co-captains of the Green Mountain Relay team that there has been a mass exodus among the original team members and all of us alternates are needed. So I’m committed (or should be)! Come June I’ll be riding around with a bunch of strangers in a van in Vermont, trying to run fast at all hours and sitting in my own stink during the downtime.
  • I wrote what I think is a halfway decent short story on Saturday. I’m submitting it to NPR’s Three-Minute Fiction competition. Even if it goes nowhere, I think I’ve found a format (very short) that might work for me. I’ve got other story ideas percolating, which is always a good sign. So I’m not quite ready to give up on writing fiction, despite my many abortive attempts over the years.
  • I spent a few hours today out in our neglected garden. I have not touched it in about three years, so it’s a real mess. But those perennials have been busy. I have three times as many plants as I remember (I did lots of dividing and replanting) and my little Helleborus plant has, after four years, finally flowered. The incredibly expensive Solomon’s Seal that I bought at the Bronx Botanical Garden five years ago is also going like gangbusters — I think we’ll actually have a bonafide patch of the stuff this year. And the fern varietals section looks like something out of Alien.

It’s 70F and sunny out and I’m typing this from my front step while my cat lounges on the warm pavement in front of me. The love of my life is upstairs working, but soon to close our office door and make an appearance to join me in a glass of wine. Fuck. I have a good life.

* Some recent examples:
Am I Wry? No by Mew
One With the Freaks by The Notwist
Threads by This Will Destroy You

Reese Ruhpoort: NYRR Scootluhnd Tin Kee Roon!

I’m tempted to write this entire post in the voice of Groundskeeper Willie, but that’s too much work. So I’ll limit the ridiculous accent to the title.

Jesus God, how this race sucked. I don’t know what went wrong today. It wasn’t a terrible race, but it wasn’t particularly good either. I just had zero speed after the first mile, which was just barely under 7:00.

Wednesday’s track session went very well and I felt fine this morning. I did a three mile warmup in the park and started to have some inklings that all was not well. It was sunny, humid and getting warm. I hate all of these racing conditions. I am a cold weather racer, my best racing weather being just above freezing real feel.

I’d deliberately left my heart rate monitor at home, since not only has it been acting up lately but I also tend to look at it during warmup miles and get freaked out by how high the HR% is. I knew the heat would just push it higher and do more of a mental job than usual today.

I did a couple of strides off on a side path and, boy, did those feel slow. They were probably in the high 6:50s, whereas I typically do some around 6:00 or below during race warmups. Ugh.

It was also a giant race. Or, at least giant compared to last week’s diminutive field of around 2,500. Today’s field was a couple hundred sweating bodies short of 8,000. While I was jogging around, I spotted Joe and gave a wave. Joe would go on to get third in his AG. Go, Joe!

I also spotted a blogger with whom I’ve been exchanging amusing emails with for the past week, Ellen Jovin, another 44 year old racer. I “stole” her AG award last week. She paid me back today by beating me by 10 seconds. We chatted as we passed each other on the way to our respective corrals.

And about those corrals: I was in red again; Ellen was in yellow today. Neither of our bettered paces from last week were reflected on our bibs today. I guess there’s a lag time in getting the credit. Still, it was an annoying discovery.

Two fun observations: First, the NYRR announcer needs a geography lesson, or at least help with pronunciation. They were raffling off a trip to “Edinberg.” I have no idea where that is, but it ain’t in Scotland. Second, there was a band playing Scottish music. I swear, for the first hour I was there warming up, every time they announced the name of the band I heard it as “Whiskey Piss.” I thought, well, that’s a little cheeky. But edgy, I guess. Almost Irish! Then I figured out it’s “Whiskey Kiss.” I like the first band name better. Either way, the music was frantic and repetitive enough to bring on a psychotic episode. That was the last thing I needed today.

So, anyway — boring race bits: The horn blows and the clusterfuck that is Corral Two lumbers forward. We’re moving at 7:30 and I’m already giving up on a good race time today. I’m thirsty already and yet, paradoxically, I have to pee. Jesus, why did I decide to do this?

But by the half mile mark things are opening up and I see my average pace is in the high 6:50s. I know the first few miles of this course are tough — with mile 4 being the worst. I’d gone in thinking I’d be happy to make low 7:00s for the first two-thirds. I was on track for the first few:

Mile 1: 6:57

Mile 2: 7:05

Mile 3: 7:13

The big Harlem Hills killed me, just like in the Mini 10K two years ago — in fact my splits are nearly identical to that race — and Mile 4 is an abyssmal 7:44.

Okay. I accept that and move on. I hope I can regain low 7:00s for the last two. But it’s not to be. My legs are shot. I’m hot and my head hurts.

Mile 5: 7:12

Just past Mile 5 a perky Front Runner zips past me and yells, “I love your shoes!” From the blur of her feet, I can just make out that she’s wearing the same model: unisex Asics HyperSpeed 3s. I grunt in appreciation and shoe solidarity.

Mile 6: 7:34

That damned last mile around the bottom of the park is always so sneaky. It seems downhill, but it’s actually comprised primarily of a gradual uphill grade.

Then the last .2 miles, which really is a hill. I pass a guy who sounds like he’s in need of a defibrillator. A crazed iPod wearer elbows me in the shoulder as he muscles past. I witnessed him call someone else an asshole earlier on. Please, let this ghoulish nightmare end.

Net time: 45:26

16th in my AG, 71.3% AG (ouch) and 123rd woman. Much more competitive this week!

Since I’m now racing at least twice a month, if not more, a cruddy race was bound to happen eventually. I have no idea why I was so slow today, but I’m guessing it was the suddenly warmer temps and highish (80%) humidity. Warm weather is my racing Kryptonite.

Onward to next week, when I take on the Scarsdale 15K.


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