Bluffton Race Thoughts, Part 1

And we’re off. Heading out of the Promenade, the first thing I notice is an official of the race, who’s guiding us on his bike. Kinda made it feel like I was still asleep and somehow wandered into the wrong section of an Ironman, but he was keeping us all on path. For good, solid reasons, I learned later.

As we ran out, I passed the first intersection and went past two of Bluffton’s finest, flashing lights on top of the car, waving us through to the first open section of the route. To my left, I heard a bunch of women, chatting happily and excitedly (clearly THEY had some coffee…) about the race, their friends who were in the race, the people meeting them at the finish, etc… It continued for about 200 yards, and then they started to fall back. And get less chatty. And less. And… quiet. A pair of co-runners chuckled and said, ”Well, I knew THAT wasn’t going to last long”…

My first view into pacing had come and gone. I didn’t have anyone to converse with, an outlet for my pent up energy. It was energy I had to do something with, but also had to conserve. Having been warned over and over not to start fast, I was trying to keep my starting gun jitters to a minimum and stay steady. It sorta worked. As I got away from the Chatty Cathys, the pack started to break up. This race had a 5K attached to it as well, and as we approached that level’s turnaround mark I felt pretty good. The Garmin told me my pace was about an 8:45 mile. If I kept this up, or at least near, then a sub-120 minute finish was possible.

It was a great theory.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the wriggly route. Chris and I drove it the night before, but that’s a whole lot different than running it. It was 13.1 miles, and it was near the ocean. So, the course was one big ball of yarn. Imagine getting two miles away from a mall, running to it, and then running eight miles in around the crevices of the mall, lastly running back out to your finish. Felt like I was in a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-runner.

The roads had spray painted markers on them as to where we were to turn, repeat, double back, etc… It got really tough to figure out where I was. The signs that had mile markers on them were at repeat points, causing my sweaty brow to furrow more than once. When I was hitting mile three, there was a marker right after it that said mile ten. Did I black out? Was I that much in the zone?

Ah, no. I was doubling back.

What made it more distracting (and I am easy to distract), was the eventual winner of the race was FLYING past me in the other direction. Again, my rookie status was showing. We were 25 minutes into this. Don’t tell me that kid is already finishing! He wasn’t, but he’d doubled back, and was going into some other serpentine section of the course. Really fast, I might add. Really really fast.

What made this difficult was that my pacing markers (in my head, anyway) were thrown way off. I was used to running a course where I knew where the miles were. So, I could check my pace as I hit the places I knew marked the distance. This had to change. Those pacing places needed to be ignored and had to put them inside my head on an internal track. That way, I could time out the pace, as opposed to looking at a target and hitting it at a certain interval. Otherwise, I’d be looking at the same trees over and over, wondering what wrong turn had been taken as I stood knee-deep in surf.

As I hit mile five, I decided that the jitters were over and I had to start divvying up my effort. So, I figured I’d break this race into a three legged stool – Leg 1) miles 1-5; Leg 2) miles 6-10; and Leg 3) miles 11-13.1. 

For the first leg it was: Get through it. Warm up and ignore what felt like blow darts being shot into my ankles and hamstrings as my sleepy body woke up and warmed up. For the first 30 minutes, it was one mystery pain after another. Tweak, knot, pull, twist, pinch, blister. Ugh. It was like a game of Pain Whack-a-mole. As soon as one backed off, another popped up. By mile six, though, they were all quieted, back into their holes, and grumbling about the score. 

Chris - 1, Pain – 0.

Bluffton Race Day

After tossing and turning for some of the night – after all I was in a place I wasn’t used to sleeping - I heard my alarm go off at around 6:00. 

Sunrise in Bluffton.

Up. Flick covers back. Find things in the dark. Attempt to dress.  Feel breeze. Realize I am wearing my shirt as shorts. Fix that. Shoes on. Start stretching, and try not to wake up Chris as I stumble around his kitchen trying to make the Vitargo and protein shake that will be my breakfast.

The previous night, we realized his coffee maker had given up the ghost, and Chris gave me directions to the nearest Starbucks for pre-race fuel. However, once I got my things together and turned the GPS on, I forgot where it was. Near the Piggly Wiggly? Past it? Somewhere in Georgia? I had to get to the parking lot of the golf shop, park and jog up to the race site. Coffee must wait, I heard myself saying. In disbelief, I might add. They’ll have it at the race site, yeah?

No, as I found out.

Rats!

Parked, checked my hip bag for phone, gels, and keys. Locked the car door, and made sure my post race shake was sitting in the center console, poised to fill the tanks back up, post race.

Locked, loaded. Sent Chris a text that asked for a post-race Grande Café Americano, if he would be so kind. He’d said that he’d grab a photo of me plodding across the finish line, which I was very psyched to see.

I headed towards what I thought was the main shopping promenade. Now, Bluffton is a cozy, quiet SC beach community. On a Saturday morning at 6:45 a.m., it’s deserted. My hope for some sort of starting line compass was another racer. 100 yards from the car and… Nobody. A Quarter mile… Zippo. Crap. Did I go in the wrong direction? As almost is if he heard me, a very serious runner came zinging around the corner, intent on his warm-up. And then a pair of them. Then more, all heading to the same spot, like migrating ostriches.

I’d noticed a similar flocking technique when I’d run the Bridge Run in Charleston that past spring. Downtown at 5:30 in the dark morning there were hundreds of zombies, dressed in wicking material and spongy shoes, trudging groggily towards the same direction. Funny, creepy, and comforting at the same time. Follow them…they’ll at least get you to the starting line.

Same thing in Bluffton, except these people were all running. 

Um…kids? We are going to be heading out for 13.1 soon. You wanna save up, there? Have you had your coffee yet?

Arrival.

After following these runners, some looking like Ace Ventura going out for a post pattern (sans tutu), I got to The Promenade. Here we were. Time to run. The officials quacked some instructions through the PA as we stretched, fidgeted, and herded ourselves towards the starting line. My mind was already racing. I just wish I could pace my brain, too. As a final preparation, I headed towards the port-a-lets at the end of the street. And promptly heard the Race MC bark there were two minutes until the start. Great. There were three people in front of me. Huh, boy.

”One minute”, two people. Eeek! Door opens, I’m in, door closes, I’m done, I’m out. 

Run toward the start and as I get with 15 feet of the line, the gun goes off.

My brain was REALLY revved up now. It slowed down enough to take some pictures, inhale the solid, cool, morning air and put my thumb on the Garmin wrist GPS, poised to hit ”begin”. All on the fly. 

Let’s go.

And we did.

On your mark...

“Mr. Smith, can I impose on you?”

“Yeah, man, sure. What is it?”

“There’s a Half Marathon in your neck of the woods in October, two days after my 49th”, I said. “Can I stay with you and run the thing to celebrate?”

“Absolutely!”

And it was right there that the race began.

Chris Smith, a friend from way back in the unhinged rock and roll days was about to be “Team Bluffton” as I got ready for the 13.1 miles that would wind through scenic parts of South Carolina. 

He had a townhouse, a spare air mattress, and golf shop a half mile from the starting line.

As it turned out, Chris was the perfect person to be Team Leader. With his background in the rock biz, Mr. Smith drew upon his resume that included Dio and Black Sabbath gig advancing and laid it all out. 

For example, when Chris was working with Sabbath, it was his job to make sure Ronnie James Dio got all of his daily info correct. Times, dates, flights, interviews, anything that had to do with the oxymoron of Rock and Roll Tour Precision, Chris handled it. So, he drew on experience for the race, without thought.

On the Friday before the race, I drove the 75 miles or so to Bluffton to meet Chris and get ready for the whole shebang.

“OK, man. I drove the course. It’s mostly flat, with a few circling bits that make it an ‘Out and Back’ course. Now, your race packet can be picked up at Tri Sports which is about a mile from my place. It’s open until 6. You’ll get here around 4:30, which gives a chance to drive the course, and get familiar with it. From there, we can get your packet, and then hit dinner.”

I smiled to myself and said: “We can’t get away from our past, can we? Fantastic! Let’s go.”

Before all of this, there was the decision to run it. I’d signed up for a half marathon already, on Kiawah Island. That was in December, though. So, why now run another before it to get “warmed up”? Being a musician, I am a huge fan of rehearsal. Probably where I got the idea to involve Chris in the first place. 

Bluffton was slightly south of Charleston and a great fit. Frankly, I had no idea about several aspects to this sort of race. I’d run 5K’s and a 10K, but this distance was like comparing an arena gig compared to a club show.

How?

13.1 – that’s quite far. Really.

Pacing – How do you stay focused and able for at least two hours of running?

Logistics – Getting there, waking up, and finding the race in my typical morning mind fog was going to be a feat in itself. 

Finishing – I didn’t want to set a goal this big and whiff. Born there, I had to be Mr. October if I was to enter this thing. Had to take a big swing and connect.

And that’s what was in my head before I even I got to the race site. So, in order to get it all ready, I’d asked my friend and able coach, Michelle Adams for advice. She’d run more in one training run than I was going to do for a race. Clearly a credible, knowledgeable source. In addition to that, we share a birthday and Michelle had mentioned that she was running a race that same day as part of a Birthday Weekend Celebration.

“Yeah? Which one? How far?” I asked.

“Oh, it's a forty miler up in North Carolina”…she replied.

Yeah. 40 miles. That’s three times what I was planning. Suddenly, I felt like I was planning a walk to the mailbox. In any event, I sure picked the right person to ask what the hell to do.

It broke down pretty simply. After all, it is running and it shouldn’t be over thought. Her instructions were, essentially: “Here’s a chart with what your distances are for the next eight weeks. Here’s how to eat. Here’s how not to hurt yourself. And, oh yeah, sleep. Get lots of it.”

Notice I said simply. Not easily.

The Bluffton Blogs

So, the bright idea came up to run a half marathon. The thought had crossed my path before, but I’d missed a race cut-off date and ended up running my own 13.1 in my neighborhood to a throng of several.

Well, a throng of none, really, unless you count my daughter who brought me a drink in the final half mile.

Still, I did it. Even if I miscalculated and ran a mile too far. No matter! Done! I could do it.

So, do it, Mr. Compression Pants.

There was a half marathon scheduled right here in SC, just down the road, and right around my birthday. Preparation and planning took place and so did the experience. 

This blog will be an attempt to recount all that happened, cause there’s a whole lot of time to think about what the heck is happening as you plod along.

I mean, fly like an eagle. Or run like a gazelle.

Or…

Alright, I’ll get on with it.

Gone.

He was the family dog.

Five years old, and now, like all other pets, he lived to make you smile and died to make you cry.

For the first three years, his health was perfect. A model bulldog, the vet said. Full of charm, mellow, he defended the pack he was now a part of. We'd never had a purebred before, and his hefty price was soon outweighed by his enormous personality. He became a fixture in the neighborhood. Neighbors stopped by to see him, and strangers would knock on our door and sheepishly proclaim:

"We live in Michigan, but we saw your dog while we were driving by and had to see him up close."

They did that for the next three summers, for each vacation.

But eighteen months ago, he had a seizure. Carolina temperatures that rest in the 80's can do that to bulldogs we were told, so we thought it was a matter of course. The fits increased, they strengthened. He was a mess. Confused, whimpering, helpless. So were we.

The vet put him on meds, after trying to CSI-out every possible cause. We were left with the most powerful and most humbling answer:

That's the way he is.

The anti-seizure medicine turned him into Elvis, 1976. Wandering around the house, losing control of his functions and picking up a habit that eventually killed him.

The phenobarbital made him "chewy". For a dog that never put his powerful jaws on anything except his meals, everything in reach was destroyed by the bone crushing PSI crouching in his mouth. Once that medication entered his system, his judgment disappeared. Chewed, crushed. And then swallowed. Wood, plastics, electrical cords.

That dangerous side effect didn't become apparent until he got hold of Xmas decorations last December, after he'd cleared off the bottom ring of ornaments. He ate three or four Styrofoam apples and oranges, all life size. He shocked his system, it shut down, and he needed a gut clearing operation. Or euthanasia.

He got the reprieve, but we caught him chewing on things 24 hours after he got home. Once, he was behind the tree, having gotten over a sizable barrier we built to keep him away from the cords on the light strands. We fished him out, only to find the end of the cord gone. Did he have a death wish - an "I can't take this anymore" mentality?

He got his wish. Three weeks ago, he started showing signs of ingesting something foreign. Seizures increased, as his body attempted to rid itself of the offending element.

Operation Number Two ensued, and he cleared the fence. I arrived home in time to greet his return from the hospital. But when I knocked, he didn't bark back at me. He always woofed from his perch and then came to the door. I hadn't been home in a awhile, so his change of habit was odd. And noted.

My daughter said, wistfully, "He's like that now, Daddy. The seizures have changed him. He's not the same dog anymore".

Once inside, he greeted me in his usual fashion, albeit a bit sedate. Which I understood - he was just out of triage. Our evening progressed, and he and I went out for his last walk of the night. I urged him along, he did his business. When we went back in the house, he did his u-turn inside the kennel, and looked for his treat.

I gave him his reward (two, in fact), as was our agreement, and I dropped one on the floor. He saw it, couldn't get to it. I picked it up, put it into his mouth, and he licked my hand.

We said goodnight for the last time.

He was gone the next morning.

Farley (Celtic for "from the bull meadow") got to the vet for a follow-up and just faded away. His breathing slowed, his pupils dilated, almost as if he was opening his eyes as wide as they could go - preparing to view and understand for whatever was next; even if it was simple hope: rescue from the seizures.

Gone.

Those of us who are animal owners, or those who pay attention to the fact that communication isn't always verbal or relegated to only one species at a time, know that their pet understands the role they play in their house. And you both understand it.

While I was away, he was the pack leader. He ruled the house, and protected his brood. When I came into the house, he went back to Second Lieutenant. Reluctantly, I might add.

In his last hours, he decided the pack leader had returned, and he could relax.

He could let go.

His watch was over.

Must You?

Ever see “The Sunshine Boys” with George Burns and Walter Matthau?

There’s a scene where Burns is looking through a box of memoirs, visiting his past. Then, he looks down and has realized he’s wet himself.

“Now the circle is complete” he says (I may be paraphrasing here).

Meaning: “I am a baby, again.”

Well, I saw a parallel today at the gym. Actually, it’s one I've seen too many days.

Old men, and flagrant nudity.

It’s like watching a five year old, joyously nude, unencumbered by his social surroundings or any scrap of self conscious behavior. This “elderly gentleman” was sitting on the bench in the locker room, like a stripped Humpty Dumpty, trimming his nails. As if that wasn’t “wreck at the side of the road” alluring enough, his tongue was sliding out of his mouth like an overheated bulldog’s. How do I know this? The noise was so loud I had to look in his direction, prepared to dial 911.

“Yes sir? Your emergency?”

What would I say? “Cardiac arrest? MI? Afib?”

No, Starker Pedicure.

Yikes.

This habit is hopefully one I am not heading for as I age. Other old men seem to do this as well, most oddly with a foot raised on the bench.

Ghastly.

Comparing notes with other male friends, they’ve seen this as well. But, as vets who refuse to talk about the horrors of combat, no one dares speak of it until it’s brought up. Then, we nod our heads in resigned trauma, recalling our shared walk with the Dangle of Death.

There’s no good reason for gym-nudia: to gad about in your biggest organ, scrotal damage imminent as your twig and berry swing like wrinkled twin Tarzans. Total disregard for humanity defined!

Remember in gym class when a pair of kids would both go for a jumper at the same time? And both shots would land in the basket together? And it’d all get stuck, hanging there, defying space and time? And everyone would laugh and the girls would blush?

Sorry. Some of you may be eating.

I’ll stop. Or I can call on the gym coach to come over, whack it with a broom and end the horror.

Would that help? Because that circle needs complete closure.

Now.

Stingspreen?

What the? Message in a Clairol Bottle?