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.

A Start

This is a piece from a book I was supposed to be writing. Still doing it, I suppose. Just online now.

Hello, Cleveland!


Cleveland, the Lizard tour, fall 1992. Lotsa friends visiting this gig, as was a pair of my sisters, and some future and ex-brothers in law. I was hoping that we would have a good gig, and the mood was high. Saigon Kick was about four months into this tour, and we were really hitting our live stride. I heard some tapes from this leg of the tour not too long ago and we were on fire.

Now my family could see the results of that for themselves.

The day went well, and we dined in a very cool restaurant down on by water. Showtime arrived and the band got ready in the backstage area. As in Spinal Tap, it was a convoluted system of twists and turns, all around concrete abutments. But we had nobody to tell us where we had to go to reach the stage.

And we didn't have time for a jog.

Evil, my tech, and I head towards the noise of the intro tape. I am leading the way, bass in hand, and Evil is behind me with a Mag-lite poised over my shoulder like a miner’s helmet. As we approach the sound at the end of the tunnel, I hear a voice behind us:

EVIL! WHERE’S MY TEA?

It’s Matt Kramer and he’s dry apparently. Evil now swings his beam of light off of me, and before I know it, I walk right into a five foot high chunk of concrete. Which is a bit of a problem, since I am six feet high. Like two drunken mountain goats, my large head meets it's Quik-crete head squarely and I am instantly woozy.

I stagger through the rest of the Cleveland Labyrinth, and make it to the stage a little late. Jason Bieler looks at me funny, as if to say “where the hell have you been?” and I shoot him a dazed look.

He shoots me a wide eyed one back.

During my backstage spelunking adventure, I have acquired a three inch red crease on my forehead where the edge of the obstacle met my head. It’s bleeding, but not a whole lot. I am instantly remained of Tommy Thayer colliding with a door mechanism in San Diego earlier that year. His variation was that he was wearing Ace Frehley make-up. But that's another story.

The best part is that I have a picture of the incident. I don’t know who was sharp enough to grab the shot, but SK's erstwhile bassist looks like a drunken Fred Gwynn, wearing Yvonne De Carlo’s wig during a Munster’s cast party.

With a gash in his head.

Inaugural Blog-arul

Yes, I know. Bad pun. But, they'll be plenty more of THAT as this wears on.

Eyes peeled, ears perked. All that good stuff.

See you soon.