Necessary Worry

(This piece is for my book-in-progress titled See How We Run: Best Writings from 25 Years of Running Commentary. I am posting an excerpt here each week, this one from April 1999.)

You never know how a marathon will go. After about four dozen of these races, in four different decades, you’d think I would know. But I was no more comfortable facing the unknown this time than anytime before.

As I boarded the yellow school bus that would carry runners to the start of the Las Vegas Marathon, a tall Latino man of maybe 30 stood up and let me squeeze into the window seat. I could hear him worrying that his long legs would cramp, and he wanted to stretch them into the aisle. I got him to talking so he would fret less.

He introduced himself as Manuel and said, “I ran a 3:45 marathon in December and am shooting for 3:15 today.” No wonder he looked scared.

We arrived at the starting line two hours before race time. Manuel bolted from the bus, as did most of the other adrenaline-overdosed passengers.

Shadowy figures warmed up on the desert road. Lines formed at the porta-potty forest. I stayed on the bus, reading a book I’d carried just for this purpose. This didn’t mean I had no worries, only that I’d learned not to let the fear start me running two hours before race time.

Little was at stake for me here. I’d run this far dozens of times before, and had no time goal today. Still, I suffered from PMS – pre-marathon syndrome.

In the last week before the race every little twinge in my legs and tickle in my throat magnified. This defines PMS.

But my current problem started much earlier. A hip-groin injury popped up during my longest training run and almost crippled me late in those three hours. Otherwise I’d felt quite spunky in the long run.

I decided to enter the marathon despite the injury, hoping that three weeks of babying it would bring relief. They didn’t. Even while running nothing longer than an hour, and usually only half that long, my left side didn’t feel anywhere close to right.

Early sleep the night before the marathon didn’t come as hoped. At bedtime I called home for messages. Son Eric answered with news that our dog, my running partner Mingo, had disappeared and now had been gone for more than a day.

We guessed that he was now injured or worse. Sleep came grudgingly with Mingo’s fate added to the marathon uncertainties.

At 2:30, I came awake with a oddly comforting thought: Mingo is either alive or not, and it’s already decided. I can’t do anything about it now. (He would reappear later at the city pound, traumatized but otherwise okay.)

Same with my run. Whether I finished it or not was already determined by what I’d done to and for my hip and groin in the past few weeks. It was too late to change anything.

All I could do now was go out and learn what this day’s answers would be. This attitude adopted, I fell into my best sleep of the short night.

Worries came back with the predawn wakeup call, of course. But riding to the start with more-worried runners proved therapeutic. About two days later, or so it seemed, the race started. My worries soon ended. The hip-groin problem melted away in the first half-hour, leaving the normal challenges of a marathon that were tall enough.

Afterward I was left hoping no cure is ever found for pre-marathon syndrome. It’s a necessary part of the experience – the mind’s way of getting the body ready for what lies ahead.

UPDATE FROM 2014

The worries all came back full force before my latest marathon. Yakima River Canyon 2014 represented a set of firsts for me – first marathon since cancer treatment (in 2008), first one of my 70s and first attempt at walking most of this distance.

Walking is easier than running, of course. But walking a marathon isn’t easy because it takes so much longer. I worried my way to the start, which helped me finish.

[Hundreds of previous articles, dating back to 1998, can be found at joehenderson.com/archive/. Many books of mine, old and recent, are now available in  as many as three different formats: (1) in print from Amazon.com; (2) as e-books from Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com; (3) as PDFs for e-reader devices and apps, from Lulu.com. Latest released was Going Far. Other titles: Home Runs, Joe’s Journal, Joe’s Team, Learning to Walk, Long Run Solution, Long Slow Distance, Marathon Training, Run Right Now, Run Right Now Training Log, and Starting Lines, plus Rich Englehart’s book about me, Slow Joe.]

Just Rewards

(This piece is for my book-in-progress titled See How We Run: Best Writings from 25 Years of Running Commentary. I am posting an excerpt here each week, this one from March 1999.)

Ask runners why they choose to enter a particular race, and the type of awards will appear far down the list of reasons. Or at least this isn’t a big concern to any but the elite who compete for monetary prizes. Most of us look first at the location and tradition of the event, size of the field and speed of the course.

But if awards don’t rank high among the reasons to run a race, they stand at or near the top among ways to remember it. While writing today, I wear a shirt from the 1995 Victoria Marathon.

Near my desk hangs a medal from the George Sheehan Classic of 1994. In a box across the room sits a collection of race prizes, including a seashell necklace from the 1992 Honolulu Marathon.

And, oh yes, upstairs in a drawer sit more T-shirts than I can count. I give old ones away when the drawer overflows, but the remaining number is still impressive.

Each shirt represents a race completed. The harder the race, the longer I keep the shirt that recalls this effort. Marathon shirts are always the last to go.

The T-shirt has come to be the most common way to reward runners in the U.S. Often it is the only way. I don’t recall exactly when this tradition started, but do know that it is unlikely ever to end.

A few runners complain that they already own too many T-shirts and don’t need to pay for another. A few races offer a reduced entry fee for runners who don’t choose to take a shirt.

But the vast majority of American races award these shirts because runners demand them. The shirt is the runner’s way of saying during later training runs or trips to the grocery story, “Look what I accomplished.” Race sponsors like the shirts too because they’re a highly visible and long-lasting form of advertising.

So the T-shirt is here to stay. But the more creative events practice variations on this theme. Some step away from the usual short-sleeved shirt by offering long sleeves or singlets, or occasionally even a sweatshirt for winter running.

Some shirts become works of art. Runner’s World conducts a yearly contest for the best T-shirt designs. Runners have been known to sew their favorite shirts together to make quilts.

Few races dare operate without shirts. However, many also give additional awards.

The Hospital Hill Run in Kansas City hands out running shorts. The Honolulu Marathon presents its shell necklaces or pottery medals. The Okanagan International race awards half a medal to its half-marathoners.

Most events give some type of medal or certificate to all finishers. A cherished medal of mine is the one from the Sheehan Classic, with a likeness of the late doctor-writer on one side and a saying of his on the other. I also have special fondness for the certificate from my first marathon, Boston 1967.

These awards come with the runners’ entry fees. Other mementos may be purchased at race expos.

These range from jackets and hats, to drinking mugs, to personal photos along the course or at the finish. They all help keep memories of the race alive. But souvenirs that can be bought never quite match the value of prizes that must be earned.

UPDATE FROM 2014

This morning I ran in a shirt from the Victoria Marathon, a recent replacement for one earned long ago and worn to tatters. Now I write in a shirt from the Eugene Marathon, which I’ve never run, to celebrate the victories of runners I have coached there.

The only medal now hanging in my office is the one mentioned in this column, from the first George Sheehan memorial race. Inscribed on one side are his words, “Winning is never having to say I quit.”

[Hundreds of previous articles, dating back to 1998, can be found at joehenderson.com/archive/. Many books of mine, old and recent, are now available in  as many as three different formats: (1) in print from Amazon.com; (2) as e-books from Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com; (3) as PDFs for e-reader devices and apps, from Lulu.com. Latest released was Going Far. Other titles: Home Runs, Joe’s Journal, Joe’s Team, Learning to Walk, Long Run Solution, Long Slow Distance, Marathon Training, Run Right Now, Run Right Now Training Log, and Starting Lines, plus Rich Englehart’s book about me, Slow Joe.]

Giving Back

(This piece is for my book-in-progress titled See How We Run: Best Writings from 25 Years of Running Commentary. I am posting an excerpt here each week, this one from March 1999.)

One of the great strengths of American running is also one of its subtle weaknesses. We rarely suffer a shortage of runners willing to go any distance, anywhere there is a race that weekend. We often suffer from a shortage of workers willing to help conduct the races.

In this sport we are a nation of doers, not viewers. We would rather run in a race ourselves than watch others run it, now matter how fast they are and how slow we are.

Few events here are in danger of disappearing for lack of entrants. Many must limit their fields by setting maximum numbers (New York City and Chicago Marathons) or by imposing qualifying times (Boston Marathon).

The demand for space at starting lines is high and growing higher. The demand for volunteer workers grows too, and the supply remains short.

Race directors – who usually are volunteers themselves – forever beg for help. They never seem to have quite enough of it on race day.

The volunteers give up a weekend day to stand shivering in the cold or baking in the sun, delivering the aid that runners demand. For this the workers usually receive no more than a free T-shirt.

I often go to races as a guest of the directors. This lets me follow them through their race day, which usually begins after a sleepless night for them. They and their support troops arrive before the first runner, and stay long after the last one goes home.

Watching the start area come together, seeing the course from the standpoint of the workers, then observing the finish-line cleanup is something every runner should experience at least once. It tells several truths about this sport:

– Running the race may be one of the easiest tasks that day. At least it takes much less time than the scene-setting work that makes the running possible.

– Runners are abundant, and each has only one job to perform – running his or her own race. Workers are scarce, and each often does multiple jobs.

– Runners as a group are quick to complain and slow to compliment these workers. They hear little or nothing from the 99 percent of runners who go home happy, but hear much from the one percent who are not pleased.

The least we can do as runners is to say more thank-yous. Let the volunteers, those too often invisible heroes of the sport, know that we appreciate them.

The best we can do is to give back to the sport by serving as volunteers ourselves. Set aside an occasional race to stand and deliver assistance to the runners.

Christian churches promote the concept of the tithe, or giving one-tenth of one’s earnings to the church. Runners of all religions, or none, would do well to practice a form of tithing.

For every 10 races we run, we might agree to work at one. Hand out the race packets, work at an aid station, direct the traffic, read the splits, award the winners, assist the ill and injured, distribute the food.

Doing this would help a sport that is always long on runners and short on helpers. It would also help us to be slower with complaints and quicker with compliments when next we run a race.

UPDATE FROM 2014

My running in races has fallen off from a few a year in 1999 to one every few years now. But I’ve compensated by standing and watching more often.

Usually I’m there as a coach, which doesn’t count as volunteerism because I’m paid modestly for being there. Occasionally I truly volunteer.

The most humorous role was at a recent marathon (unnamed here to protect the guilty). I drove with friends to the halfway point, where no official was turning the runners around. We set out cones, which had been dumped beside the road, and became course monitors.

At another race, I volunteered to print out individual results for runners at the finish line. Best job ever – giving them proof of what they’d just earned.

[Hundreds of previous articles, dating back to 1998, can be found at joehenderson.com/archive/. Many books of mine, old and recent, are now available in  as many as three different formats: (1) in print from Amazon.com; (2) as e-books from Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com; (3) as PDFs for e-reader devices and apps, from Lulu.com. Latest released was Going Far. Other titles: Home Runs, Joe’s Journal, Joe’s Team, Learning to Walk, Long Run Solution, Long Slow Distance, Marathon Training, Run Right Now, Run Right Now Training Log, and Starting Lines, plus Rich Englehart’s book about me, Slow Joe.]

Beginning to Break

(This piece is for my book-in-progress titled See How We Run: Best Writings from 25 Years of Running Commentary. I am posting an excerpt here each week, this one from October 1998.)

My history in ultrarunning is as undistinguished as it is ancient. It includes – all from the early 1970s – one attempt at 100 miles (ended at 70) and two aborted 50s (stopped at 35 and 40). The longest finish was a 50K, in 1970.

My memories of ultras are as good, though, as they are old. Having dabbled in these events, I’ll always appreciate the effort involved for runners who do them often and well. And I’ll always thank an ultrarunner for teaching me to walk.

Tom Osler gave all runners permission to take walking breaks, and showed us how, in his Serious Runners Handbook. I edited this book, but even earlier had experimented with the technique of breaking a big distance into small pieces.

My convincer that run/rest routine worked was a 1971 race in Rocklin, California. The distance was 100 miles, which was farther than I’d ever run in a week, and I now had just one day to finish it.

I didn’t finish but did cover 70 miles. This not only would remain the longest run of my life but also contributed heavily to my biggest week.

This ultra was on a Saturday, and the previous Sunday I’d run a marathon. Token runs on the days in between (I never skipped a day back then) boosted the week’s total 110 miles, or 30 higher than anytime before or since.

Back to the 70-mile day: I wasn’t terribly tired – or sore – at that distance. But I’d already been on the road for 14 hours, it was two o’clock in the morning, no one else was visible, and I didn’t see much point in running more laps on the 2½-mile road course.

When I told the lap-scorer of my impending dropout, he said, “What do you mean you’re quitting? You only have 30 miles to go!”

That 30 would have nearly matched my longest previous run. But even as this abbreviated “100” was a failure in one sense, it was an eye-popper in other ways. Most obviously this was double my longest non-stop distance, plus another six miles.

This longest run ever was also my first use of intentional resting along the way. The term “walk breaks” doesn’t work here, because these were full STOPS that averaged about one minute for each mile run.

In the early 1970s, I still had the misguided idea that running every step was required. So I just milled around for a few minutes during these breaks, then started exactly at the leaving-off point.

Recovery from these 70 miles was quicker than I’d ever known it after conventional runs of less than half this distance. Lost sleep was more of a problem the next day than sore feet and legs.

The running pace had held up much better than it would have in a non-stop run. It averaged about 7:30, or less than a minute per mile slower than my marathon the week before.

This experience made me a lasting believer in breaks. It led eventually, thanks to Tom Osler’s influence, to the run/walks that I now promote and practice at small fractions of ultradistances.

I never tried to clear up the unfinished business of that 100-mile race. Marathons are my upper limit now, and I’m still putting the old lessons to work in these mini-ultras.

UPDATE FROM 2014

Advancing age and declining energy conspired over the years to decrease the length of my run segments and to increase the frequency of my walk breaks. In 2013, as I turned 70, the balance finally tipped from run/walk to walk/run.

That year I took my longest pure walk ever – five hours in a Relay for Life that celebrated five years since prostate-cancer diagnosis and treatment. In 2014, I trained for and completed my first marathon as a (mostly) walker, in 6-1/2 hours.

[Hundreds of previous articles, dating back to 1998, can be found at joehenderson.com/archive/. Many books of mine, old and recent, are now available in  as many as three different formats: (1) in print from Amazon.com; (2) as e-books from Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com; (3) as PDFs for e-reader devices and apps, from Lulu.com. Latest released was Going Far. Other titles: Home Runs, Joe’s Journal, Joe’s Team, Learning to Walk, Long Run Solution, Long Slow Distance, Marathon Training, Run Right Now, Run Right Now Training Log, and Starting Lines, plus Rich Englehart’s book about me, Slow Joe.]