Updates since February 24.

I honestly did not realize that It had been so long since I'd written a normal "Weekly Update" post.

The last month and a half have led to somewhat sporadic training and posting on my part. In the two weeks following my update to February 24, I ran 85 miles and climbed a bit over 10000 feet. Then I headed off to England for a week and a half.

I didn't run a step in England (purposefully). I decided before I left that, rather than worry overly much about running as a workout. Rather, I would only run if I felt it would add to the experience rather than taking away from it. I had hoped to run a fell race the day after I got there, but was far too jet-lagged to even think about it. Through the remainder of the trip, I was walking around and touring enough that I didn't feel the need to run at all. The only running I did the whole trip was sprinting through the Heathrow Airport after almost getting bumped off our transatlantic flight.

Really, how exactly is it legal to overbook a flight across the Atlantic?

In any case, I probably walked 20+ miles that week, so I don't feel like I destroyed my fitness by not running while I was over there.

It's the weeks since that I feel have messed me up. I haven't been able to run much more than 30 miles in a week since I got back. The first week I was back I hit 29 miles and 5600 feet during the 5 weekdays, but then didn't manage a long run on Easter Sunday. The next week I similarly hit 30+ miles on the first 5 days and 6000+ feet of elevation.

The 6000 feet that week came from 4 trips up Mt Sanitas here in Boulder. Early in the week, I had planned to run it 5 times that week. I ended up deciding instead to head to the BRC Wednesday night run that week.

The next week I spent in Massachusetts for work. The hotels I stayed in were not precisely conducive to running outside, in general. However, I did manage to get one good trail run in on the first Tuesday I was out there. I will write that one up over on the 13 project under new run #4. That Sunday I ran 15 miles on the roads around Fall River and Westport. I shocked myself by running 7:15 pace for the full time, with a few sub-7s thrown in for good measure, on an easy run.

Despite my inconsistent training, it seems that I must be doing something correctly in my training for 15 miles to feel that easy.

Monday, April 15, 2013 we will all no doubt be remembering for a very long time. I wrote about it already, but I have no desire to write further on it at the moment.

I got home late Tuesday night. Wednesday I went on the Run for Boston put on by the BRC, and on Friday ran Sanitas again.

Today I felt solid, so I headed out on the Mesa trail for a double crossing.

I had forgotten, though, that it had snowed 2 1/2 feet in the past two weeks, followed by several days of sunny, breezy, warm weather. Simply put: Mesa was a mud trap. I felt good enough at the start that I thought I might be able to pull out a PR, but with the slop and mud, that was not to be. I still managed to hit a PR on Strava, and ran into my friend Chris in the meantime.

While I have not been able to really train like I would prefer, I'm feeling fast. My real concern, though, is that I have not been able to get the mileage in that I really want to. I have had no long runs over 16 miles or so yet this year, and I don't know that I have enough endurance to pull off my first 50k in a matter of weeks.

I hope to get a bit of extra speed work in on May 5th by running the Louisville Half Marathon (assuming of course I recover from my current cold soon enough), and will try to train through it by running the 11 mile Flagstaff loop the following day. Whether or not that works, I'll try and run a 20+ mile run the next weekend. If I can do that, I'll feel significantly more confident about my 50k. If not, well, I'll get through the 50k and treat it as a fun, long, supported training run.

Thoughts from Boston

After the events of yesterday, I feel the need to capture a glimpse of what is going through my mind.

As I write this, I am sitting in Boston Logan Airport. 23 hours and 48 minutes after the bombings at the Boston Marathon finish line. All around me, I see the blue and yellow jackets and shirts of Boston finishers, occasionally punctuated by the flash of a finisher’s medal catching the light.

I have never seen so many runners in one place outside of an actual race course. And I have never seen such a forlorn, subdued group of race finishers.

The blue and yellow of the runners is counterpointed by the blue and black of the TSA officers, and the darker blue of air marshals, who are out in force today. Despite this, the security line was nonexistent and, aside from checking to make sure my tools were less than 6 inches long (what does that do, exactly?), I flew through the tightened security in a matter of seconds.

Before I get any further, let me say that I did not run the marathon yesterday. I am in Massachusetts for work, and just so happened to be in Boston yesterday on Boston Monday. I had tried several times to arrange a way to be at the finish line and watch the runners come in. Frustratingly, at the time, that was not possible: there was too much work to do and we had to go by our customers’ schedule.

So it happened that, at three o’clock yesterday afternoon, just under 24 hours ago now, my coworker and I walked into a bar in Dorchester and sat down for a late lunch. Almost the second we sat down, the TV screens lit up with news of two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, just a few miles away.

I would say it didn’t register at first, but it did. It registered that something horrible had happened. It registered immediately that the sport I love, something I have always seen bringing people together peacefully, had been attacked. It registered that I should be worried, and was terribly worried, about the numerous people I knew running and watching the race that day. I registered the sirens of emergency vehicles that were lighting up the city.

Of course it didn’t register that people might be concerned about me. I had lobbied hard to get some time to watch the finish, and as far as many people knew, I was as good as there.  When I finally realized that, after some questions on Facebook to that effect, of course the cell network was swamped, or shut down, depending on who you ask. I tried without success to reach my girlfriend, who was in class in Colorado at the time. I sent texts and email to my family and close friends assuring them I was ok.

Then I jumped back on my phone, looking for updates on my friends.

All the time, I was bombarded by images from the TV. I’m sure by now most of you have seen them: the first blast knocking over a 78 year old runner, who was lifted to his feet by a volunteer; the second blast pouring more smoke and flame into the street, setting of screams as people ran, some away from the blast, but a remarkable number towards the blast. I remember the images of blood pools, not stains, but pools, in the streets of Boston. And I remember the image I can’t unsee, of a man, wheeled away in a wheel chair, clearly in shock, with nothing remaining of his legs below the knee but a fully exposed bone on his left side.

But I remember the other images as well. I remember the incredible number of people who ran, not away, but towards the blast area, tearing through barriers and rendering whatever assistance they could. I remember runners heading straight across the finish line, when most feel they cannot run another step, and running straight on to the hospitals to donate blood. I remember the inquiries of friends making sure everybody they know in the area is ok.

I only had a short time, not enough to begin to process the events, before I had to move on to the next site on our list for the day (a young Vietnamese family, where the mother didn’t look up from texting on her phone other than to help us find a light switch or three). Then it was on to the next site: on Beacon Street, the marathon course: completely empty save for emergency vehicles rushing back and forth.

The weight of events, the emotional nature of the day, only caught up to me late last night, when I finally checked into my hotel. I would get, and still am getting, flashes of pure emotion where I feel like I’m going to sob: something precious to me was attacked in the most vile and cowardly way I can imagine. Something of the innocence of running was lost yesterday, and that hurts me more than I can say.

An 8 year old boy, waiting for his father to cross the finish line, died.

Runners and spectators alike lost life and limb, quite literally. Some will never run again, or at least not on their own two feet.

But I see something else: runners are a community. We are a group of people, the world over, who help each other. When somebody falls during a race, inevitably multiple others will stop, spending precious seconds of a time they’ve worked towards for weeks, months, or years, and offer them whatever assistance they can. At mile 27 of a marathon, a time when they are physically and mentally spent, they will sprint towards danger to help people they don’t know.

Anybody looking on Facebook, or any news channel, today will know how the running community is facing this tragedy. There is no division. There is no sense of giving up. There is no other option but to keep running.

There never is.

Updates coming!

I realize I have not updated in a while. I headed off to England for a week and a half, was back for a couple weeks, and headed back out for work for another week and a half.

I promise I will have updates as soon as I have a chance to catch my breath. Things are happening.