Return of the Mack

The One Man Returns to Running and Racing...Like An Idiot.

Over a year ago I last posted some foolishness about returning to both blogging and running.  As the line from my new favorite song by the Black Keys goes, " You know me, I had plans but they just disappeared to the back of my mind."  So where have I been this past year, you may ask?  Submerged and adrift in truly dark and shadowy places.  Little Black Submarines indeed.

Still great tech shirts, even if I wasn't crazy about the theme.

As the year progressed we grew ever closer to the re-branded LSC Urban Bourbon Half Marathon.  And true to my obvious predilection for making very, very poor choices in my life, I paid the fee and signed up to run the 13.1 mile race with virtually no training what-so-ever.  Hampered by injuries (non-sports related) and blinded by a cloud of depression (also non-sports related), I found the desire to actually lace up my shoes and run simply did not exist.  Oh, I did make a few half-hearted attempts to run, even pitting myself against a monstrous hill with a terrifying elevation profile when I did so, but I just could not summon the drive, the spirit, or the desire.

As the time for the Urban Bourbon grew near I decided that regardless of what might happen I was going to go through with the run.  I have spent my life pushing myself to extremes and what was one more go at a distance that I have covered countless times in my short running career?  The fact that I'm not getting any younger isn't lost on me, and I had more than one person graciously remind me of that fact, as the date approached and the level of my unpreparedness was painfully obvious; not only to myself but those around me.  And yet damn the torpedoes...

Banded at packet pick up.  Race or Rave?

So on a Friday morning I took myself to packet pick up at Louisville Slugger Field and can say with some certainty that I was underwhelmed by the event that the LSC described as a VIP packet pick up experience.  Outside of the boubon vendor and local running store set-up, there was little else outside of a normal packet pick up: bib and shirt.  Even the obligatory pre-race "goodie bag" had been virtualized; an e-mail link to advertisements and a few mostly uninteresting online discounts from local retailers.

The one glaring difference, however, was the bright orange wrist bands that the packet pick up volunteers required you to put on when claiming your bib.  After verifying your age via picture ID (and no, you can't pick up someone else's packet for them), the volunteer then snapped on an orange band that would allow you access to the post-race event area where there would be (gasp!) alcohol.  What better way to keep out the kiddies than bright orange wrist bands emblazoned with the event's title, a la an all inclusive stay at a cheap Cancun resort.  I found it mildly irritating that I spent the rest of the day running errands, with every person that I came into contact with looking at my wrist and most likely trying to decide if I had just left the hospital or the club.

All that can be said about the weeks and days leading up to the race is that they went from bad to worse; culminating in everything that could have possibly gone wrong, going wrong the day before the race and the morning of.

On a prior early morning run of only 5 miles, I returned home to find myself urinating blood; the result of my perpetual state of dehydration.  So my most excellent plan to super-hydrate myself in the week leading up to race day became three days leading up to race day, then the day before race day, and finally just ending up with me at the starting line hoping that I wasn't going to die from some sort of serious kidney failure.  Not to mention that the entire day and the night before the race I had barely eaten and my planned trip to the store to buy Roctane Gu never materialized.

So I awoke on race day with no real training, dehydrated, and running on empty.  And my morning hadn't started off on a high note.  I apparently turned off my alarm in my sleep and woke up an hour later than my planned 5 A.M. alarm, which resulted in a mad dash to pull myself together, gather my gear, and get out the door.  I stuffed a couple of pieces of toast with peanut butter in my mouth, washed down with ice water (like that small contribution was going to solve my hydration woes) and had to fight back the urge to vomit it right back up.  The only thing that I had done right the night before was charge my Garmin watch and my BlueBuds X wireless headphones.

I made a quick trip to Kroger for fuel for the car and fuel for myself; stopping in to buy some Gatorade G2 for my hydration belt and some Clif Shot Bloks.  By this time I was seriously running behind.  I made a trip by a Starbucks for my pre-race espresso which put me even further behind schedule.  By the time I arrived downtown, found parking, and began putting myself together (filling the hydration belt, pinning on my bib, digging through my backpack and praying that I hadn't forgotten my BodyGlide), I had 20 minutes before the race was to begin.

The over 21 crowd.

As I made my way toward the starting line, I began to feel a little more at ease.  I had made it to the beginning of the race with time to finish my espresso and let myself relax a little before the start.  I began to look for people that I knew from the running community, but I found none.

This race had started to take on the feeling of the very first half that I had ever ran, and I was struck by just how much I felt like I had regressed.  At one point in the not so distant past a half marathon was nothing intimidating.  I was running 15 - 20 miles on a treadmill at work or out on park roads at zero-dark-thirty.  And I had reached a point where I was doing so without the aid of chews, gels, or hydration belts.  But here I was, hydration belt snugly on and...my chews, forgotten in the car in my haste!  And not only that, but I suddenly realized that the foam cushion on one of my earbuds, which keeps them firmly in place, was missing.  So with the clock ticking I began quickly retracing my steps back to the car to find my missing ear cushion.  And with no luck, began rushing back to the starting line - once again forgetting the damn chews in the car.

I hit the crowd at the rear of the starting line just as the national anthem began.  Somehow finding myself nestled squarely between the 2:45 and 3:00 hour pace groups I briefly had a moment to consider how long it would be before the 3:00 hour pace group would pass me.  Then with a side-long glance in the direction of the port-a-potties and a deep sigh it was time to start running.

The run itself was anything but remarkable.  Although I did see my friend Josh in the first mile, who slowed long enough for some quick conversation and then promptly disappeared into the crowd ahead (you can check out Josh's website here).  I cruised along the first 3 miles at an incredibly slow pace, making it to roughly mile 5 1/2 before things started to go wrong.

My "rabbit".  Yes, cancer does suck.

The course wound its way through a section of Cherokee Park that I had never ran before, and the elevation profile should have been a clue as to what was ahead.  By the time I hit the first major hill in Cherokee I was walking.  And that run/walk was going to become a regular theme from there on out.  I knew I was gassing and I needed to focus on someone that was keeping my pace.  I needed a "rabbit" - that person that you chase throughout a race to keep you motivated.  Mine came in the form of a wonderful young lady wearing a decidedly bright orange tee shirt with the words "Cancer Sucks!" inked across the back (be sure to visit cancerisstupid.org).  I would come dangerously close to losing her over the course of the next nearly 8 miles, but in the end I would cross the finish line quite literally at her heels.  So, thank you, mystery Cancer Sucks girl.  I'm not so sure that I could have made it in the time that I did without you.

Just past mile 8 I finally hit the wall.  I had been walking up the hills, running down them and the flats, and walking the water stations.  But I had expended all the juice in the tank and I was empty.  It felt like I had an anchor suddenly attached to me, and any attempt on my part to run felt as though I were moving through molasses.  And I hurt.  Like sharp blades stabbing into the front creases of my hips, each step was painful.  I realized then that the Advil that I had planned to take prior to the run had also been forgotten along with the chews in my car.  Another brilliant oversight on my part for the moment.  I had also been keeping tabs on my pace, and I realized that I was beginning to slow to an average pace that might cause me to not make it to the finish line before it closed.  The specter of my first ever DNF began to loom.  The 2:45 pace group had long since disappeared in the distance, but I was still ahead of the 3:00 group.  I preoccupied myself with constant time and pace calculations as I tried to keep putting one foot in front of the other as rapidly as possible; all the while trying to keep the orange Cancer Sucks tee in my sights.

Today's special: Pain with a side dish of humility.

The next 5K was a mix of pain and focus on moving forward.  I nearly lost Cancer Sucks girl at mile 11 and the 3:00 hour pace group had all passed me laughing and enjoying their run for which I secretly begrudged them, all the while chastising myself for not having given the attention to training that I should have.

At mile 12 I could see Cancer Sucks girl again and began driving forward to catch up with her.  I knew that I could most likely drive and overtake her before the finish line, but, as odd as it may sound, it seemed disrespectful somehow.  Considering that I had used her as a focal point for a significant portion of the race, she seemed entitled to finish ahead of me.  Which is precisely what happened.

It was in the last half mile that I decided to dig deep and at least cross the finish line running.  It took everything that I had to make that push, but I came in running (or some semblance thereof).  I even crossed the finish line right on the heels of Cancer Sucks girl, just as I had predicted.  You can see the orange sleeve of her shirt in the picture to the right, just as I'm crossing the finish line.  Final time: 03:11:42.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Pic shamelessly ripped from LSC's Facebook page.

Once I collected my silly bourbon bottle shaped medal (Worst. Medal. Ever.), I limped my way to the post-race refreshment area.  Powerade, bagels, and grapes.  A much lighter fare than previous years.  I suppose the LSC officials skimped on the good stuff like chocolate milk and bananas for a larger quantity of alcohol to be served at the limited, adults-only, post-race event.  Either that or I was so damn late getting in that all the good stuff was already gone; although I'm quite positive that was not the case.

Spicy vegetable beef soup.  AKA burgoo.

The post-race event was lack luster.  There was a table selling orange bracelets to allow you into the event for $10 US.  However, I saw no one checking bracelets and am very certain that they were only really necessary for the bourbon tasting in the Evan Williams tent (5 drink maximum by-the-way).  I also wondered what runners whose loved ones would meet them at the finish line would do, if some of those loved ones proved to be under the ripe old age of 21.  Would they have been banned from partaking in the pizza, burgoo, and post-race enthusiasm?

I opted for a slice of pizza and some burgoo.  I've never had burgoo and can only say that it is basically spicy vegetable beef soup.  The spice I could have done without and I can not see myself becoming a patron of burgoo chefs anytime in the foreseeable (or unforeseeable as the case may be) future.

And so with my limited post-race meal, I walked back to the car, which I had tactically parked in a garage directly below the post-race venue.  All the while looking for that one single earbud cushion that I know just had to have fallen off somewhere along the way to the starting line.

And so there you have it.  My 2014 Urban Bourbon Half experience.  Although I can say that I am disappointed in my performance, I am absolutely to blame for my own lack of motivation and interest in really training to cover the half-marathon distance with any reasonable (key word) amount of preparation and planning.  The only thing that clearly remains intact is my tacit stubbornness, without which I'm sure I would have simply given up and sat out for a DNF.  Good to know that at least the will can still drive the body.

So where does this leave me?  Will I return to more regular running?  Is another full marathon in my future?  Where has the One Man been and where will he be off to now?  Stay tuned for the (possible) answer to these and many more questions.  But until then, here is a nice music video from 1996 by the troubled Mark Morrison to herald my return.

END NOTES (Post race thoughts):

Initially ran in 2011, the Louisville Sports Commission Half Marathon was a fun, fast, relatively flat, and scenic race that began in downtown Louisville, wound through Cherokee Park, and made its way back to Main Street.  I have ran the LSC each of the years since its inception and have truly enjoyed each experience (even the 2012 race that left runners chilled and soaked).

But then the Louisville Sports Commission announced the "re-branding" of this relatively new annual half to the "Urban Bourbon Half  Marathon".  In a media advisory e-mailed to runners, the LSC stated that the re-branding was intended to deliver a unique experience for runners.  Karl Schmitt, LSC's executive director was quoted as saying, "People who run and walk in half marathons are looking for destination events that deliver high-level experiences with cool themes."  High level experiences with cool themes, huh?  Does the Sports Commission seriously think that linking the race to alcohol is going to provide that "high level" experience?  I can't help but think that a trip to a Derby Beer Garden for the LSC officials must be like a trip to Disney World.

Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not a neo-prohibitionist by any means as I certainly imbibe on a rare occasion.  However, I do think that the LSC has made two very terrible mistakes in this decision to give the LSC Half a new bourbon theme, aimed at an "adult" crowd.

The first mistake is obvious, and that is making the focus of the race about alcohol.  Most of the runners that I know are fitness conscious individuals who are more attentive than most of the population to their overall health and wellness.  Those who signed up for and ultimately ran this half marathon did not do so because the finish line was in front of the Evan Williams Bourbon Experience.  They were not drawn by the lure of free bourbon tasting or by the opportunity to mingle with the over 21 crowd; as though the post race area was suddenly some Saturday morning pseudo Fourth Street Live, albeit with a more fit and somewhat sweatier crowd.  They showed up and ran for the love of running, or to race, or to simply test themselves, or any combination thereof.

The second mistake was limiting participation in the race to those 21 years of age and older.  LSC stated that 95 percent of the participants in the previous years have been 21 or older.  But where does that leave the other 5 percent?  I have a firm belief that anyone who is driven enough to put in the training to cover distances such as a half or a full marathon, regardless of age, should have the opportunity to run.  Limit the access to the alcohol in a specific area (which had been done in the past) and allow whomever would like to run to do so.

2014 Urban Bourbon finisher selfie.

Price was also a detractor in this race.  At $75 US to run a half marathon, the return was simply not worth it.  I wonder what the profit margin was for this event and just where those proceeds go.  There are much more enjoyable half marathon races out there for far less cost.

The Louisville Sports Commission began a wonderful thing by listening to what those in the running community wanted, and providing a well organized, enjoyable half in the Fall.  But in their attempt to over-reach, the LSC has lost what made this event great.  Now it is simply an over-priced, less attractive shadow of its former self.  A Derby MiniMarathon wanna-be without the community enthusiasm or ability to ride the coat tales of festival events that surround a world-class sporting event.

I am uncertain if I will participate in this event again next year, which actually saddens me.  But I think that I could find more enjoyable, well established races to spend money on through out the year.

FIN