Summertime, and the Running is Easy..

It may be summertime here in Vancouver but we don't have much sun to show for it. The skies have been covered with haze and clouds all week. The last few days have been more muggy and warm than summertime hot. From the grumbling I hear, it sounds like I am not the only one missing the sunshine. Hugh told me that Vancouver set a new rtecord for the fewest number of hours of sunshine ever recorded in June. Thanks, Hugh, that helped make my day...

I took it easy on Tuesday's tempo run, only a gentle six kilometres this week, with C and J. Both of them did very well in Sunday's Half Marathon. (I see that yesterday I prattled on about Thoreau and Walden Pond and didn't say a damn thing about running)

Last night I picked up my runner's package for the Post-to-Post 10K race this Friday. I then went out with Hugh and did a relaxed 10K in 56 minutes. My heart rate never got much out of the mid 140s, so it was a very comfortable, easy pace. Getting excited about the race.

Here's another great Blog from one of the running blog masters, The Penguin - http://penguintimes.blogspot.com/ John Bingham's columns are better than his daily postings, I think, but are well worth the read.

On Hemingson Puddle

One of things that pops up on occasion when discussion turns to this Blog, is the strange notion that it is somehow unseemly to write about oneself or one's own experience. It is taken as an act of narcissism so blatant that it requires comment on the part of others. Or to quote a recent "Anonymous" poster on this Blog -

"I have to say that never in my life have I met or read about a person so utterly self centred."

This type of comment ignores a widely accepted genre of writing (Bill Bryson's travel writing is a favorite of mine), a vast body of literature and several centuries worth of published journals and diaries. It is often the very best kind of writing because it is usually devoid of literary artifice, it is personal and often searingly honest and insightful about the human condition. I was discussing this with a good friend of mine just the other day, in speaking about "voice" and how it is in reflected in one's writing. My friend turned me to the following.

I love this following quote - in part because of its elegance, but mostly because I am incapable of stating it any better myself - this little blurb comes at beginning of Henry David Thoreau's "Walden."

"In most books, the I, or first person, is omitted; in this it will be retained; that, in respect to egotism, is the main difference. We commonly do not remember that it is, after all, always the first person that is speaking. I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience."

So I will continue to write Boston or Bust as I have, confident that no one can write me, better than me. To butcher Thoreau, it's all I know... Here's to On Hemingson Puddle, as opposed to Walden Pond.

BF and AF

BF and AF, you ask? What the hell is Hemingson mumbling about now...? I am in an intropspective phase now I guess, plumbing the dark depths of ego and id, a scary place to be I must admit. Sort of like looking under the biggest, dirtiest, muddiest, grungiest rock you can lift and finding all kinds of disgusting wiggling, creepy-crawly type stuff. Ah, to be five again!

What is it about time for runners? Time and times. It is relentless, this time bugaboo, you can not escape it. It is tough for runners who enter races and talk about running to not have a conversation eventually turn to the subject of time. It must be an innate desire to quantify the thing, the running thing, I mean. As soon as you have someone's time, you have a yardstick against which you can draw yourself to your full height.

Growing up as a sprinter, time was measured down to the split second. Tenths and even hundredths took on great import. Even now, it is hard for me to have a conversation about running with someone without eventually asking them about how fast they are. And yet, after a marathon or a half marathon or an ultra marathon, the war stories that runners share and commiserate with are usually independent of time. It invariably goes something like; I had a cramp, stitch, blister, I bonked, puked, nearly passed out, I... you fill in the blank, and chances are someone will chime in, My God!, the same thing happened to me at mile.... fill in the blank again.

Anyways, in order for me to get out of my fucking head, which is where I also invariably get into trouble, I have come up with BF and AF. Times for Before Forty BF, and times for After Forty, AF. I am not twenty, or even close to thirty anymore. I am not going to run any 36 minute 10Ks anymore. It is just not going to happen. So AF, I am shooting at a 44 minute 1oK. I think I can kick the crack out of THAT sucker! And I have news for you. I know full well that BF and AF are soon going to stand for Before Fifty and After Fifty. To be followed I am sure by Before Sixty and After Sixty...

Half Marathon Half Wit

Scotia Bank Vancouver Half Marathon

The ubiquitous they is always saying you can't teach a old dog new tricks. Maybe it's time to at least try and trick an old dog. Yesterday I participated in the running of the Scotia Bank Half Marathon, a race with which I have some sentimental attachments as it was one of the first races I did after getting back into running some five years ago and for which I received a much coveted bib number and finisher's medal.

I had recently - Friday and Saturday - helped a friend refurbish and paint their deck, a task which entailed two very long days of physical labour, scraping and painting and getting sunburnt and lifting and toting and all that other good stuff. As in twelve hours long kind of days. Did I mention they were long days? The end result was a deck that was a thing of beauty and a Vince that could barely stand. Rather than work on my knees, I had spent the better part of two days bending over at the waist (rocket scientist), putting a much greater strain on my hamstrings and back than I realized. Sunday morning I was stiff as a board. On race day I was glad I was saving myself for the Post-to-Post 10K on July 1st.

On race day I had been anticipating running around a 2:05, maybe a 2:10 and using the distance as a training run. I hooked up in the starting pen of the race with Stew and had a great time as we covered the distance in about 2:20. Stew is another S625X gadget freak and we spent a thoroughly engaging time chatting about training and heart rate monitors and data and all the stuff some guys love and that drives lots of other people absolutely batty.

Like me Stew would like to qualify for Boston one day - his qualifying time these days is 4:00 - and we commiserated about needing to shave some big chunks of time off of our marathons in order to make that happen. My heart rate hovered around 130, so I was right in my aerobic training zone of between 60-65% of my maximum heart rate, it was a lovely morning and Stew was great company. Picture perfect.

We finished and I collected my medal and we headed off for breakfast. A fabulous morning. Right? Absolutely. Until I had to go and fuck it up. At breakfast I bumped into an old friend, slash aquaintance, one of those people who you know well enough to always extend a friendly greeting, inquire as to their health, or in the case of a race they've just run, ask them how they did. This particular friend was someone with whom I had done a couple of marathon clinics and run a couple of races. He and I are quite evenly matched, hence I always check his times. You would think it is a friendly competitiveness. Curiousity, right? I mean, I always did.... thought it was friendly competitiveness. I've beat him a few times by a minute or two and he's beat me a few more times by a minute or two.

So when I asked my friend how he did, I am sure my motives were well-intentioned,mostly curiousity and politeness. He had run in the neighbourhood of 1:40 that morning, a great race, not his PB, but within a few minutes. He was sitting, like me, with a circle of friends who had obviously run together and were having a great time afterwards. It was running as a social exercise. My friend then asked me how the race was for me. Like me it was meant as nothing more than politeness, a question to fulfill a social obligation rather than any great burning desire on his part to know how fast I ran the fucking race.

And then it happened - this strange, ludicrous, long-winded, blathering crap came out of my mouth as I explained away why I would be running a half marathon in 2:20 (as opposed to my own PB of 1:41). It was obtuse and incoherent and just went on and on and on and on and on as I was wondering to myself even as I was saying it what the hell is coming out of my mouth... My friend gently proffered that I didn't need to explain my time. And I replied, quite truthfully, that I did. An awful confession to make.

And I must have needed to explain it - because I did - in detail that was obviously excruciating for both of us. I was loathing the words even as they tumbled out of my mouth but I was seemingly powerless to stop the flow... It was ego and vanity and insecurity and a great ugly load of crap. As soon as the words had escaped me they left a sour taste in my mouth and spoiled my mood for the rest of the morning.

You would like to think you run for yourself and don't concern yourself with how others do and certainly not COMPARE your performance with theirs, but in my case it was such a reflex action I was quite taken aback. I was, for a moment, perhaps several moments, an ugly runner, one whose image I didn't appreciate in my mirror. The vanity mirror at that. Gawd, when will I grow up!?!

Crunching the Numbers

The Polar S625X really is a running computer. I don't know if I actually use it to "Train Like the Pro's", but it certainly has that capability.

The past two weeks have been quite eye-opening for yours truly. After feeling down in the dumps and having a hard time throwing off my post-Vancouver-marathon lethargy, I found the ideal cure in a little speed work. Nothing works like getting your blood moving...

The marathon clinic started again, and as like last clinic, a couple of really talented athletes made their appearance. This time it is C and J, two very fast young women with no real idea of how fast they actually can be. My attempt last week to catch up to and keep up with Hugh, and to try and catch C (Hugh and I failed) during the 8K tempo run got my heart rate up to 185 and my heart back into running.

This Tuesday I arrived early for the Marathon Clinic and had a chance to chat with both J and C about their training strategies for the upcoming Fall marathon. Both of them have so little running experience that they hadn't given it much thought. And well both of them knew that they were fast, they really had no idea of how fast. In fact, both of them admitted to holding back a little. Since they were both now familiar with the tempo route I suggested that there was no time like the present for them (in honour of Michael) to "put the hammer down." Ladies I said, "What are you saving it for? Let's see what you've got!".

This is what it must have been like to open Pandora's box. Because I peeked under the lid and a couple of demons slipped by me. I unleashed a couple of hell hounds, I mean...greyhounds. After last week's 34 minute 8K, Hugh and I paced each other to what I thought was a pretty respectable 35 minute 8K. Cognizant of the Scotia Bank Half Marathon coming up this weekend, I went out determined to be disciplined and to run at 82-84% or 164-168 BPM. If you look at my heart rate chart, you can see that I managed my pace quite well. I must admit that I was surprised we were only a bit more than a minute slower than the previous week.

A close look at the two tempo run charts reveals that we picked up the pace a little quicker at the start this week, but never turned the run into a race like last week.

Last week C finished about 400 meters ahead of Hugh and I, This week? She finished at least a full kilometer ahead of us. As in, 8K in about 30 minutes. We went out and ran an out and back course, and C caught and passed everyone who was running 6.8K.

And J? Only a few minutes behind C and at least 4 or 500 meters ahead of Hugh and myself. J ran a 32 and change 8K. Not bad for a couple of first timers! I guess if you're going to get thrashed, you might as well get beaten by women.

On a training note, doing the 10K runs the day after the tempo runs has been a very different experience week to week. After last week's tempo run effort, both Hugh and I eased off the throttle the next day in the 10K. This week, despite being only a minute slower in the 8K, but much more in control, we went out and did a 10K last night that was a full mile further than last week's, in almost exactly the same time. By slowing down our 8K tempo run, our 10K run was seven and a half minutes faster. And our legs felt much more recovered from the previous day's workout.

There is a lesson in here somewhere. The amount of information you get from the Polar S625X is truly staggering. Aside from that fact alone, I can now not even IMAGINE that a serious runner interested in a serious time would NOT train with a heart rate monitor.

Last night's 10K (7.1 miles) in 52.35 minutes. A much higher heart rate and effort this week because in the previous day's tempo run my heart rate was nearly a full ten percent lower than last week's tempo run. Yet the difference between my two tempo run times was barely a minute. A very unexpected result.

Last week's 10K (6.1 miles) - 51 minutes - had to keep heart rate down because of tempo run the day before. 

This week's Tempo Run - 8K in 35 minutes - Max Heart Rate 168 

Previous Tempo Run - 8K in 34 minutes - Max Heart Rate 185 

Men, Middle Age and Mortality - cont.

Running is one thing, this pursuit of Boston is exacting a heavier toll than I had imagined it would. I have to be faster, but the speed is breaking down a body already on the verge of middle-age decrepitude. I am gingerly trying to find the delicate balance where hard training stresses induces improvement versus going out too hard too often results in injury and over-training. The cross-training, the running, the endless pushing of the edge of the envelope, all require a deftness of touch and reasoning that I probably lack. It is in my nature to push until something pushes back. Training to qualify for Boston is all about finesse. When your body pushes back, you have stepped too far over the line and one can only hope that the damage isn't irrevocable. At least for this marathon.

Turning 45 is a mere six weeks away, losing another fifteen pounds is imperative, if only to take the strain off of my old injuries, a host of broken bones, abused tendons, ruptured cartilage, shredded ligaments and the assorted scar tissues of my overly exuberant youth. Every hard work-out these days seems to rouse in my muscles the memory of some old indignity inflicted on them from previous decades, a high speed spill, a body check into the corner, an awkward tackle, a fall from a horse, the cars I never saw coming - it is a rather perverse scenario - a cellular review of Vince's "Greatest Hits".

And yet, and yet, it is not all bad news. One morning I can barely crawl out of the bed and then the next day, like last Tuesday night's tempo run, the running is not a procession of individual footsteps, but a physical expression that verges on poetry, my feet do not pound pavement but fly over it. I have no sensation of effort, the striding becomes gliding, and I steam forward as if riding the crest of a wave. And then it as if you are a child again, when seemingly effortless speed and play were the natural phyical expression of self. The ache then is not in your body but in your heart and soul. When you wish you could have had the wisdom in your youth to fully savour every moment of physical bliss but of course you couldn't, because you were sweetly ignorant of the knowledge that such things are fleeting. That the body, like the years, must pass through its seasons, that spring will give way to summer and fall and inevitably, to winter.

The truth is, I can see myself running many, many more marathons. I see marathons trailing off far into my future... But there is no denying that the leaves in my legs are turning colour. That the green of spring and summer is giving way to an autumnal palette.

The truth is also, I do not know how many more fast marathons I either can run or that I want to run - bearing in mind of course that my definition of a fast marathon is specific entirely to me. A marathon where I am faster than the one before, where my time is a new personal best. After a while, what point am I trying to make to myself?

Frankly, I wouldn't mind being a 4:00, 4:15 or 4:30 marthoner at all. What is the special allure of Boston? What is it about it's history and glitter and shine that makes me want to pick at it like a crow? What makes me want to have it? Ego? Id? Just because it's there?

Regardless, the cold hard facts show that a 3:30:59 is going to take a once-in-a-lifetime conjuction of the sun, the moon, and all the stars and planets. I must be close to 180. I must be fully recovered, rested and tapered. I must be fast. Otherwise, any attempt at a qualifying time in October will be fruitless. Not pointless. But fruitless. I want to play as far into late summer as I can. I want to ignore the shorter days and the longer nights, turn a blind eye to the falling leaves and the failing light, pretend I don't see the ice on the ponds and the birds flying south nor the wind from the north and the first killing frost. I want summer to last as long as possible. And I want to pick the last of the summer fruit.

Men, Middle-Age and Mortality

Father's Day has come and gone but left me pondering fathers and sons and the things we inherit and the things we learn, that which is passed on, for better or worse and nature versus nuture and the inevitability of time. Too much for one Sunday!

When 40 loomed on the horizon for yours truly, Dr. Boris suggested that, given my family history in the heart department, it might not be a bad idea to go for a baseline cholesterol test. It only took me the better part of five years to get around to it. In fact I even, on two separate occasions I am chastened to add, carried around in my wallet until they were frayed and worn out, forms filled out to take the test.

The obtuseness of my behavior becomes even more apparent when I consider that both I and my younger brother once confessed to each other that we both experienced chest pain at times that was painful to the point of being debilitating. In the intervening years, Boris found that my symptoms were a result of my asthma, my brother's, anxiety. But, really, neither one of us truly wanted to know. We were both, I think, attempting to distance ourselves from the heart history of our father and grandfather.

Recognizing the futility of thinking that a problem or situation will resolve itself by being studiously and conscientiously ignored, I figured I might as well get a baseline test while it still made sense. Me being me, a test is a test, and I wanted a good result. And if there was ever a day when I was going to get good cholesterol numbers, I figured it had to be the day after a marathon.

So on the Monday after the Vancouver Marathon I trundled off to the clinic, let the nurse stab me and meekly gave up my tubes of blood. All would now be revealed. Short answer? There is almost no chance of my succumbing to a heart "event" any time soon. Although, I am still wondering about the wizard who came up with the medical terminolgy - heart event - I mean, "heart event" sounds like a party with balloons and and a band and hundred dollar tickets and a dress code.

But my blood chemistry was pristine. Bad cholesterol low, good cholesterol good, those pesky little triglycerides, hardly on the scale, and the whole host of other enzymes and things all seemingly just fine. I was almost, kind of, but in the end, not really, disappointed. I mean, I had invested a lot of energy in actively avoiding dealing with the truth about my heart health. My paranoia and sense of dread had largely been for nought. Although Boris hastened to add, that my blood pressure, heart rate and blood chemistry were all inextricably linked to my running lifestyle for the past five or so years, and his best advice? - keep running.

To be continued...

Running is one thing, this pursuit of Boston is exacting a heavier toll than I had imagined it would. I have to be faster, but the speed is breaking down a body already on the verge of middle-age decrepitude. I am gingerly trying to find the delicate balance where hard training stresses induces improvement versus going out too hard too often results in injury and over-training. The cross-training, the running, the endless pushing of the edge of the envelope, all require a deftness of touch and reasoning that I probably lack. It is in my nature to push until something pushes back. Training to qualify for Boston is all about finesse. When your body pushes back, you have stepped too far over the line and one can only hope that the damage isn't irrevocable. At least for this marathon.

Turning 45 is a mere six weeks away, losing another fifteen pounds is imperative, if only to take the strain off of my old injuries, a host of broken bones, abused tendons, ruptured cartilage, shredded ligaments and the assorted scar tissues of my overly exuberant youth. Every hard work-out these days seems to rouse in my muscles the memory of some old indignity inflicted on them from previous decades, a high speed spill, a body check into the corner, an awkward tackle, a fall from a horse, the cars I never saw coming - it is a rather perverse scenario - a cellular review of Vince's "Greatest Hits".

And yet, and yet, it is not all bad news. One morning I can barely crawl out of the bed and then the next day, like last Tuesday night's tempo run, the running is not a procession of individual footsteps, but a physical expression that verges on poetry, my feet do not pound pavement but fly over it. I have no sensation of effort, the striding becomes gliding, and I steam forward as if riding the crest of a wave. And then it as if you are a child again, when seemingly effortless speed and play were the natural phyical expression of self. The ache then is not in your body but in your heart and soul. When you wish you could have had the wisdom in your youth to fully savour every moment of physical bliss but of course you couldn't, because you were sweetly ignorant of the knowledge that such things are fleeting. That the body, like the years, must pass through its seasons, that spring will give way to summer and fall and inevitably, to winter.

The truth is, I can see myself running many, many more marathons. I see marathons trailing off far into my future... But there is no denying that the leaves in my legs are turning colour. That the green of spring and summer is giving way to an autumnal palette.

The truth is also, I do not know how many more fast marathons I either can run or that I want to run - bearing in mind of course that my definition of a fast marathon is specific entirely to me. A marathon where I am faster than the one before, where my time is a new personal best. After a while, what point am I trying to make to myself?

Frankly, I wouldn't mind being a 4:00, 4:15 or 4:30 marthoner at all. What is the special allure of Boston? What is it about it's history and glitter and shine that makes me want to pick at it like a crow? What makes me want to have it? Ego? Id? Just because it's there?

Regardless, the cold hard facts show that a 3:30:59 is going to take a once-in-a-lifetime conjuction of the sun, the moon, and all the stars and planets. I must be close to 180. I must be fully recovered, rested and tapered. I must be fast. Otherwise, any attempt at a qualifying time in October will be fruitless. Not pointless. But fruitless. I want to play as far into late summer as I can. I want to ignore the shorter days and the longer nights, turn a blind eye to the falling leaves and the failing light, pretend I don't see the ice on the ponds and the birds flying south nor the wind from the north and the first killing frost. I want summer to last as long as possible. And I want to pick the last of the summer fruit.

Close up of Vince's heart rate at redline... 

CRANKING IT UP...

Cranking it up...

The great thing about a marathon clinic is you never know who might show up, what level of talent they possess or what level of potential they might have. Tuesday night was our second tempo run. 6K for most, 8K for those of us wanting to run a 3:30 or faster...

Hugh and I went out together to do an 8K together (Hugh has run a sub three hour marathon in his youth, AND RUN BOSTON!) and the rest of the usual suspects who would be with us, or more accurately, in front of us, are either recovering from injuries, on vacation, taking time off or were simply nowhere to be found.

As H and I went out, we were paced step for step by a tall, lithe young blonde woman who appeared to be in her early twenties. She was cheerful, talkative and despite my going out fast from the get go, was none the worse for the effort or the pace. After the first one and a half kilometres I urged C and Hugh to run at their own pace and not be slowed down by me. I did suggest to Hugh that if I caught him at the end, "You'll be in trouble, Hugh". A suggestion more for my benefit than for Hughes...

Long story short. This 24 year old blonde named C absolutely kicked my ass in the 8K run. I did 8K with Hugh in 34 minutes, cranked my heart rate up to 185 and she beat the both of us by at least 200 meters. At the end, when I was redlined, or beyond my redline at 185, Miss C was pulling away. It was a thing of beauty.

We went out to Lumberman's Arch and back on the Sea Wall and this woman was absolutely effortless. I mean she ran beautifully. No visible strain or effort or fatigue. And a perfect stride. I might suggest she alter her arm swing slightly, but to what end? She flies over the ground.

I went out at 166-168 on the way out for the first few K, and for the last 4K I was 170 plus and did at least 3K at 180 plus. Look at that heart rate chart. For a good ten minutes I was trying to hold steady at 184-185... I did not have another gear to shift up into other than a final kick of maybe three or four hundred metres. This was 10K race pace for me.

And to be honest, it was a brutal pace for me, right on the ragged edge of breaking down. Hugh admitted later to seeing 177 on his heart rate monitor and he will admit to being a full ten years older than me (and I'm 44).

At the half way mark I was about fifty metres behind Hugh and Ms. C and I decided to try and catch them. Emphasis on try. After a long hard push, I caught Hugh with about 1,500 metres to go, but Ms. C was still accelerating away...

In the end, Hugh and I were running, making that racing, neck and neck, stride for stride. It was great, it was beautiful and as a training run, it was probably incredibly stupid. We were way outside our planned heart rate training zone. And I was supposed to be the guy nominally in charge!

Hugh, being the far smarter of the two of us, suggested we do a long easy cool down rather than sprint like mad men towards the finish, which is what we had set ourselves up for, neither one of us wanting to yield a step or ease up as we got caught up in the pace and with the finish line tantalizingly close. What a great running buddy, one who is smart enough and gracious enough to save you from yourself... So in the end we did a long cool down, easing up and tailing off our speed. Every once in a while, though, it feels great to blow the carbon out the pipes. I feel the need for speed!

The mysterious Ms. C is fast, maybe as fast as Rachel (a 3:27 in Vancouver) and is certainly someone who can push me in training, and a few other people I can think of...

Wow! Amazing talent that appears completely out of the blue. I chatted with her briefly after the run and Ms. C never ran in highschool or university. She doesn't have a best 10K time because she hasn't really run one. She just finished her first half-marathon in 1:31 and decided to move up in distance.

Gadzooks!

And Hugh! I hope I am half as committed and half as talented in ten years time.

Wow!

Grinding Through the Gears

After stepping up the pace for the first time since the Vancouver Marathon on Sunday, a 1:50 20K and Tuesday, a 30 minute 6.2K, I woke up feeling fatigue draped all over me like a wet blanket.

I took Wednesday and Thursday off, did some cross training and did a moderately fast 10K today, 54 minutes. My plan is to do an easy 5 or 6K on Saturday before Sunday's long run.

Have dropped another pound or so it seems this week and the scale reads about 195.

I am determined to pace myself over the next 18 weeks - okay it's already down to 17 1/2! - but I already feel an urgency to get faster and lighter quickly.

I tweaked a rib doing some abdominal work and I have to be careful not to overdo the cross training. I know from experience that the time between now and the marathon in Kelowna in October will fly by before I know it.

The latest marathon clinic started on Tuesday and it is one of the smallest in memory. Chances are a few more people will show up in the coming weeks. Seymour did a great job on short notice but knowing how incredibly packed his work and volunteer schedule is I am hoping he will not get swamped.

Tit For Tat

One of the great things about writing a Blog is the feedback you get. Some of the gems are so fabulous that I have to include them in a new post. I always get a good giggle out of the people who post "Anonymously" best of all. Usually they are the type of comments from those folks who are, in print as in life, better left to their anonymity.

This particular gem comes from someone who clearly worships at the altar of John Stanton, the titular Al Bundy of the Running Room Empire, and someone, who, by the sounds of their e-mail at least, is if not an actual little Imperial Running Room Storm Trooper stoolie, then someone who has drunk deeply from the company Kool-Aid. Of course this may be a literary and cultural reference that escapes them, but Hey!, I enjoyed this Post so much I just had to pass it along.

Vince,

I have to say that never in my life have I met or read about a person so utterly self centred. (unquestionably true!)

I find it absolutely unbelievable that you call John Stanton a "Jeff Galloway wannabe" or a "grossly overweight salesman" when you should be talking about yourself. (I believe that is actually the stated purpose of my entire fucking Blog!, to talk about myself and my Quixotic attempt to qualify for Boston. Clearly sometimes it is not enough even when you spell it out for some people... As for the Running Room's marathon program, it was at one time actually affiliated with Jeff Galloway's marathon clinics. Oops, didn't someone do their homework. Hmmmnn, maybe they don't read.... And I heartily applauded John Stanton's personal marathon experience as being nothing less than inspirational. Some people's kids, I tell you... They must have missed their Remedial Reading Class)

Have you seen your self in the mirror? (every morning actually) and by the way, your self is actually one word Einstein!

Ummmmm, let me think about this, John Stanton is a self made millionaire who has completed many marathons under 3:30 and you are an unemployed, wannabe competetive marathoner who wishes he could beat the people that he preaches to. (and the point here is...?)

It seems to me that you spend every single marathon clinic yapping on about how much knowledge you have and what everybody should and shouldn't be doing and then you painfully fail when your ideas are put to the test. (actually, over time, I have met all my marathon goals and then set new ones. Enlightened minds consider this developing and making progress...)
Why don't you do us all a favour and keep your obviously useless ideas to yourself so that people in the clinic can actually get a good time. (I can not speak for the people with whom I have trained, but a lot of them keep asking me to keep doing what I do, and a surprisingly high number actually go on to meet their goals. As for "my" obviously "useless ideas", I have to confess that I am merely passing on accepted training strategies and programs from people far more experienced than I. Like OLYMPIC Coaches and athletes, you pathetic, drooling, mouth breathing moron! Say, was that last bit out loud? And as for doing you a favour, I'd be happy to, may I suggest therapy, a stiff drink, a sense of humour and a spell-checking program for your computer? And just out of curiousity, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD A DATE! )

You have no real knowlege of athletics, regardless of how many "books" you have read, get out and train, lose some weight and listen to other people, then you may improve. (It is those damned "Evil Books" again! And is that all the "books" EXCEPT the ones written by John Stanton? I get so confused when trying to figure out the reasoning of troglodytes... I think they should be burned, those damn books! And - Jeez, what does a guy have to do? - my last two marathons have been PBs!)

Hey Vince, I have an idea, why don't you sit back, keep your mouth shut and take in some ideas from other people who have experience running under the goals you are constantly bragging about but never reaching. (I like to think my Modus Operandi - that's Latin, you knuckle-dragging cretin - is to do nothing less than continually scour the minds and opinions of accomplished athletes and many other sources for more and better ideas. Hence the reason my Blog continually sources out information and provides links to and quotes from many other Marathon Training sites. As for me "keeping my mouth shut", my nature kind of rebels at the sort of Fascist censorship implicit in that statement. And it is not really what writers do... So, you and which army, my friend?)

BLOGS! - Don't ya just love 'em!?!

Tabula Rosa

Or is it Tabula Rasa... Hmmmmnn, regardless - A Clean Slate - that's what you need when you start to train for another marathon.

You have to forget the pain and heartache and suffering of the last one and focus on the new, pretend that this is a fresh journey with a destination of unknown provenance. An honest Vince would admit to being terrified, but of course I can hardly wait to run under 3:30 in Kelowna in October.

Another clinic starts this evening and the rumour mill has my good friend Seymour teaching it. This is something of a conundrum (sp?) for me as Seymour teaching a clinic at the Running Room is just about the only way I can envision myself having anything to do with those corporate back-stabbing weasels, bastards, hypocrites and miscreants. I was going to train on my own with a few other friends.

I am down five pounds from my marathon weight, a pound a week as sort of planned. Like I have any idea what the fuck I am doing. A few people have even noticed a semi-leaner Vince. I ran Vancouver at 200-201 and I now cause the needle of my scale to quiver in apprehension between 195-196.

I have been doing more cross-training than running for the past month. Mostly weights for my upper body and core work, strength and flexibility.

On Sunday I went out with Rachel, speedy little bitch (3:28 in Vancouver), Patrick, a speedier little bastard (under 3:20) and Justin, one of those twenty years younger, same height as me but fifty pounds lighter little bastards who beat me in the Vancouver Marathon by about two freaking painful excruciating endless minutes. I hate them all but of course I love them and I must run with them despite all the bitter and gall that seethe within me.

Anyway, we did just under 20K (12 miles) in a pretty fast 1:50. It was the first time my legs felt good and strong and recovered since the marathon. At least until about 11 miles when I could feel the fatigue begin to creep back in along my bones.

My diet has been good. Better food choices and less of it. I tried to give up wine but all that made me do was whine. And fuck it, I need SOMETHING to look forward to during the day. A man needs a reason to go on living and the next bottle of wine strikes as being as good a reason as any.

Seymour possibly teaching the marathon clinic. My Gawd, but that is going to make for some good copy...

Joyce must have been both incredibly desperate and counting on Seymour's unassailable sense of community to come up with that one. In many ways, an inspired choice.