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coach guido's GPS #5 race reports
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“Montpeculier ” - Part one, and Two June 26th,
2004: GPS #5- race #20 |
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| Give it up
one time for Ken Jacobson, Toughest runner in New England. The Grand
Pr*cks Series "Toughest Runner in New England Championship" is put together every three years by scheduling road races
around New England known not only for their physical challenge but the
mental challenge as well. This schedule is what gives runners of marginal
ability (in the broadest sense of the term) pause for concern. There
are twenty straight races along with bonus races. Although
the twenty race schedule is tough enough, only the most confident can run all
AND the bonus races. Yes, it is a huge sacrifice impacting mind, body,
family and ones budget. Yet that is the price to pay to
compete in the "Toughest Runner in New England Championship". If
it was easy, every skinny assed six minute miler would compete. This
series is what separates tough runners, regardless of their time per mile,
from these six minute lightweights. It takes a lot more than speed to be a
real champion. When the schedule was first posted
there was a sense of shock and awe. Then as one builds in the bonus
races to ensure ones rank as the toughest, the calendar schedule can become
overwhelming: two marathons in five days for example. But (no pun in
tended) the biggest hurdle of the series was the Textile Free race.
This is where the mental, family and monetary challenges gives even the
most grizzled road racer second thoughts. More GPS participants
chose to run/attempt the bonus 50 Kilometer race than to run a 5 mile or
5K nude race. Yet to have a shot at the crown, one must run the
50K, the nude race plus the bonus marathon. Tough! Your dam right!
This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, no fluff 5K series.
The traditional final race of the GPS is 3 hours north of Boston at the state capital of Vermont; Montpelier. The bucolic setting covers over the harsh reality that this is a beast of a course. A ten mile out and back along the Winooski River, gives the series finalists one last challenge and a chance to give a respectful nod to frontrunners as they pass by on the return leg. The second installment of the race coverage/ personal pre-race conditioning the night before at McGillicuddies Bar has to be reviewed by my attorney for potential litigation, sanitized to gloss over the drunken debauchery, sexual innuendo and to protect the innocent. Part Two: My Detox councilor has strongly objected to publishing of the rest of the story. So here is all I can print: [race results] |
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“Two Times ” June 5th,
2004: GPS #5- race #19 |
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| Lets begin with race preparation. For what you do to get mentally ready for a challenge like this is paramount. Race prep began at 5:30pm Friday night when I put my 19 foot power boat in the water at the Weymouth town pier loaded to the gunnels with ice cold Shlitz "The beer that made Milwaukee famous - Just a kiss of the hops". I rendezvous with good friend Kenny Murphy and we're off two hours before low tide. Out past Grape Island, Sheep Island and Hull Gut, we troll between Long Island and Georges Island under a partly cloudy sky with calm waters and make our way to scenic Winthrop harbor to discover no public access. All dock space is privately controlled. On our way out we encounter an armada of five Naval ships entering the harbor. A rather impressive display of Naval might. We angle over to Boston Harbor to watch them dock all this fire power with a great show of navigational skill. It was windy and low speed maneuvers can be a fun to watch. At sunset we find ourselves in front of Old Ironsides for the lowering of the flag and the evening cannon fire. Pretty cool. Drifting over to one of the smaller Navy ships docked at the Coast Guard Station we wave and ask what's up? Training is the reply. Oh sure, 3 weeks before the Democratic National Convention and the Navy just happens to be in town on a training mission... After consuming approximately 120 ounces of malted beverage over five hours the idea of food begins to bubble to the surface. No better place than the Barking Crab. Idling along the waterfront and under the Northern Avenue bridge we raft up with other hungry boaters and settle into our Crab Burgers and Fries. Beer with that? Sure. No moon to guide the craft on the early a.m. trip home we rely on the blinking channel markers and the lights of the Long Island bridge, onto Nut Island and back to Hewitt's Cove, put the boat back on the trailer and home again. Several hours past high tide, sleep was out of the question. I watch the Sunrise and into the car for the trip to the race. I pick up Dave Malliaros and we make it with an hour to spare making it safely past several state police lidar (radar) ambushes. Approaching the turn-off on route 63 to the race I had to admit I was scared sh*tless just looking the mountain and realizing this was the New England Mountain runners championships. What the Christ was I doing here? I can't kneel on my left knee due to some painful ragged ligaments. My right ankle is still swollen and on the mend. I haven't run in months. My tongue was firmly glued to the roof of my mouth, what I needed was another beer and another one of those tasty crab burgers. Fries with that? Sure. I lurch to the post registration table and sign up for this debacle. With a strong RAT attendance the turnout is 126 runners. Actually there were twelve contenders and the rest "the field". Sunny and warm, the Rats were absorbing the latest News of Ken Jacobson's ascent to the Nude Rat Club and GPS #5 point leader. This race is a two loop-er each topping the 900 foot Northfield Mountain, two miles up a narrow, rocky, poison ivy covered hiking trail then onto the gravel fire road for a two mile sprint back down then repeat. I have to admit I did rather well (for me) the first loop and up the second. It was the final sprint back to the finish I had an out of body experience. With nothing left I staggered, schlepped over the whole road width for one and a half miles moaning rather loudly when Sarah Winkley sails past. Then I hear someone moaning louder than me! Hey! It's Gail Martin closing fast and I thought she had a chance to catch Sarah. So here's the two of us "oh and ah-ing" down the trail to the finish with every foot fall. Later I realize Gail sprained her ankle on the course and had full rights to the rather loud performance. 1:37 to finish this 8.4 mile mountain run. For the record: there should be no Course Difficulty Points given for this race. It's a trail race not a road race. [race results] | |||
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“For whom the bell tolls ” May 15th,
2004: GPS #5- race #18 |
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 photo taken by Ted Tyler submitted by M.Quin |
My lifestyle has caught up with me. Remember when it was no big deal to go out and run a decent time in a race? To think nothing of shirking responsibilities and play hard all day and not get hurt? Whatever it was, it felt easy and effortless? Well flip that around and you get the idea of where I'm at right now. Just shoot me. I'm out doing some easy laps around Fresh Pond at lunch the prior week and I guess I overcompensated for the healing fractured right ankle, now my left knee now feels tight like the edges of a big scab, bend it and white hot pain shoots through it. I can't even kneel on it. Cripes! No amount of booze and dope will get me out of this predicament. So I sit here sober, straight and sore. This sucks! I wanna be limber, lit and loaded. One bourbon, one scotch and one beer. I said, Hey! Bar-ten-der! Oops. I digress The race, I'm supposed to be tellin' ya about the race. The Plympton 10K is a nice little race, very well organized and runners should peel off a fast finish time. In fact the majority do. It's easy to get to, with a laid back club like atmosphere amongst the pines of the cape. The race is a memorial to a local runner and a fine tribute to him. This race day the sun is out in force in cloudless sky, quickly pushing the temps into the upper eighties by race time. Dave Malliaros and I arrive early and almost immediately start peeling off the layers. By race time I'm down to just my shorts and sweating. I forgot to bring my camera, but Ted Tyler brought his, check out the pics on the coolunning.com results page for this race. I post-register and get 144. By race time there's close to 200 hundred runners. But this race has a seamy underside to it: The injured runners in back. As we line up at the start I spot others as torn up as me so I'm in good company. I leave Dave Martin: hamstring and Pete Buhl: pneumonia at the start. The first 2 miles I pace off of Tom Micka: gout, at 8:21 and 8:36. Mile three, 8:52, I feel the heat and yap it up with Steve Lanzillotta: sore back, who also is on the mend. Mile four, the heat causes the core temp to rise and the check engine light comes on, 9:52. Mile five I'm a simmering pool of sweat, 10:24, Mile 6, a delirious 10:39 and I close this one at a personal worst for a 10K at 58:46. I quickly find water and ice cold juice in the shade of the covered picnic tables in back. What's the deal? Us runners aren't good enough for the club house? The place is locked up tight. Feeling miserable and not very sociable, I find Dave and we're gone. [race results] | ||
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“Seventeen down, Three to go ” - parts one and two- with results May 8th,
2004: GPS #5- race #17 |
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| In the name of the series, I continue on. The Terminator Series. For me I got a terminal case of self destruct. With less less than 2 months on a healing fractured ankle I'm out here ready to run 5 miles. Some days it feels all right, others?... Today it felt good, so why not get out there and really tear it up? Doc says go ahead and run, but if it hurts stop. OK, I can do that. Dave M. and I make it to the race a hour early, all the more time to check in with the newly anointed bare-*ssed RATS who ran the nude 5K last week in Lake Coumo, FL. RAT Brethren Boutotte, Arruda and first place RAT Mike Menovich. This series isn't about the fastest, its about the most daring! It also doesn't hurt to have deep pockets enough to jet to warmer climes where these races are held. But money shouldn't be an impediment to picking up BIG points in this series. Charge it! So now it's five guys and Gail Martin as the naked RAT crew. Photo-Op? Enough of this, onto the Tribute Race. The day is a flawless spring day, temps in the 60's with brilliant sunshine. Its shorts and t-shirt time. I post register and pass on the long sleeved t-shirt. How about tank top next time? Probably not enough room for advertising. For the uninformed this race is a quiet killer. Two miles up, then another mile up, then two miles straight down past the Wachusett dam ( mile seventeen of the infamous Stu's 30k) and back to the finish. I settle into an 8:30 per mile pace and watch the fun. Every year a passel of grade school kids run this and go out blazing at the start. By mile two their rumps are dragging, walking along the road. It's funny, with the eight minute milers ahead of me and the nine minute milers behind me, I'm pretty much alone most of the race. Mile two Dave Martin passes grumbling "kill me now" and I pass to him and his own torturous quest at mile four downhill past the dam. Sarah Winkley passes soon after then scolds me about my destructive behavior. Gotta finish the series! sheesh! [more when I get the results] Part two: Well, I didn't pay the measly buck to get the results, so guess what? No results. Anyway, to finish this race I watch Sarah get further away but I'm able to maintain my pace. Into town and down the main street back to the finish, only two runners pass me. I finish this race in???? Don't know. Had to miss possibly the best post race party scene EVER for my grandchild's first birthday party.[Race Results] | |||
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“Dream on ” April 10th,
2004: GPS #5- race #16 |
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| Through the Percocet-Paxil-Ephedrine dream haze I was driving towards Upton Mass. The morning of my 48th birthday. The dream was very vivid: The sun rose to a cloudless day, warming fast with a slight breeze. Pulling into the parking lot of the Blackstone regional high school I saw several jaws drop with more than a few swear words muttered. Here I was, come hell or high water, to maintain my place in this competition. A few runners thought my folly would keep me home this day so they could move up in the points. Not so! I post register and look for the race director to tell him I'll be walking this one. He informs me several others are too. Jane Goodman, renaissance woman and Dick Pierce organizer of the classic (read: defunct) Noble and Greenough 5K cross country race. I find that Jane has already started and Dick is ready to go. We amble down to the start line and without any fanfare, we're off. Settling onto a comfortable 13 minute/mile pace we knock off the first 3 miles in 39:43. No sign of the lead runner yet. Well into mile four the first runner passes a full minute ahead of the pack then the rest pass by. Mile seven: 91 minutes. Dick and I solve the worlds problems and enjoy this beautiful spring day. 105 minutes for eight and 2:03 for 9.3 miles. The post race barroom scene was not to be missed. Good friends, fine spirits, and tasty food laid the foundation for discussing the upcoming "final four" races in this amazing series. [race results] | |||
| 3/24/04: Personal update. In the spirit of the Annual "Slide Your Ass Down the Hill" Ski trip: someone had to get hurt. Every year somewhere in New England this Ski trip takes place and every year someone comes up injured. The Locations and the Names are changed to protect the innocent. Well, it was my turn this year, fracturing my tibia above the ankle atop Cannon Mountain. I wish I could say I was racing down some black diamond trail against Eddie "bubbles" Cole, Chad, Jerry Y, Alex, Linda , Mark and Michelle. It happened just getting off the chair-lift at the top. I stood up on my board and slid down the ramp, cut right, caught an edge and fell. POP! oh, that hurt. Thinking it was a sprain I tried to walk it off, but I knew I was in trouble. The Ski Patrol eyeing me as practice, I waived them off dreading the thought of a ride down in a sled and off for an eternity to some east bumf*ck hospital ER. So I rather gingerly boarded down on my off-side and promptly went to the bar for WHISKEY. The next day I was referred AGAIN (another story) to my favorite Orthopedic Surgeon who said "you've really done it this time". Short of ripping my right foot off I managed to break a bone, mangle my tendons on the outside of my ankle, and over-torque the Hamstring "it doesn't break at the knee" doc says "it stretches, really stretches" To make the point he pulls on a nearby trash bag to illustrate. Doc goes on to say "the typical patient this would heal in a short time but an athlete's bone mass and surrounding tissue is more dense..." taking a longer time to heal properly. So I'll have to take a pass at the next GPS race, unless I can get my hands on a racing wheelchair. I've got pictures of the Ski crew, I'll post them as soon as I have some money (another story). | |||
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“Fatique makes cowards of us all ” March 6th,
2004: GPS #5- race #15 |
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Vince Lombardi (another coach) said those words. He wasn't thinking of the Stu's 30K but the words never rang more true. There are road races...and then there's Stu's. Stu's 30K is a road race that defines road racing. Looking back over the history of this race there was a time when a full 20% of the field didn't even finish this monster! DNF! Good thing I didn't know this before I started out on Sunday. But I felt it. I've run this race in the previous two Grand Pricks Series never finishing under 3 hours. The last time I ran it, I was lucky the EMTs didn't scrape me off the pavement in the parking lot after finishing. My legs were in uncontrollable cramps, waves of spasms rolled over each leg in agony, good thing the car windows where up: I was screaming. With this etched on my mind I registered for this race. My pre-race ritual of getting loaded on cheap wine in front of a bonfire eating roasted meat and passing out was tempered by the fact that I'll need to get bombed out of my gourd after running this one to kill the pain. I behaved myself, ate a nice light pasta meal with the family and retired early. Totally uncharacteristic. Not knowing what the weather would be I packed everything the night before. You'd think I was heading off on a weeks vacation somewhere. Hats, coats, gloves, towels, 3 different shorts, five different shirts, sweats You name it. After a restless night I awoke and mustered the courage to get to the race. Totally lost in thought I blow by exit 26 on interstate 495 north and take exit 27 at Bolton to backtrack into Clinton, I wander around lost in Clinton amid abandon warehouses, dilapidated tenements, and long forgotten automobiles: what Dubya Bush would say is an "economically depressed area", till I spot a police cruiser and flag it down. "Hey, can you get me to the road race?" "Follow me" is the reply. Wow, escorted to race! I see the middle school looming ahead on the left and the dread rises up. The cops hit the lights to signal this is the place. I wave and pull in. The sun is shinning, a gentle breeze just a gorgeous day. Entering the gym I immediately spy Hank Gediman, DNF at the DeMar Marathon and missing in action. It is refreshing to see a true runner warrior. Then the truth sets in. What the hell am I doing here? I look at Gediman, Jim Garcia is here ( in street clothes), their up there with other true runners here today whom I've personally met: Mike Menovich, Ken Jacobson, Peter Orni, Peter Wallan, and Paul McDermott. These guys are runners. These guys have HISTORY. They are the very fabric of the New England Running scene. Feeling pretty insignificant, I slink away to prepare. At this point I've already psyched myself out of any hope of running in a time I'm capable of. I get ready parked next to another real runner Will Graustein and I realize I'm way out of my league. Wearing a shell over a long sleeved poly pro shirt, shorts, cotton gloves and ball cap, I keep up the facade of bravado and circle myself with friends Dick Doran, Jim Schneider, Nancy MacDonald, Tommy StraQ and Tom Micka at the starting line. As usual we're in the back of the pack yapping it up when the start gun goes off. Jim sets an 8:30 pace with Tommy, and I quickly fade at mile two when Dick passes , Ray Boutotte and I trade the lead through 5 (43:57) a pace I feel will get me to the finish line. The suns out in force and I heat up quickly shedding the gloves, hat and open the shell. Through ten (1:31, or 47:34 for five) I'm alone with my thoughts, none good. At fourteen (2:11) Sarah Winkley passes me saying "What are you doing back here?" With no good excuse we yap it up briefly when she motors on leaving me alone to consider my fate. I plod on, at mile seventeen (2:42) I feel I can finish, haven't walked yet. Mile eighteen, a dismal twelve minutes, I spy in the distance Dick Doran! I give it everything I got to catch him closing the last 0.6 miles in 5 minutes. I almost catch him as he enters the chute. 2:59:39 With that I'm tickled pink, quickly drive off to the nearest liquor store for a six pack of St. Pauli Girl to wash down the Tylenol with codeine. |
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“A three legged dog goes into a saloon in the old wild west…” February 29th,
2004: GPS #5- race #14 |
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Dogging this nasty cold all week really kicked my butt. This is the first
day I felt human in a week. Coughing up phlegm with my head packed with
cement, doggonnit. Didn’t put in any miles except for 14 last Saturday.
This is the fifth time I’ve run this little puppy of a race and every time it presents a different set of challenges. Rain, snow, cold temperatures, hazardous driving conditions and now a blue tick coon hound named Zeke. A couple of caps of Sudafed dried me out to point where I couldn’t drink enough water to even feel like an old dog bone. I know the course and felt confident I could match my PR set last race in Maine of 81:20. Tim Micka and I ride out together in his plush dog house of a car: an 84 SAAB Turbo. SAABs are near and dear to my heart having owned five of them over the years. We discuss the fine art of cooking hot dogs with beer and we make it there in an hour and a half. We pull in right up front and fall in with the usual suspects. Temps hovering around 50 on this sunny dog day afternoon we’re both over dressed and begin to peel off the winter layers we’re accustomed to wearing. It’s down to shorts and t-shirts. We stroll in to get our numbers: Me 74, Tom 77. Everyone was feeling frisky, ready for the chase: who would finish top rat? I know an Australian terrier would loves rats. For you who haven't run this race, it's not for the faint of heart. It's a 2.5 mile out, a five mile loop then 2.5 miles back. It covers hills over asphalt, mud, and ice. Everyone who ran worth a dog end was splattered in mud at the end. There were showers, no hot water but there were the advertised showers. Bracing! For me the race started slow, suspiciously passing Jim Schneider, Jen Coombs, and Tommy StraQ early on. These sandbaggers blew by at mile eight latter on after they had their fun with me. Felt great till mile eight when after 64 minutes of hacking up bright green phlegm bullets ending my bid for a PR. I coasted the rest of the way till Manny Arruda coasted by at nine, I tried but there was nothing in the tank. Thanks to Dick Doran, I finally finished this bruiser in 84:30. "...The dog sidles up the bar and tells the bar tender "I'm looking for the man who shot my paw" [race results] |
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"Schneider!" February 1st, 2004: GPS #5- race #13 |
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 Belt sander racing action at :"The Sanderdome"
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I've
included several pictures of the Belt Sander Racing action thats
subverting the nation. That's where you would have found me prepping
for this race, guzzling the free Sam Adams October Fest, devouring illicit
(diet wise) pizza and inhaling the atmosphere of this glorious event.
View unofficial New England Belt Sander Racing
Association (NEBSRA)movie (Quicktime). After Derry I was spent. Derry has it's way with you, then kicks you out on the street. I had to take the next day, Monday, off work to recover. I generally was good last week, with the exception of Ski Club (read below) every Thursday night pretty much the same behavior. Sunday morning -race day, I came to in the pre-dawn hours and having packed the night before, I was ready to head north. With Drunkin Blownuts coffee and Cinnamon Bun half in hand and the other in my mouth, I jump onto Interstate 93 North through Boston. The Brand New Tunnel, 14 bazillion bucks worth looked like some freakish ice-sculpture and the traffic down to one lane. Apparently a lot of ground water finds it's way in, freezes the drains and creates these huge walls of ice. I'm half listening to Nation Public Radio and enjoying the sunrise on this clear, warm, 13 degree day. Amen! It took me a little over a two hours to get there. On I-95 North I set the cruise control at 70, everybody passing me, nudge it up to 75, same thing, 80, still being passing by pot smoking Phish heads making their way to the ski areas, 85 and maintaining my place. Got nickel and dimed at the tolls. I even asked one collector about using the Speed Pass many other east coast states allow. "Not in Maine" was the reply. Suns up now, eight o'clock. It's a sin that every strip mall looks the same everywhere you go: CVS, Walgreen's, The junk food peddlers. Where's the bar open at this hour? I get to the High School, its early so I get my choice of parking spots. Temps holding in at 14 degrees. Shorts? Not today, Lycra bicycle shorts under sweat pants, poly-pro shirt, shell, head band and gloves. I pre-registered so I get the shirt, nice one! The RATS huddle around the standings much discussion over surviving Derry and the top thirty five focusing on who's going to go nude. The place fills and soon it's time for the start. The start and finish locations have been tweaked. This year we start at the top and finish behind the school. This race was in the last GP Series and a keeper. Great scenic views for us mobility challenged persons. At one point there's a view of the Atlantic. Sarah Winkley makes it with time to spare having learned her lesson at Norfolk. She skipped Derry in favor of saving herself for some silly pansy Marathon, February 8th. Sheesh. Greg Billington: what's your excuse? Pete Wallan and I are busy ogling the wimmin folk when the start gun goes off. And we're facing the wrong way! So for me here's how it went: The first mile: 7:39, two and three: 16:25, meander in an upward fashion, one rise after another. Miles four and five coast down:15:35, six up, seven down:16:21, eight kinda flat through nine:16:45. then a long mile grinder uphill to the finish: 8:35 for 81:20. The whole last mile, I'm searching uphill in the distance for the turn into the school, I'm hearing a whole lotta huffing, puffing and shuffling behind me and I'm trying to catch the guy in front of me. Finally the turn! The left into the lot and nothing but cones. Where's the finish clock? And Jim Schneider passes me. It takes me a second to recognize him: shoulders back, chest - chin thrust out, arms pumping, rat patches flapping pinned to his took. With my best Jerry Seinfeld imitation of: "Newman", I growl "Schneider" and pass him through the turns down to the invisible finish, he steams past with me hot on his heals. Where's that freakin finish clock! Nowhere in sight. Fifty yards more behind the school. Lesson learned: Never antagonize a RAT...so close to the finish. |
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"Alcohol was involved" January 25th, 2004: GPS #5- race #12 |
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| I gotta admit I snowboard better
than I run. As an avid skier for twenty years and now a snowboarder
for going on six, I run in the "off-season" to stay in shape the
"ski season". To me running is a simple cost effective way
to maintain muscle mass, get an aerobic work out and maintain my
weight. I never really ran more than a 10K prior to being seduced by
Dave Leblanc into running in the Grand Pricks Series #3 in 1997. He
tells me about the Hockomock Swamp Rat and this series of New England's
twenty toughest races. To make a long story short I was swept
away by the whole thing, ran some tough races and made some good friends
along the way. We finished 13 of the twenty races in the Tarzan Brown GPS
#3, Dave moved away and I finished 20 races in the Deerfoot GPS #4, and
good lord willing survive the rest of this series...maybe not.
I was out last Thursday night snowboarding at Wachusett, we call it "ski club", and yes, we were drinking, doing some rather silly stunts when I took several good "crash and burns". At one point the ski patrol caught up to me, helped me to my feet and sent me on my way. Looking back I should have took this as a sign to stop. Without going into details, my knees were toast the Friday morning, Two days from this race. I hobbled around work Friday and knew I was in trouble. Saturday was no better with the little daggers behind the kneecaps kind of pain so I slept and generally didn't move very far with braces on both knees. I've done this before, thats why I have the braces. But not before running SIXTEEN MILES, let alone Derry. Race day morning I'm up and out of the house by 7:30am. Stop at Java Joes (J Joes) in East Milton Square. Gotta support the locals. Get a jumbo coffee and a blueberry muffin. Its -3 degrees and clear. I blast up 93 and make it to to Derry by 8:30am and ask a guy directing the parking if this is where the 5K fun run starts. "Huh?", "Just kidding" I say, totally caught him off guard, "gotcha". Into the Gym I spy Will Graustein, and Pete Wallan, I summarize the details of my nude running adventures with Alexa Gamma. The RATS assemble and everyone is present and accounted for. At the appointed time we reluctantly amble out with much urging by the race director to the start line with temps hovering around ZERO. A nice northwest wind to crisp things up if you thought it wasn't cold enough. Without any fanfare, we're off! I settle in with Wallan, Jim Schneider and Dave Martin till Jim can't take the snails pace and takes off. Dave, Pete and I trade leads through through 8 when Pete takes off. Finally Dave settles into the hill at 10 and leaves me to struggle along. I don't recall much because I "dumb down" and turn inward to maintain a livable rhythm and pace. During this time its effen cold, I choose to wear a fleece vest over my poly-pro shirt and under my shell, light weight sweats, gloves, neck gator and hat all of which is soaked by now with fast freezing sweat. I'm 2:11 at mile fourteen when the knees signal its time to stop. Mile fourteen is a lonely desolate windswept piece of real estate not suitable for a walk at below zero temperatures. So I wage war with myself to finish this little race. Maybe I should have taken this as a sign to stop. Miles fifteen and sixteen were not easy. I survived the hills, the cold, the freezing sweat two miles short of the finish. I seriously considered dropping out. I negotiated a truce with myself by going into "limp home" mode. Cross the finish line at 2:32:51. My best for this course was 2:32:42 in 2002 and I ran this in 2:34:15 in 2003. But this day I was racked with pain at the finish with only the thought of putting a big distance away from this place quickly. I missed the usual top-shelf post race repast but my knees wouldn't have any other way. [race results] |
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"Just shoot me" January 4th, 2004: GPS #5 - Race #11 |
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| I gotta tell ya, the Holidays were
not kind to me. Or rather, I was not kind to the Holidays if you know what
I mean. I over indulged in rich, buttery high fat food and well aged
booze for two weeks straight and
it took a heavy toll this race day. It was a mighty struggle to get
out of bed and stand up straight let alone go run me arse off in competition.
Thanks to the Cape Cod Road Runners I was off the hook. This race
was a "fun run". It still didn't make me feel any better. I also
give thanks to Dave Malliaros for the fine chauffer service to the
race. The weather threatened rain but it held off with overcast
skies with temps hovering in the forties.
Finding this place was easy. Telling someone how to get there took a leap of faith, just get to the Cape over the Bourne bridge, drive down route 28 and it'll be on the right, pond something road to bar something valley . Cute how they have a lane separated by a rumble strip on 28. Anyway, we're get there and everyone was in the New Year happy spirit and I'm barely able to open an eye without damaging some portion of my brain. It feels like my skull is two sizes too small...is that from Dr. Seuss? "two sizes too small"? The Grinch? Well thats how I felt: Grinchy, grumpy, gimpy. effen GOOFY for even being here. Once inside we post-register: Dave and I in line, he gets number 50 and I get number 120, I'm right behind him, what? No need to confuse me any further. I check out the RAT Grand Pricks Series #5 standings to find that darned Paul McDermott fellow tied with me for 16th place, Huh, he's like a demented energizer bunny, here's a guy many a doctor wrote off for dead years ago yet he passed by me at mile 25.5 doing a good clip in his second marathon in five days, grinds it out at Norfolk with a very respectable time and now he's even with me...I'm thinking of doing a little Tanya Harding action on him. Paul, I love ya guy, but not this much. The smell of post race clam chowder wafts through the air and signals my queezy stomach to want to climb right out of my mouth, I stagger back and fall prey to one of Jeff Gould's corny jokes, now I'm bolting for the door with hot bile pulsing through my clenched teeth. "When's this race gonna start"! Everyone drifts to the start line, I attempt a feeble warm up and quickly stop, temples throbbing. I'm about to collapse when Sarah Winkley starts picking on me for wearing gloves, Oh great, now I'm being verbally assaulted. I surrender, take them off, standing there staring at them wondering what I'm going to do with them, Sarah's having a good laugh now. Geez. The race director is speaking in the old Peanuts cartoon kind of voice: wah, wuh, wah, wuh and we're off. I take a few tentative steps and the crowd leaves me behind. For a second I thought I'd just turn up into the parking lot, curl up and die somewhere. All right, all right, I'm going. The first mile and a half is downhill and I realize I can't pick up my feet, kinda shuffling along, mile two is not much better as we weave through some neighborhood streets in a general uphill direction. In the blink of an eye, mile three is past, huh? A guy who's passing me says its short. Praise the Lord! Like a horse sensing the barn is near, I bolt past him, and many others in a rush to get this over with, I wasn't wearing a watch, on purpose, but I tore off two sub seven minute miles uphill in order to stop the torture. 36:54. 4.95 miles according to Nancy MacDonald's Garmin GPS watch. Cool gift Jim. See ya at the MacSchneider New Years Fun Run next year!
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"Guido in Wonderland" December 20th, 2003: GPS #5 - Race #10 |
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| I thought I'd try to get to this race a different way this year. Rather than traveling almost the whole length of the Mass. Turnpike, I went down I-84 and got off in downtown Hartford. Route 44 winds it's way thought Hartford on the way to Norfolk. On the map it looked simple...Well I'm driving around lost, paranoid, hallucinating evil leers from strangers on the streets after getting off 84 in downtown and scarcely 45 minutes to the start of the race when I see Tom Micka behind me in a black four door Saab. I'm thinking: wait- a -minute, he's owns a Saab two door convertible, thats, thats... Pete Buhl's Saab. He's killed Pete and has taken his car! I knew people are desperate to beat the Rat ahead of them, but this! Hartford's a bad town. Evil thoughts lurk down there. I pull up next to Tom and he explains its a customers car. So thats what mechanics do when you drop off your car. Drive it to another state! | |||
| Tom and I turn Route 44 west into our own road course and flog it up to Norfolk: weaving, passing, running lights, littering. We make it with 15 minutes to spare, I'm in street clothes and a mad dash to get changed. I've been in a cozy warm car for neigh on three hours so without getting out of the car, I foolishly dress like Pete Buhl and think I can get away with it. This day the weather is Pure Rat Series: overcast, 28 degrees, windy with blowing snow. The race course surface is ice and packed snow. This course spoken in the same hushed reverence as MT. Madanock pac-10, Shelburne Falls 10K and even the Mt. Washington Road Race! A race course not to be trifled with. But I'm totally out of my comfort zone, no time to prepare for the race, I'm cold: wearing shorts, a light weight poly propylene shirt, Rat GPS #4 singlet, Red Sox hat and cotton gloves, I'm disorientated, Sarah Winkley is nowhere in sight so I don't have my pre-race ritual chat with her, It's starting to snow, I'm looking up this long hill that is the start of the race, it takes on a dreamlike quality, like I'm not really there. The flying wonder woman from Weymouth walks by dressed like the Michelin man in this huge snow suit, People are talking in quiet tones cloistered close together, I see their faces, hear their voices but none connect. There's movement to the start line, then we take off. I feel totally disassociated from the scene, like I'm a bystander looking on, but I'm moving with the pack. | |||
| I never really shake this dreamlike trance, The cold, the ice and snow, the obscene hills, long hamstring snapping grinders uphill, full-on terror quad shredding sprints down long stretches, If you hold back running down hill it's worse, so you must let it rip, flying downhill, praying every footfall doesn't end in a skin slicing crash into the sharp rutted ice on the road and its only mile two! This scene just repeats itself like Bill Murray's "Groundhog Day" where's he's doomed to relive the same day over and over again. But for the runners this day, it's these murderous hills. I see Manny Arruda and Michelin Girl ahead me by a minute. It seems I'm running in place like some loony mime, I just can't gain on them. Into miles eight, nine and ten I've got Tom Stracqualursi and Jennifer Coombs for company. They pull me back to earth and finish the beast of a course in 85 minutes flat. I must say I have the utmost respect for everyone out there this day. This is no fun run, No fluff 5K. This is a deadly serious endeavor akin to hiking Mt. Washington when the weather turns bad. To quote my favorite writer Hunter S. Thompson: "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro". [race results] | |||
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"Don't have a clue" November 30th, 2003: GPS #5 - Race #9 | |||
| "The race is in Framingham" I tell
Dave Malliaros my partner in running crime. "At the High School" I
tell him after a pregnant pause. "OOOKay" he says. And that was
that. I meet him at his house and we have to take two cars cause
he's off to beautiful Sutton, Massachusetts after the race. Where's
the High School?. Having never run this course, we drive off with
the race app in each car hoping the other would know where to go.
Down the pike, off at the Natick exit, onto Route 30, just manage to see
the tiny sign for Route 126 south in time and before we know it we're
entering Natick. Too far on 126. Turn around and back we go. I
see a cop and pull him over. "Union Street"? the cop asks,"
you mean Union Ave". "yeah, where Framingham High School is" I
jabber. "No, The High School is past Route 9 to the north"..."Wait a
minute" I say and run back to the car. I grab the race app, run
back and shove it into the cop car. At this point the cop is
eyeing me rather warily. "Here" I say. He takes the wadded up
race app, pulls it flat enough to decipher its Marion High School
and its down the street on the right. "Thanks", I run back,
jump in my Exploder, jam it drive and Dave in his car right behind me,
pedal to the metal trying to catch up not knowing what just went on.
In my rear view mirror I see the cop jump out of his car to watch us
disappear, wondering what just transpired.
We park in back of the school, go the basement to get our numbers, having registered for this eons ago I get #8. The place is packed and I have to explain why nude running is the way to go...for the points! The RATS bring 60+ runners to this affair and the race director is beaming. Its sunny, in the upper thirties with a light wind. I chose to run in shorts and a T. It seems everyone else was dressed for Siberia, complete with one guy wearing a raccoon fur hat! The course was a typical urban-suburban loop with a little hill thrown in at mile four. I nervously mill around the crowd till I spot Sarah Winkley. She's run this before and fill Dave and I in on what to expect. I troll the crowd and spy Jack Foley, Jim Schneider, Dick Doran and Nancy MacDonald clumped together trying to stay warm. I slip in behind them and wait. Again with the race director thanking the crowd with only twenty or so actually hearing what he said, We clap and we're off! The course drifts downhill for the first mile. I hang in behind Nancy. Where else? I pass Manny Arruda and have no real competition except to pace Nancy for four plus miles when finally Jack Foley shows up to give me a run for the money. Into five he shadows me across the street before he crosses over to do battle in earnest. He's got more in the tank than I do and again he spins past, I try to spoil his fun but he's in the zone. Gone! two others draft in behind him and I coast in at 36:37 (7:11/mile) and a new PR for five. [race results] | |||
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"Your doing what?" November 15th, 2003: GPS #5 - Bonus Race | |||
| I'll lay it out for you, pun
intended. I had the application for the Nifty Fifty 30K bonus race with no
enthusiasm to run it. Running two marathons in a week can have that
effect on you. So it came down to how I could get down to the Paradise Lakes Resort in Lutz
(pronounced lootz) to run a nude bonus race. I surfed the web and
found a great deal on airfare: $280.00 for round trip direct to Orlando
(in hindsight I should have flown into Tampa or St. Petersburg). I
refuse to fly to a destination using connecting flights. Too many
bad experiences. The cheaper airfare might be tempting but don't do
it. Rental car: Thrifty car rental at $23.00 a day. Stay at the
resort for $69.00 (runners special) one night and the same rate at the
Orlando Sheraton Saturday night. $200.00 pocket money. $664 for a weekend
adventure. I flew down Friday afternoon, Ran the race Saturday, and in my
house by 10:30am Sunday morning. Total time in Florida: less than 36
hours. What a hoot - er.
Everything went flawlessly except for the race itself. What to pack wasn't a problem: shorts, GPS #4 shirt, socks, towel. I wore jeans, Hockomock summer series tank top, running shell and socks and my Asics GT2080's. Thats it. I stuffed everything into this tiny Disney kids backpack complete with Mickey Mouse logo we somehow acquired. Laurel dropped me off at the Wollaston T stop of the Red Line just as the train came in. Switch to the Orange line just as the train came in there, one stop to the Blue line as the train came in there, to the bus at the airport as the bus came in there. I made it to the C terminal in 35 minutes from Milton! The morning paper had a story about long security lines but there were none so I was sipping beers waiting an hour and a half for my flight at 3pm. I made it to Orlando at 6:10 caught the terminal shuttle as it was leaving, went out the door to look for the Thrifty shuttle bus just as it was driving by. I was in my rental car on the Bee Line (route 528) by 6:30! One exit west to my favorite Seven Eleven (I've done this many times before) buy a cooler, a bag of ice, cork screw, a bag of the ubiquitous red 16 ounce plastic cups, beef jerky and a bottle of Kendall Jackson Merlot. I was heading west on I-4 drinking chilled twelve dollar Merlot listening to NPR news at 7pm! Great public radio stations in Florida. I get to the resort, they have every thing, Bar, restaurant, hotel, RV park, mobile homes, campsites, condos, timeshare and check in a little after 9pm to find the place packed with...you guessed it, nude people! I make it to my room side stepping around several beautiful pools by the TIKI Bar. Its cool, in the low seventies and the nude party was in full swing, A DJ spinning the tunes and me deciding what to wear! What the heck, I strip down and head out, take five steps past my door, panic and dash back in like a little kid. No way, can't do it. Put my running shorts and GPS #4 shirt and head for the bar. I wade through the crowded dance floor and take position in the back of the rectangular bar with a few locals. I give the cute bartender Andrea thirty bucks and ask for MORE WINE! She blushes (really) and we're pals the rest of the night. At midnight there was a naughty nighty contest with one of the local talent winning a hundred bucks. I guess I haven't been to a bar lately, these people drank like fish! Three bartenders going full out all night to keep 150 naked and nearly naked partiers in the mood. The money, the booze! After the naughty nighty contest with the buck naked dancing, jiggling, bumping, rubbing and grinding getting kicked up a notch, I stumbled off to bed and passed out. Morning came way to early. I wake up...naked, stagger out the door a few steps into the brilliant sunshine to a waiting hot tub and settle in. It was nice until this hairless, I mean hairless, old, I mean old, naked fat man joined me...eeeewww. I bid my adieu, dried off and GOT DRESSED to find breakfast. I was thinking of nothing but coffee, lots of coffee. I walk into the dinning room overlooking the pools to find the most sumptuous buffet breakfast with all the trimmings, crisp white linens, fresh cut flowers, It smelled great. I grab a warm plate and wade in. It wasn't until the third mouth watering Maine blueberry pancake smothered in soft lightly salted butter and hot real Canadian maple syrup after the thick meaty strips of bacon, juicy cubes of cold cantaloupe, pulpy fresh Florida orange juice, strong French roast coffee and moist peppery firm scrambled eggs did I realize I had a nude race in two hours! I snap out of my reverie and realize this won't be a personal best day. But hey! I'm in Florida, it's a beautiful day and I'm surrounded by naked people! I go out to find the start of the race, pick up my shirt and goody bag, and head back to the car. The moment of truth. I take off my shorts and shirt, lock the car and there I am in all my glory, 'cept nobody seems to notice. I figure I've got time to kill so I jog the course. Its warming up fast already in the 80's on this cloudless Saturday morning. The runners start to congregate, everyone in high spirits, many of the 120+ folks are repeats to this twice a year run, spring and fall. A good mix of healthy males and females. No tan lines. At the appointed time we line up for the start. A few words by the organizer and we're off. Perhaps with too much adrenaline I'm in with the top five, one is a petit blond firecracker of a women mixed in with your standard tall lanky type guys and making easy work of this table flat two looper through the complex. At the first mile mark I'm 6:33 and maintaining my place as we weave through the condo's, trailers, RV park around past the Hotel-Restaurant complex. I pass the start and into mile two I heat up: 7:09 and one guy passes me, I dig in, spit flying every which way, stay even and...fade, a few more guys pass and I muster everything I've got in front of the cheering crowd at the finish. 22:35 (7:19s) by my watch. Sweating profusely I do a short cool down and the sun is blistering hot. I cruise over to the car and GET DRESSED. Not pleased with the race but hey! I'm in Florida! Lets Drink! My cooler still has the remains of the wine still on ice and I fill the 16oz. cup. I make my way back to the pool/barbeque/awards to see that woman first place finisher. She's there in the pool, au natural, and I go over to congratulate her, with a jibe and an easy smile she says "what happened to you?". We chat it up as we make our way over to the food. I find out she's a 2:53 marathoner from Daytona Beach here for some fun... Awards are handed out and my cup is empty so I say farewell to the place, make my to the closest wine merchant for a refill and make my way north to visit my step father. After a fine dinner and some gift shopping, I'm headed on the back roads to the Orlando Sheraton. I need to drop off the car and I realize I've got to clean it out so I pull into the rental yard and park as far as you can get from the check in line. Can't take the cooler with me or cork screw, cups or half a bottle of Merlot so I set it all aside. At this point one of the employees sees me back there are walks up. I tell him about the cooler and all. He says he beer drinker but I convince him to finish the bottle with me. So I leave him drinking wine in the yard on this gorgeous warm Florida night and walk back to hotel with a stop at the local Hooters. The girls there we're real interested in my souvenir race shirt. [race results] | |||
 Team guido [file photo] |
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"The tale of two races" November 1st, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #7 November 2nd, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #8 | ||
| After a couple of weeks off from the
series, it was hard to get psyched for the "back to back" race
weekend. It was the best of times: I had been training at my normal
25 miles a week including some speed work. It was the worst of times: With
everything going in my life right now I have had virtually no time to
myself. So with some trepidation Dave Malliaros and I arrive in
Boylston for the first of the two races. Turning onto Route 70
heading the start of the race sent a chill up my spine since this was mile
15 of Stu's 30K coming later in March. Anyone who has run Stu's
knows that after mile 15 the race turns into one elevational terror - as
in monster hills that will crush your spirit and leave you limping in
humiliation. God, what a great race! We pull into the High
School and it's 74 degrees and sunny. Time for clothes
selection. I choose to run with no shirt and my lycra bicycle shorts
- the closets thing to wearing nothing since I will be wearing nothing in
the upcoming Sneaker Streaker, November 15th in Lutz, Florida. I
thought I'd give it a try. The course is cross country, a five mile
two looper in the woods behind the school abutting the Wachusett
Reservoir. Some 65+ Rats are there, and it's time to line up for the
start. With over one hundred running, the race director is ecstatic. I meet up with Sarah Winkley to beg her one last time to come down to Lutz with me, she says "No friggin way! I'd rather run 31 miles in the Nifty Fifty than 3 miles in some nude race." C'est la vie. The race starts and I fall in behind Jack Foley and Nancy MacDonald. Huh? These folks are waay faster than me. I feel good and tag along for the ride. The first mile is downhill and I pass them both thinking their not on their game or something, Jack answers and passes so does Nancy. I fall in behind them again then Nancy passes Jack and I do to. Foley responds and regains some ground. At this point we're edging along the Reservoir on the narrowest of trails, one slip and you'd tumble a good distance down a steep slope to the reservoir. With no room to pass we're 1,2,3: Jack, Nancy and myself. A right turn up a steep slope, Nancy passes Jack, I follow, Nancy slows, I pass her, coming into the school grounds its downhill, Jack passes and so does Nancy. We circle the school grounds. at the halfway point I'm a little over 18 minutes and feeling good. I follow these two back into the woods for the second loop. Again I regain ground and pass Nancy who past Jack we go around the turn around and Jack passes and Nancy does too. I catch Nancy before the reservoir and follow in behind Jack for the narrow path again with Nancy right behind. A right turn back up the hill Jack tries to put some distance, Nancy passes me and I tell Nancy that Jack is done. She churns up that hill like a woman possessed, passes Jack and all I can do is watch in marvel at Nancy's determination. But Jack is having none of this, the downhill back to the finish he pours it on, passes Nancy and all I can do is follow these two warriors. My time was 36:09, A PR that I squarely attribute to Nancy and Jack. I really learned something pacing these two incredible athletes. | ||
 Rafferty's Pub Photos by Paul McDermott |
I had to work in Cambridge the morning before the second race in Marshfield so I fit in 6 hours of work into 4. Little did I know I'd be in a bar fight later. I speed home meet Dave Malliaros and we get to the race, find a spot to park and check out who's who. It's sunny and cool in the low sixties. I notice a lot of RATS limping, plenty of soreness and griping. Then mood turns even uglier. The Rafferty's Pub race is an out and back affair where you run over this hill turn around and run it again. I'm sore/hung over from the day before but game to try a repeat. Nancy MacDonald growls at me, Jack Foley is convinced I'm drugged up on some banned steroid. We all line up at the start. I check in with Sarah Winkley (still won't go with me to Florida), and we're good to go. The race starts and again I hang in behind Nancy. Nancy throws the first punch: we turn in a 6:38 first mile. A 7:09 2nd mile and at this point is were I get my butt kicked. Jim Schneider smashes past me, Nancy in pursuit with Jack Foley elbows flying, I can't answer their speed. At the turn around I catch Jack, he realizes it's me and churns past me like the Tasmanian Devil. I try to take a few swings but can't catch him, then Paul Clark hammers past me, I lunge and pass him but he just tosses me back. And they all cruise away like some brutish pack leaving me there stunned. 7:19 per mile for miles three, four and five. A new PR of 35:43. I don't know if I can handle the folks at this pace. Its an ugly battle out there. [Rafferty's Pub 5 Mile Road Race Results] | |
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"Please, no more rain" October 12th, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #6 | ||
| After two water logged marathons:
close to five hours apiece in the rain, I was not looking forward to
running in the rain again. But rain it did. I mailed in this race
application in months ago and totally forgotten about it till the night
before. Dave Malliaros - twenty "Weight Watcher" pounds slimmer and
spoiling for a fast race - comes over to check in on the progress on our
house (money pit). I had just finished taping the sheet rock and the first
layer of joint compound in the dining room. He asks me about the race but
I couldn't even remember when the race started...or where! I kept calling
it the "Bonny Bell." I drag out the race app and confirm everything so
he's set to ride up with me. The morning of the race is raining lightly
but at least its warm, in the sixties. We head north up Route 93 and jump
off Route 495 and onto River Street right next to the... Merrimack River,
duh. Haverhill is one of those turn of the century factory mill towns long
past its prime but is enjoying a rebound due to the fact that everything
within Route 495 and it's proximity to Boston has high property
values. On Washington Street we find the start of the event, The Lasting
Room, a quaint old time barroom with an industrial theme. The interesting
thing about the bar is the outside decks overlooking the Merrimack River.
To someone who doesn't now anything about Haverhill they might find this
kinda cool (me). | ||
| 200 plus are signed up for this and
its old home week for the RATS. Everyone there embellishing the trails and
tribulations of the previous marathons. The big news was Hank
Gediman. He was DNF at the Demar and had to get a ride to the finish.
Apparently he tore himself up pretty good. First Fred Gladu... now
Hank, casualties of this race series. It was good to see Rick Jones back
running after bout with pneumonia. | ||
| The Bobby Bell race course is not
very challenging, good for some fast times. A simple loop around the
downtown area. A couple off rises here and there with a fast down hill
finish. I really had no idea how I would do, so I dial in my standard
39:59 mantra, under 40 minutes. My back is a jumble of knots due the
stress of battling through two marathons, an audit of the lab I run, "the
money pit" and showing up here. I tell this to Gail Martin and without
hesitation finds the exact spot, the center of the tension between my
shoulder blades. Boom, Yow! She tells me Juniper is good for it and
she has some in her car. God bless her! A little ooze from the tube and a
smear of the stuff to the affected area and I feel it working, plus now I
smell like a Christmas tree! | ||
| We queue up at the start and I find Sarah Winkley for our ritual pre-race conference. This time we're paying attention and get our watches set. The first mile is tentative: 8:08, I feel good so I lean on it a little, a right hand turn into a neighborhood and a rise through mile two: 8:00 minutes flat. Mile three, I feel I've got plenty so I really push: 7:42. It's raining good now and I'm not happy so I really step on it. On the short stuff I guess you could call me a surge type runner: after finding the rhythm I'll run till I max out, back off the pace, recover, then go back at it again, repeat. Mile four another turn and I was 7:30. The last mile I felt good and pulled out all the stops, I was drafting faster runners and keeping up with them for a 7:21 last mile. After thirteen years off running I can honestly say I ran a race with negative splits. Elated at the finish I couldn't wait to change. I turn to see who's coming in and it's Dave Malliaros with a Personal Record of 40:12. Dave and I are firmly mid-pack runners and it's great to finish a race knowing you did your best; me: negative splits and Dave: a PR. Back at the bar there's more food than you can shake a stick at. The free beer is a ticket affair. You receive two tickets with your number, Gail and Dave Martin don't drink and they gave their tickets to me so now I have six tickets! I boast about this to Tom Micka and he pulls out a huge wad of tickets in various colors he's saved over the years. So today it's a red ticket that gets you free beer! Great food, intimate post race party, all in all a good day...in the rain. [Bobby Bell race results] | ||
|
"Five points" October 4th, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Bonus Race | ||
| Five points. That's what you get
when you run two marathons in five days for the Grand Pricks Series # 5. I
get a kick out seeing the reaction of non-runners, (my family mainly),
when I tell them I ran two 26.2 miles races in less than a week. For five
points. You can just see their eyes glaze over in a blank stare. It just
doesn't compute. So I respond: "If I have to explain you wouldn't
understand". This is always followed by a lull in the
conversation. | ||
| The real reason I ran two marathons
in two weeks is because I can't run fast. Hell, you can't even call what I
do running. I guess jogging would be the term. Even running the bonus
races I will just make the top thirty to get the coveted "butt patch"
because the scoring system is set up that faster people get more points.
So why do it? For a little piece of cloth embroidered with a caricature of
a rodent that your supposed to attach to the backside of your shorts? The
answer is because of the people who, like me, are wacky enough to do it. I
can't think of a better group of people. On the outside we're as normal as
can be. Educated, intelligent, engaging folks. Except we have this twisted
dimension that only we share:
GPS #
5. | ||
| After the Demar Marathon, I knew I
had to change my race strategy. I know I can run a marathon in less than
ten minute miles but in running seven marathons I have only done it once
with a PR of 4:12 at Cape Cod. My goal lately is a sedate 4:19:59
for a marathon. Remember I can't run, my goal for a fiver is 39:59 and a
half marathon at 1:55. My training regimen includes generous quantities of
drugs, alcohol and general slothful living. Hey! To each his own. No
judgments here. I did my bit of training, I felt adequate to get me across
the finish line yet deep down I know I can do better. At this point I
can't change my personal habits or how I train, but I can change how I run
a marathon. So after Demar I thought I'd give the Galloway
method a chance. In short, for the goal of ten minute miles in a
marathon you run hard for eight minutes and walk for 30 seconds to a
minute and repeat for the first 19 miles then run in the
rest. | ||
| I finished the Demar Marathon in
4:44. I was happy with that and really felt no pain. I took three days off
to stuff myself with any food or beverage that came within arms reach.
Wednesday I went out and ran 2.5 miles around Fresh Pond at lunch time and
it felt like I never ran before. I wobbled around the reservoir in a grand
fashion. I did this again on Thursday and Thursday night I went to Gail Martin's
for a massage. I didn't feel sore and stiff but Gail found spots in my
quads, calves and feet that needed attention. I really think it helped a
great deal. Loose from the massage and armed with a new race strategy, I
was ready for the Bristol marathon. | ||
 Peter Wallan [file photo] |
Up at 5:30 am and out of the house
by 5:50, stop at Drunkin Blownuts in Neponset Circle for coffee and a
bagel. On the road I realize I have no heat so its a cold ride to Bristol
an hour and 45 minutes away. Cruising past the Merrimack River I was
greeted with a gorgeous sunrise but the day held a promise of rain with
temps in the 50's. I arrive in Bristol, get my number, find Gail
and Dave Martin, Jeff Gould and his rider Paul
McDermott, talk with Ken Jacobson and fill him in on the fact
we we're all really nuts and he should run a nude race to be competitive
in the series because there's more to it than speed. Pete Wallan is
there (in street clothes) with his son Joe as official observers.
Manny Arruda, Pete Brook, Dave Taylor, Eric Levin, Ray Boutotte,
Peter and Nancy Orni, Tom Mika and his wife Diane
Tarr, Judy Romvos, Rick Jones (not running) and Ron Trippett. The big question was Where's Hank? It's
overcast, barely in the 50's and windy. Time flies and I dress quickly:
shorts, cut up Hingham Road Race T, BAA shell, gloves and Red sox cap.
There's a 10K race starting with the marathon, we line up and the races
start at 9 am sharp. | |
 Paul McDermott [file photo] |
With no fanfare the race begins. What ever happen to the national anthem? The course takes you up, literally, route 3A on the east side of Newfound Lake. The setting is truly beautiful, the lake to your left and the mountains ahead and to the right. Not much fall color, but it's there. The first fourteen miles of the course is uphill, think Nute Ridge half marathon and you get the idea. I stick to my regimen: run 8 minutes and walk for forty seconds or so, repeat. Not much to report in the first half except I was 2:09 a full two minutes faster than at the Demar. Felt great and kept on chugging. Miles twelve through sixteen is an out and back so you get to see the race leaders and all the rest. I liked that part. Past seventeen on the west side of the lake it started to spit rain over these big roller hills. At eighteen the rain began in earnest. I was not liking that. By nineteen I was 3:11 and shocked. I felt pretty good, soaking wet from the rain yet running waay faster than at the Demar. If I could keep up this pace I could finish 4:22! But miles twenty through twenty two were not kind. Like a big ol' dope slap of reality. I had to walk miles twenty three and twenty four, walk/run (shuffle) past twenty five. But I sufficiently recovered to run in the last 1.2 miles to the finish. Feeling pretty proud of myself until Paul McDermott sails past me and no way to answer his speed. Amazing. I cross the finish at 4:41 and change, a full three minutes faster than at the Demar. I make my way to the food to find some tasty cookies. I get to my car and realize I have no heat. I look past my car to the gym where hot showers and a massage await but find the distance too far. Gotta get home, my pillow is calling me. [NH Marathon results] | |
|
"Singing in the rain" September 28th, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #5 | ||
 Hank Gediman [file photo] |
When you run 26.2 miles in heavy
soaking rain you can really appreciate the simple things like dry socks
and shoes. Folks ask: why do it? Why put yourself out there in that
situation? I do it to try to shatter this dream I'm living. To get back to
what is really important in life. To me a marathon is a test of your spirit. I suppose there are many ways to confirm your existence in this life. Some go to Disney world and take in a thrill ride, some golf, or ski, or hike, maybe meditate, attend church, or volunteer in the community. But in competition, to battle, it brings out some ancient urge to persevere over the person next to you. There's an anger there and anger is an energy. When you can tap into that energy, that anger, and channel it. Something happens, a clarity, you gain a new perspective on your place in the world. I paid to attend the pasta dinner the night before the marathon, a month ago, but I didn't make any other arrangements. So the night before finds me roughing in the walls for the dinning room remodeling job instead. Electrical wiring is next. I'm out of the house by 4:30am and in little over an hour I'm in Keene. The first people I see are Peter Wallan and Hank Gediman. It's a little after 6 and they're slumped in the only two chairs in this bright new gym lobby. It was assuring to see these two warriors here. And it was really special to run with Dick Fedion on his 100th marathon around the 25 mile mark later on. | |
| Clothing choice and what to bring in
crucial in a marathon. My first marathon I ran in a singlet and shorts in
55 degree weather and was chilled to the bone at mile 24. I would have
paid any amount for one of those space blankets. Since then I tend to over
dress. Today its 65 degrees with the threat of rain. The night before I
cut up a trash bag for rain gear. So its shorts, a singlet, hat and
stashed in a fanny pack is an old "Doc Linskey" race shell, trash bag,
gloves, GU, CLIFF Bars, and hard candy. I head back to the gym to catch a
bus and find Sarah Winkley there and we climb aboard. No sooner
than we were out of Keene it starts to sprinkle. By the time we get to the
start in Gilsum it starts to pour, 45 minutes before the start of the
race. Gilsum is a tiny hamlet nestled in a valley. Pure New Hampshire:
General Store, Volunteer Fire Department, church, and post office
clustered together. | ||
 HSR GPS2 Champ Dick Fedion [file photo] |
I find cover in front of the
volunteer fire department with Wallan, Gediman and Eric
Levin. We yak it up watching the people queue up for the porta-potties. Bored, I tour the town and find Dave and Gail
Martin to get the skinny, pardon the pun, on their trip to Oklahoma
and the "Race for Tears" Nude Trail Run they did for big RAT points that
put Gail in first place and Dave tied for second. By now it's really
pouring as we line up for the start of the race. With no fanfare the gun
goes off and its time to go. I quickly find a group of 10 minute
milers laughing and joking. So the group of us settle in for the
run. Sarah, running Galloway
style, cruises past. The first half of the marathon for me is a warm up: 2 hours 11 minutes, I feel great, clothes, shoes and hat completely soaked. The temp is in the upper sixties so I'm not really cold. Our jolly band of seven or eight folks continues on: teasing, yelling, trying to stay loose. Miles 15, 16 and into 17 we loose two people but we keep on. "The Hill" starts in earnest at mile 17.5 and climbs for a steep half mile, and I loose the group unable to keep the ten minute pace in the driving rain. What goes up must come down, the back side of the hill is steep and I catch up to Judy Ramvos. We yak it up for a while but Judy is struggling with Plantar Facitis so I try to regain some lost time. 19, 20 and into 21, I realize I'm low on energy and in an effort to conserve I start to walk/ run. Miles 22, 23 and 24 are steady progress. Out of no where I see Peter Buhl walking towards me in the heavy rain and he tells me Wallan is walking up ahead. I muster up some speed and slip by Wallan. Up ahead I see Dick Fedion. I congratulate him on this his 100th marathon. He and his pacer are walk/running, but a heck of a lot faster than me. Into mile 26 and back to the College one of the runners from the original group is walking 100 yards from the finish ahead of me. Happy to see him I call out "lets go!" He responds with a trot and replies "ya wanna race? "Sure!" and I beat him by a few seconds at the finish. 4 hours 44 minutes. I felt great, soaked to the core, but in good spirits. I make it to the car, peel off the clothes and fall asleep with just a towel on enjoying the hot air from the heater on my shriveled, water logged toes. [Demar Marathon results] | |
|
"Dancin' in the street" September 20th, 2003 | ||
 Jim DuPont |
I can't tell you how many management
courses I've attended over the years where the subject matter dealt with
team building. Getting a group of people with different backgrounds to
contribute to a common goal is no easy task. The idea of a participating
in an 8 leg, 65.7 mile relay and supporting your teammates is one thing,
but assembling, organizing, and successfully putting 3 teams out there as
Jim Dupont does is extraordinary. Just saying "Thanks Jim" is not
enough. Come here and give me a hug. You big lug! | |
 Dick Doran [Lake Winni photos by Tom Yellope] |
After a flurry of last second
emails, phone calls, and adjustments to the team rosters, we were set,
"Team Rat 2003", "The Colonial Road Runners" and "The Good, The Bad and
The Dupey". That's 24 runners, their support who live on the greater
Boston Area were set to run a road race a 100 miles north in New Hampshire
that starts at 8am. Everyone was up to themselves to arrange rides. I
called Dick Doran and we got ourselves to the start of the race by
leaving at 5am and getting to the race by 6:30am. It was overcast and cool
but it was obvious that it would clear up and turn out to be one hot and
humid day. We pull into the parking lot and there is already fifty or more
people at "The Fun Spot," which is the start and finish of the race. One
hour later there is well over 500! Amazing to see and feel the excitement,
the confusion, and tension. Dick is team captain for "The Good, The Bad
and The Dupey" so he signs us in and gets our t-shirts. Jim is taking care
of "Team Rat 2003" and Tom Yellope has the "Colonial Road Runners".
The ritual of handing out numbers to those who get there early, greeting
old friends and meeting new ones, gives this parking lot a party like
atmosphere to a day that will take some teams 6 hours while others 10
hours to complete the race [course
description]. | |
| At the appointed hour, the first leg
runners take their place. Dick ran the first leg, Tom Stracqualursi
and I watch the start then join in the conga line of cars to the first
hand-off spot 10.75 miles down at the road. Tom and I are set to run the
second leg. We get there and find Bill and Hillary Hewitson there
so we chat it up while we make preparations and generally try to stay
calm. At this point, 9:30am, it is already hot and humid with the sun
breaking through the last of Hurricane Isabel. Dupont spies Dick coming in
and I'm on pins and needles pacing the staging area in shorts, I chosen to
run without a shirt which saves my bacon later when it really heated up.
Dick comes in and I'm off... quite a feeling really, hard to
describe: I don't remember a sound other than me trying to get
control of my breathing and the sound of my shoes hitting the road...
uphill. Till this point I didn't look past the start to see what I'm
getting into. I realize I'm in for some hills. The next two runners in
front of me are easily a quarter mile ahead so I set my sights on them and
dig in. Up and down through 3 miles pacing the runners ahead I spy
Teammates Irma
Walat and Betsy Knapp waiting with water for me. For that
space and time, a better sight there never was. They tell me they'll be up
head with more and I relax and put the hammer down. I don't remember water
stops previously, I always relied on a handout, but on this course, it's
spotty at best, so it was a worry. The next two hilly miles I reel in the two runners and put them behind me. At mile five I'm 42:32 (8:30) and I see this big weight lifter of a guy struggling and two race volunteers are clearly worried about him. Soaked in sweat this guy is in trouble, up by three positions now I see two more runners a quarter mile ahead and go for it. Past mile seven I catch them and another water stop with Irma and Betsy.... Thank you! Miles eight, nine and ten I lost all conception of time and distance. I knew I was running hard, faster than in those miles at the John Gray half marathon the week before. I missed a few mile markers and I looked at my watch for splits but they didn't make sense, my personal record for ten was 85 minutes years ago, now at ten I was just over 82 minutes and still had something in the tank. I spotted two more runners ahead and let it all out. At this time it was hot. The hills had taken their toll and the bill was due. Mile eleven just never seemed to end. When I saw Dick Doran with water I knew I was close. I didn't let up. Then Jim Dupont and Tom Straq were there to bring me in. 91 minutes. I ran the last 6 miles in 48 and change or dang near 8:00/mile. Bring on the Demar Marathon on the 28th, I'm ready. | ||
| I hand off to Bill Hewitson and promptly jump in the lake. What a feeling! Dick and I catch up with Jim Dupont and Tom Straq and figure out where to go next. We head to the next hand off and cheer on the runners. We hit the next two hand-offs and help out where we can. At the finish we cheer on Betsy who started her leg dead last and finished in 10 hours 4 minutes, yet we didn't finish last. All in all it was a great experience. Afterwards Dick and I hit the post race parties and ended up at the award ceremonies for prime rib dinner and the place packed with runners partying. Even the few bikers there were impressed! [Relay results] | ||
|
"Something for every...body" September 14th, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #4 | ||
| I have completely submerged myself
in a rather lethal level of distance running and it is only getting worse.
I ran 13.1 miles in this half marathon and during the event found myself
enjoying the fact that after eleven miles I can pass other runners who are
spent, in obvious pain and there I am picking them off one after another.
No good will come of this. Something like the final Vietnam scenes in the
movie "The Deer
Hunter". My non-running friends have written me off. They think I've lost it. The folks at work only give me a concerned look as I check off another race from the Grand Pricks Series Race Calendar and stand in bewildered amazement as I repeat the fact that I'll be running two Marathons in five days. "Is everything okay?" Are you alright?" My Wife? She's powerless to stop me. The insurance is paid up. She's far better off with the cash settlement. The night before this race finds me hunkered down at our dinner table with two fine couples we know. The marinated grilled steak, salad with home made vinaigrette and rice-vegetable stir fry is eaten, the fresh hot apple pie and blueberry pie desert finished off, the Heineken drank, the J. Garcia Chardonnay, and Ruffino Chianti are gone. Only the margaritas are left to polish off. The clink off ice, the sound of splashing alcohols over the ice, lemons instead of limes. The vat like shaker blends it all together and we drink. It's very late, eyes are bleary, speech is slurred, slouching postures, kids asleep in front of the flickering TV. Only hours until the race. | ||
 Jim Schneider [file photo]  Nancy MacDonald [file photo] |
Dave Malliaros is at my door
promptly at 6:50am and I ooze out of bed and slither into the race togs
set out the day before. Everything is packed for the race and we hit the
road. I'm thankful for the cloudy overcast sky, but fearful of heat and
humidity. We make it to Orleans in an hour and a half to find everyone
chipper and cheery but with temples pounding and tongue stuck to the roof
of my mouth I not peppy about anything. As we pull in my mood changes as
the race director is walking our way. She's fit, firm, dressed in a rather
revealing outfit that causes one to sit up and take notice...heeeeyyy. My
attention is then taken by yet another athletic beauty in spandex and
lycra....heeeyyy, another and another... I'm feeling better already. Dave
and I make our way to pre-registration, Dave gets 494 and I get a look
from the registration table and get handed the last number 700. Huh?
Problems is the response. This race put on by the fine folks of the Cape Cod Athletic Club was well organized, one of scenic beauty and the weather was perfect: overcast, 70's with a breeze. The race course winds around virtually every neighborhood in Orleans with some picturesque New England waterfront views. Traffic was never a problem and the volunteers were great. | |
 Gail Martin [file photo] |
A very good turn out for the race,
even Jim Schneider makes the scene. Nancy
MacDonald... the kid safely stashed, is here to wreck Gail
Martin's assent to the top of the heap. "I'm only running for the fun
of it" Nancy says. Hah! And Serena Williams always lets
Venus win! Hah! Jack Foley was lovin' this race - he was the
referee sandwiched in between these two at the finish. These two will chew
you up and spit you out Jack. Watch out! Dave Martin and Manny
Arruda ...a drag race to the finish. That dang Tom Mika, I was
on his heels at eleven but he had Ray Boutotte in his sights AND
passes Dick Doran for some big RAT points. | |
| My pre-race ritual yapping it up
with Sarah Winkley with the sound of the gun going off to start the
race. I didn't even have my watch set. We hung together for five miles.
First mile: 8:30, discussing the fine art of repairing old houses with Tom
Mika...how do you install an oval window so it's level? After that
two mile splits: 16:49 (8:24), 17:28(8:44), 17:52(8:56), 17:11(8:35) miles
10,11 and 12 at 26:54 (8:57) and the last 1.1 miles at a sleepy 10:45 for
1:55. Not a PR but five minutes off of my time at Gloucester at the
half. The post race party was held at the Old Jail House Tavern. Fine food and drink and a chance to share anniversary cake with THE Johnny Kelly who was there celebrating with his fourth wife Ginger. Everyone shaking his hand and getting pictures taken with him. 'Cept me. Won't forget this one and I'll remember to bring a camera. [1/2 marathon race results] | ||
|
"The view from the back of the pack" September 1st, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #3 | ||
 Peter Buhl [09-01-03 Walpole MA GPS Sub. Race] |
Fear. Pure and simple. That occupied
my thoughts on this race just prior to the start. Clammy hands, jumpy
nervous. A half marathon distance, I race, really push it. 15.5 miles is
one of those distances where you hold back, get to some point on the
course, assess your condition, then either let it rip or mail in the
finish. I really trained for this one. In my own fashion of course. I
don't advocate the use of drugs and alcohol but they've always worked for
me. I put in two 40 mile mile weeks prior with 18+ mile runs each week. I
knew I had what it takes to finish, but at what pace? The three times I've
run this one I've averaged ten minute miles (marathon pace for me). This
race day was different. I was confident tinged with fear. The havoc, the
hell this distance at this race can bring on. Ask Pete
Buhl. My weight watcher pal Dave Malliaros, feeling cocky, mailed in his application for this race in January. By July 15th when I almost sliced off my finger he thought he was off the hook feeling I would be healing and he wouldn't have to train. Wrong. We trained around Blue Hill and Green Street on the Canton/Milton line. If you're feeling frisky run up Green Street from Royal Ave by the Reebok headquarters. If you're a local nut runner you know what I'm talking about. At the top of Green Street cross Route 138 and continue up the Blue Hill fire access road and tag the observatory on top. Gotta tag the observatory. Don't count unless you tag up. Got it? Do that and you'll know pain. We're talking going up 600 feet in elevation in less than two miles. Blend in a little August heat and humidity and you're there. | |
 Lauren Malliaros & Colleen Dowling [file photo] |
Dave spends the night at my place on
race eve. It's his daughters 9th Birthday and she's having a "sleep over"
with six of her friends. Nuff said. We're out of the house by 6:15 and up
93 to 128. We roll in at 7 and the parking lot is already a quarter
full. In fact the only people on 128 at that hour were dressed in
running garb headed with us to the race. The weather is overcast, in the
70's and humid. We're in the lot niggling over clothes selection and
settle on tank tops and fuel for the race: Dave has enough for a week and
I settle on a Power Bar which I regretted later. We spy the Colonials
headed by Tom Yellope and Frank Nelson. We pick up our
numbers and its already crowded in the school, by 8:15 there was still a
long line at the number pick up. This being GPs # 3, most the top 50 RATs
were there and Nancy MacDonald too, ( why weren't you at GPS # 2?).
The question is where's Fred Gladu? The surprise was Tom
Stracqualursi of the Wednesday night Brockton Summer Series fame. It
was Tom's first race at this distance and he didn't know anything but
rumors about the course. Tom's fast at the short stuff and now he was out
to check out this little race. | |
 Tom Stracqualursi [file photo] |
At the appointed time we head to the
start and I find my pal Sarah Winkley in the crowd. I kid her
saying "I always go out ahead of you and you beat me every time". Man
smart, woman smarter. We're wisely waay back from the start line and as
usual the gun goes off while we're yapping it up. 40 seconds till we get
to the start line and its an easy jog cause of the crowd for the first
half mile. The first three miles, we're 28:33 (9:31/mile) and I spy Tom
Mika one minute ahead and we're staying even with him. Mile 5 we're
46:42 (9:20) and pass Rick Jones who came up lame at mile 3.
Mile 7 at 65 minutes (9:17) and pass Paul McDermott. Mile ten
at 1:32:44 (9:16) and we're keeping pace with Micka still a minute ahead.
Mile 12 at 1:50:54 (9:14). The half marathon point at an even 2
hours. This is where the character of the race changes and the proverbial gloves come off. The race setting turns from the scenic beauty of Rockport and all the gorgeous harbors and coves to the urban squalor of working class Gloucester. One can really define how much money people have by the condition of the parking spaces. I mean the oil stains on the pavement. Rockport...clean as a whistle. Those new SUVs don't leak oil. Round the corner at mile thirteen of this race and the roads are slick with oil mixed with broken glass. The bleak store fronts, ratty bars and overhead apartments. Duct Tape appears to be a major component of the vehicles parked in heroin laced Gloucester. Also one can't forget the smell of all those fish sticks being processed. When was the last time you ate a "fish stick"? I lose sight of Micka but I'm not getting passed by any body but I know this is the time for Sarah to coast by. I know she's back there. That becomes my mantra and I push on. I manage to catch a few people and pour it on to finish in 2:25:45 (9:23). Crossing the finish line I realize the two pieces of Power Bar want to come up and out fast. Doubled over in the chute, I nearly lose it. I have to fight off the rising acid and swallow hard. Not much of a post race party, after that ordeal the only thought was to get away fast happy with a personal record for this course. [25K race results] | |
|
"The oldest shoreline road race in Connecticut" August 2, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #2 | ||
 Mike Woodman (hitches a ride to New London in Coach Guido's motorcoach @ 5:30 AM). |
It all started with: OK, where the
heck is Ocean Beach Park? Seemed simple enough, sat down with Microsoft
Streets 98 and did a search... nothin'. Hit the official Connecticut
Website: searched that... nothin'. Google: gotta have something...
nothin'. Looked at the race application: Take exit "83" off of I-95. There
is no exit 83, there's an "82" and an "84". Well sometimes you have
to let go of the steering wheel and let it happen. Found Ocean Ave. on the
map, off of Bank Street alluded to in the directions... we'll go with
that. We as in Mike Woodman, Mark Sferrazza and myself. Mike
and Mark are two slippery fast guys who know how to tear up the course.
Me, coming off of nearly losing my right index finger two and half weeks
ago to an errant saw blade in a Tim the Toolman / Texas Chainsaw Massacre
type fiasco agreed to ferry these two speedsters to the race. We get there around 7:30am, race starts at 9, and park right up front. Its 80 degrees with heavy, stinky low tide fog. The race is free but its ten bucks for a tank top. Nice enough, I buy one. The lot fills fast and soon enough I spy Mike and Mark taking off for a warm-up. I follow in pursuit, thinking it couldn't hurt. Halfway, I'm soaked in sweat, not a good sign. Oblivious to the crushing disaster that awaits me, I opt to run with no shirt. I queue up with everyone else and yap it up with Sarah Winkley, trying to talk her into running a nude 5K with me in Land O' Lakes, Florida, at the "Paradise Lakes Resorts", when the race starts. Oh yeah, John J. Kelley was there speechifying and someone else, maybe 30 people heard out of 300. I had business to attend to | |
 Sarah Winkley w/Coach Guido [file photo]. |
Feeling good, I tick off the first
five miles in 43 minutes when I realize I've been running, (or as Mark
would say "Jogging"), uphill since the race start, I'm huffing and
puffing, soaked in sweat and folks I passed are passing me by the bushel.
Someone says there's a hill at eight and I realize I'm in deep doo-doo.
Miles six and seven are pure agony, my fractured finger throbbing
like it was just hit with a ball peen hammer, I start to think like that
hiker who cut his own arm off. I don't have a knife but I can chew. Not
good. My bodies well tuned temp gauge flashes on, I literally stagger at
mile eight when I notice a cop eyeing me with worry. "No, No, I'm
OK, Really," I hear myself say in the far off distance. I start walking.
Uphill. Miles eight and nine where one of those out-of-body experiences
I've come to embrace out there on the race course when I've spent it all
and there's miles left to go. The goal for me then was the next telephone
pole, when I got there I set my sights on the next pole, and so on and so
on. Nothing else matters, my mind is free of life's clutter. I snap out of
it at mile ten when Pete Buhl saunters past making time with some
Babe. Sombitch. That gets my dander up I pick up the pace something akin
to a Prisoner on the "Bataan Death March"
and take pursuit. It's not long before the heat takes over and I'm walking
again. I shuffle through eleven and there's folks on the road cheering us
on and that gave me some momentum. I round the corner at the finish and
see Sarah. A sight for sore eyes. One hour fifty six minutes or ten
minutes miles yet it seemed like a lifetime. [11.6 race results] | |
|
"Dear Mr. Fantasy" July 13, 2003: GPS No. 5 - Race #1 | ||
 Coach Guido Speaks >> [photo by unknown]. |
It's all in the name of fun. Right?
Remember fun. I really think people are just too danged serious lately.
Not enough fun in our lives. That's why we can thank messier Buhl
and Wallan for concocting a really great series of races that
bring the fun back into our lives. We enjoy running and like to be
challenged but for mental blinders we can't see past the same daily
training routes and running in the same races year after year. So we turn
to our noble rat brethren to create some magic in our lives. Some spark,
Some spontaneity. For the past year much conversation was: what race will
make the Grand Pricks Series list and how to create a fair scoring system.
Well Ladles and Jelly spoons we have it: The "Tom Hurley
Terminator" Series. With strict orders to lighten up a little. The
series begins in Lowell with one hell of a bash complete with belly
dancers. On this gorgeous July day we make our way to start wondering how
it will all turn out. That's what makes it so intriguing, so exciting, and
draws you in like you're a kid again, contemplating doing something your
parents would frown upon. On paper the schedule looks so simple. Twenty
dates on the calendar. Races with distances we can all cover. The scoring
system is still hotly debated. Yet everyone is willing to commit. It's
like being invited to some renaissance masquerade ball, complete with
silly parlor games, cooked up by our two favorite Court
Jesters. As I write this under the influence of a rather delightful cocktail of drugs: Paxil (antidepressant), Vicodin (painkiller), Klonopin (sleep aid) and Keflex ( antibiotic) washed down with a flagon of Smirnoff Ice things are a little hazy around the edges. Word to the wise: Never remove the guard from your 10,000 RPM die grinder and attach a 5 1/4 inch ripping saw blade and have it catch a nail and spin out of control slicing through the bone, cartilage and tendons of your right index finger exposing the knuckle to daylight requiring 2 1/2 hours of surgery to repair. I did this last Tuesday night (7/15) ripping up the sub-floor in my kitchen. | |
 Fred Gladu [file photo]. |
The scene at the start line was one
of cool confidence. As in confidently find some shade under the Mobil
awning for there is no shade to be found on this course. Any last bit one
can muster is like money in the bank. After a brief introduction that a
handful of the 300+ runners actually heard, the race was started with a
shout. The flat first mile of this race can easily hurt you if your not
careful. Ask Fred Gladu who went out fast and quickly realized
he'll be paying for it. I hung back (7:43) having learned this rather
harsh lesson last year on this course. Pete Wallan and I passed
Fred as he realized his error at the start of mile two. Mile two (8:11)
put us in Dracut and the start of a series rises that twist and turn
around a residential area. Water stops at every mile and more than a few
homeowners hosing down the runners as they went by. But no shade on this
85 + degree day. Miles three and four (7:58 and 8:27) had Pete and I
swapping the lead back and fourth. The turn back to the finish is one mile
downhill and it was a surge to the finish. For me it was a personal
best on this course (40:10). [5M race results] | |
|
