The Difference Between Sitting and Standing.

We went south on December 27th.  Our Southern California agenda included a brief visit with my relatives, viewing a high school basketball game, and a trip to the Magic Kingdom.  We planned to return on Wednesday the 29th.  Here's how it all went down:

Sitting
Packed quite lightly, we set off for Claremont around 8:45 a.m.  The drive down Interstate 5 was largely uneventful.  The winter weather gave pause to an abundance of tule fog and splotchy clouds.  Most of the central state offered green, rolling hills, along with sardonic political signs blaming Congress for water shortages.  The Grapevine offered glimpses of snow and sunshine, and upon our descent into the definitive south, we were met with traffic.  I handled the wheel, while my wife intermittently slept in the passenger seat.

The traffic continued on the 210 East.  Our driving window missed the morning traffic, but apparently coincided with afternoon gridlock.  Stephanie and I saw the best of Pasadena, crawling along the freeway and discussing the merits of gift cards and shuffling through appropriately themed music (Death Cab for Cutie's "Why You'd Want to Live Here," The Decemberist's "Los Angeles, I'm Yours," and anything Gwen Stefani).  I complained about the discomfort of sitting and driving, and wondered aloud how we made it to South Africa on an airplane.

Standing
Claremont, if you are unfamiliar, is a quaint community east of Pasadena.  My uncle and aunt live there; both walk the quiet streets to their jobs at different Claremont colleges.  My uncle works at Harvey Mudd, where he's a professor of literature.  His wife works at Claremont Graduate University as a professor of religion.  Despite the fact that it mirrored their daily routine during the semester, they accommodated our seated travel with a brisk walk through parts of the campuses.  We settled at The Back Abbey, an awesome British pub with an intimidating burger menu and a stellar beer selection.  Between the rich conversation on Greece, fries cooked in duck fat, and a mean seasonal stout, we settled into a fine mood and warmed ourselves for a walk to the car and a quick jaunt to Orange.

With directions punched into the GPS, we navigated the highways towards Anaheim.  The lodging for the Jesuit High School basketball team was, we surmised, in Orange, the location of the tournament.  After walking into the wrong Hilton Suites and knocking on a few doors, we continued to Anaheim and settled at a Hilton near Disneyland.  Ben and the coaching staff hadn't yet eaten, so we made our way to a P.F. Chang's, where Steph and I enjoyed another beverage and chatted about the on-court happenings of the day.  We then made our way to Bar Louie in Anaheim Garden Walk for more of the same.

After some snoring, a groggy purchase of some park-hopper passes, and a breakfast buffet, we set off down South Harbor Boulevard in the brisk December sunshine.  We were warned of Monday's ticket sellout and admission cap for both theme parks, but we felt confident that if we arrived in the 8 o'clock hour we'd survive the rush.  We did, and got our first taste of fun on the Buzz Lightyear ride, where we slaughtered a number of aliens hellbent on eating batteries (I think that's the storyline, anyway).

As the people piled in, we made our way to Pirates of the Caribbean, where the 40-minute wait felt like a breeze.  We failed to procure any fast pass tickets because of our plans to see Jesuit play in the middle of the afternoon.  From Pirate's, we hit Splash Mountain.  I won the competition for first-to-see-someone-you-know, and we all got drenched before heading to Big Thunder Mountain for 75 minutes of zig-zaggin and a 2.5 minute roller coaster.

After the train ride, Ben split to meet up with the team, while Stephanie and I entered California Adventure for a quick walk and some lunch.  After another 75-minute ordeal (for food, believe it or not), we walked (and ate) our way back toward the Hilton to prepare for the game.

Sitting
The tournament, held at Chapman University, included teams from across the state (and one from a town in Washington named Squalicum).  Tired but excited, Stephanie and I enjoyed some top-notch hoops as the Marauders drowned the Squalicum Storm in flurry of three pointers and quick, cutting layups.  We were impressed not only by the stamina of the high school kids enduring a holiday road trip, but also by Ben's poise, and the ability of the Chapman University snack bar to out-coffee the Hilton.

Standing
After the game, Ben, Stephanie, and I made our way toward a Subway sandwich shop and eventually a reentry into Disneyland.  We hadn't yet learned of our good fortune that day, but we certainly knew the park was a popular spot.  We pushed our way to the Indian Jones Adventure, waiting 80 minutes to drive the SUV through the temple.  We passed the time with a number of cell phone checks, app downloads, and memories of our shared time in South Africa.

The ride ended just in time for us to catch the fireworks spectacular.  Amid the throng of oohing, ahhing fans, we managed to find a nice spot beneath an obstructive tree and coo along with the masses.

Our plan was to beat the crowd back to Big Thunder Mountain, but our plan was thwarted.  First, the Disney traffic directors made it impossible to get from Main Street to Adventure Land.  Then once we finally herded ourselves toward the ride, we found it closed.  The Matterhorn offered nothing better, so we swallowed our evening and prepared for Space Mountain's 120-minute wait.

As 8:50 became 9:45, and 10:00 became 10:30, we passed the time by playing variations of the I'm-thinking-of-a-person game, a game that if correctly played, most definitely helps to pass the long, cold minutes of waiting.  This game was first played by us at SFO waiting for a flight to JFK (and then to Johannesburg).  We've gotten pretty good at passing the time together.  By 10:40, we'd made it indoors.  We wound our way through the interior walkway, desperately seeking a place to sit.  We were not disappointed.

Out of leg strength and out of time, we called it a day and headed back to the Hilton for some sack time.

Sitting
After another Hilton breakfast, we took the Prius back toward the highway for a long stretch of traveling.  We stopped in Buttonwillow, where it became clear that Denny's is a place for travelers, not just old people.  I grazed a tumbleweed or two on I5, never surpassed 75 mph, and returned safely to the cat that evening.

CIM, according to Stephanie.

0: I line up a few people behind the 4:00 pacers. I don’t see my running partner, Brandy, from the training group, but I’m in the middle of a large crowd. When the gun goes off, the pacers get sucked forward quickly. I’m a long way from the starting line, so I decide it’s not wise to run to catch them until I cross it.

1 mile (9:19): I’m not dodging people, but the course is crowded. I hold back to avoid going out too fast and let the people sort themselves out. It feels like a jog. I alternate looking on the side of the road for signs of Kyle and not looking out of fear I will see him. I hope that his knee is feeling good.

2 (9:01): Things are pretty rural. I can smell farm. I can also see men on the side of the road peeing. Now I’m close to the pacers. My goal is to slowly work up to them.

3 (8:53): Too fast, but I don’t panic. I heard miles 2-3 can be fast. We’re going up and down hills and I’m just following along.

4-6 (9:07, 9:02, 9:09): I seem to be settling into the right pace. I feel good. At the first relay exchange I realize I’m running with my head entirely turned to the right looking for my brother-in-law, Chris, in a verrrry long line of people. I wave to someone and then realize it is not Chris. It would probably be impossible to spot him.

7 (8:59): I’m not sure if it is here, but at some point I realize that one of my water bottles started half empty (is it leaking?) and that I’m taking in water faster than usual. The sky is clear (hooray for no rain) but it’s making wearing a hat far too hot for me.

8-9 (9:10, 9:10): I’m going along at a consistent pace, but it’s crowded and at times hard to find a good spot in the group to run in. I get stuck on the painted lines in the road (who knew they were 3-D?) and have to dodge reflectors. At one point, I almost slip on a reflector. Yikes. Time to get out of here…

10 (9:01): I start looking for Kyle’s mom and step-dad, who said they would be in a church parking lot at mile 11. I see a church parking lot, but it’s not the right one. I finally spot Brandy a few people behind the pacers in the group.

11-12 (9:07, 9:11): I wave vigorously at a woman in a church parking lot who turns out to be very clearly not my mother-in-law. This street has an unbelievably large number of churches. I listen for their vuvuzela. I finally spot both of them. I’m still towards the center of the road so there are a lot of people between us. “Ron” is apparently the easiest to yell out, so I go with that and waive frantically. They see me and seem unusually excited. I can’t ask how Kyle is doing, but I’m encouraged that he’s not there.

13 (8:57): I finally catch up to the pacers by the halfway mark. My split for the half is a nice 1:59:27 and everything feels easy. But I’m thirsty (not good) so I grab some aid water even though I have some left in my belt. It’s time to supplement. The cup has hardly any water. Not much help. The road narrows substantially as the relay runners go one way and we go another. A woman falls down in front of me and causes a chain reaction. I put my hand on someone for support and have to stop for a second and then run around her. That’s all it takes for the pacers to get away from me again.

14-15 (9:09, 9:07): Still feeling good. I try to work my way back to the pacers.

16 (9:12): Not easy, but still feeling good.

17 (9:21): Suddenly I can tell I can’t keep up 9:10 anymore. The pacers are getting too far away and 9 miles left is too far to push that hard. I can’t figure out what I can do.

18 (9:51): I fall back to my easy/long run pace. I am disappointed in this development. I see one of my coaches, Ryan, on the aforementioned bicycle with the California flag. I flag him down and he rides with me for a bit. He takes the hat I had clipped to my fuel belt. He tells me to concentrate on my splits and that Brandy is not very far ahead (probably 25 meters) and not feeling well. He says we should work together. This seems like a good idea, but an impossible distance to bridge. I’m also not sure what splits I can keep at this point. I ask how Kyle is doing. Ryan tells me that Kyle is doing great and that his pace group was going too slow so Kyle went on ahead. I’m relieved that Kyle is feeling good. I know 8 miles is a lot to go, but it sounds like the knee is good.

19 (9:52): I’m now actively looking for water and taking it in twos at every aid station. Granted, once I spill almost an entire cup on the ground, so I’m not necessarily actually drinking two cups of water every time.

20 (9:54): We pass through “the wall.” It’s a fake wall. It makes me a little nervous for what is next given how I’m already feeling. I see the men that Kyle mentioned offering beer. I’m confused. Are they kidding? Is it actually sport drink? I grab an orange Gu and stash it in my shorts pocket for later.

21 (10:21): A woman passes me and pauses to say that she’s been running behind me for miles and offers me encouragement. This is really nice, but again, I can’t seem to do anything other than keep at this pace slower. Also, now that I know I won’t hit 4:00, I don’t exactly have a goal. 4:05? 4:10? 4:15? They all sound good enough to me at this point. I kind of like how I am feeling right now. Maybe it’s all the drink, but I seem to be coming back. Still, 5 miles seems like a lot to push and I see more people starting to walk around me. Who would give up this feeling for that? I concentrate on looking forward to seeing Ben.

22 (10:11): I push up the bridge. Not bad at all. This makes me feel good. I’ve slowed down but I’m still strong. The 4:05 pacer comes along side me. I contemplate trying to stick with him, but eventually it’s clear that’s not happening either. On the downward slope, I see Ben in a purple Kings sweatshirt scanning the crowd. He starts clapping and yelling like he does when he coaches basketball. He is holding a fuel belt already. I take this as a positive sign from Kyle. I’m thinking that at this point he will at least finish. I give Ben my fuel belt. It feels really nice to get rid of it.

23-24: After 22.5, my watch dies. Perhaps for the best as I don’t care about time too much at this point. My calf is intermittently cramping up. I appear to keep moving at my 10 minute speed, but I fear something terrible is about to happen (like that my calf will completely cramp up). I take my orange Gu. Unfortunately, the next aid station is a ways off. It’s not tasty. I concentrate on getting to 26th and L, where one of my favorite coworkers, Andrea, has promised to be on the corner. After, naturally, waiving to someone who is not Andrea on the sidewalk between 25th and 26th, I find actual Andrea on the corner (I realize now Andrea is too precise to have strayed from the corner) with the same scanning-the-crowd squint Ben had. I wave and she waves excitedly. This gives me a boost.

25: Calf appears to have worked itself out. I’m still not motivated to push (apparently my mother was right about me being obstinate) but I’m not slowing down. I appear to have locked into this speed and it cannot be altered either way. My two other Fleet Feet coaches, Russ and Tina, are on the side of the road. Tina yells out, “Stephanie is looking good!” Stephanie is looking good because she’s been running easy for miles now. By 19th street, I’m counting each block down to 8th.

26: As I turn the corner from 8th onto the final stretch, I see my mom and Kyle standing next to each other and yelling. They look so excited. Kyle looks very refreshed. Did he really just run a marathon? I’m finally able to pick it up. I wonder – where was this energy the last several miles?

26.2: Finished at 4:09:30. I’m pleased that I’m not at all dead when I cross the line, and can obtain my medal, fake blanket, and get my timing chip clipped without any difficulty. It takes me forever to find my family (the finish area is very crowded), but when I finally do, they are really good about getting me my stuff and helping me navigate the food line and get my sweat bag.

CIM, according to Kyle

Preparations for CIM have been underway for some time.  We registered quite early this year, participated in a bi-weekly training group from from August to December, and spent the better part of Saturday putting things in order for the big race.  This included the pinning of the bib and fastening of the time chip, the filling of the fuel belt, the packing a both a pre- and post-race bag, and the cutting to size of the tube sock-turned-arm-warmer.

After all that excitement, the following transcript constitutes what I recall from the day of the CIM.  Please note the ways in which time, miles, and blocks all serve as markers of time and progress.


3:28 a.m. Despite the fact that the alarm was set for 3:45, we stirred around 3:00.  I hit the floor near 3:30, fired the water for coffee press and oatmeal, and counted the hours of sleep acquired since 10:00 pm the previous night.  Stephanie followed shortly after, rising with the alarm and falling into a pre-run routine.

4:51 a.m. Thanks to the Zooks, we had a ride to the shuttle stop at the Embassy Suites by the Tower Bridge.  Not only did they wake at an unbelievable hour, but they arrived two minutes early and greeted us with a video camera and enthusiastic support.


6:21 a.m. Our ride to Folsom, a school bus donated by the Elk Grove Unified School District, left the hotel around 5:10.  It inexplicably avoided the freeway in favor of circling certain areas of the grid to caravan with other buses up the hill.  Our bus finally arrived and parked in huge, yellow line.  We departed, thanked the driver, and headed for the next line: the bathroom.

6:56 a.m. After a barely-audible overview from the 3:10 pacer, a bunch of strangers and I clumped near the gates and observed the singing of the national anthem.  At the conclusion, a gun fired, and the pack started moving.  My initial goal was to stay with the 3:10 pace group, as the finishing time would qualify me to run in the Boston Marathon.  I set off with two mates from my training group, and we quickly agreed that the pace felt slow, the group burdensome, and the race constrictive.


mile 1 GPS watches all around me beeped the distance, but by my clock the pace, set at 7:15 minute splits, was 7:42.  I broke rank, making a move to the right, and ditched the sock-gloves near the second aid station.  I cruised the next couple of miles in isolation.  The pack thinned along with the crowd, and I tried my best to absorb the pastures and fog of the morning.  I'm too excited at the absence of rain.

mile 2 Stretching out from the pack also means I've strayed from Scott and Astin, my two training mates.  It means I am running most of this alone.

mile 5.5 The first race marker, and huge relay exchange, came just after a huge left turn near mile 5.  I spent most of this stretch looking to the right for my brother Chris, who awaited a relay exchange.  My search was interrupted by screams of support from my principal and a colleague, also there for relay purposes.  This unexpected morale booster carried me into the next miles.

mile 6.5 Around the 6th mile I started to wonder about the strength of my knee.  The previous Sunday I experienced significant pain in the iliotibial band on my left leg.  After a serious physical therapy session and ample rest and stretching, I began the race in doubt that I'd make it far enough to test my recovery.  Nearing the 7th mile, I noticed discomfort and started contemplating exit strategies should the pain increase.

Aside from those concerns, it was during these boring miles that I continued to realize how lovely a morning we'd been given, weather-wise.

mile 11 The knee concerns a fading thought, I focused on finding my mother and step father, who explained they'd find a place near the eleventh or twelfth mile.  As I crossed the associative intersection, I heard a miniature vuvuzela squealing above the cheering fans.  My mom and step dad appeared on my right, cheering mightily.  I said, "Don't I know you?" to which she replied, "I love you!"  I smiled so forcefully that my jaws hurt; it lasted for the next quarter mile.  She later told me that it was as exciting as cheering for my little league games, rec. basketball teams, or football dashes.  My step father was amazed at the supportive environment.  He found Stephanie when she passed, despite the large pack and conspicuous outfit.  They've vowed never to miss another race.

13.1 I cruised through the half marathon checkpoint at a cool 1:33.  In October, I ran 13.1 in 1:28 with considerable struggle.  On Sunday, my mind rejoiced at the idea that a mere 5 minutes could produce such a different feeling.

mile 15  By this point, the marathon becomes a faster version of one of the longer training runs we endured in the fall.  Unfortunately, it's still 11 miles from the finish line, a long way from the grid of midtown, and a desolate place for fans.  This all led to the realization that a marathon is a long freaking run.  I forced myself to focus on the prospects of seeing more supporters, and perhaps chatting with my coach.


mile 17 Just before hearing my splits at 17 I met up with my favorite Fleet Feet coach Ryan.  He patrolled the oncoming line on bicycle and carried a California state flag.  He told me I looked calm and strong, and we chatted about odds and ends.  I told him to check on Stephanie, and he told me to focus on hitting my splits from miles 18 to 21.  "After 21," he told me, "the thrill of finishing among all those people will carry you through."  I felt great. 


miles 18-21 My pace didn't slow.  Just as Ryan advocated, I maintained 7:08-7:10 splits through these crucial miles. 

mile 21  As I neared Lohman's Plaza ("The Wall," they call it) I saw a woman on the curb, folded over in tears.  Her partner (husband, boyfriend?) could not comfort her as she cried into her CIM bib.  "This is crazy," I thought.  Just then, I saw Christina Abshire, my close college friend, cheering me from the median across from Lohman's Plaza.  I thanked her, cheered loudly, and pressed on through a throng of supporters.  Here, I was offered beer in blue plastic cups, fives and handshakes, and plates of oranges.  I declined all, eager to find Ben and abandon my fuel belt.


mile 22 This stretch is famous for it's poppy incline and subsequent grid running.  I found the hill up to the H Street Bridge to be nothing special.  Crossing, I focused on finding my brother-in-law Ben.  I wanted to see a familiar face, but I badly wanted to shed my empty (and tightly fastened) belt.  As I descended the bridge, I saw him approaching on the right, and violently unvelcroed my fuel belt.  He said, "Good job.  Good luck."  And that was that.

Fabulous 40s Having finished my last gel fuel without water, I felt heavy and sluggish moving into the 50-block of East Sac.  I moved slower, my calves and hamstrings tightening, and scanned the horizon for an aid station.  At this point, I felt like I was grinding myself into the asphalt.  (Coincidentally, later that evening I watched The Kitchen chef Noah Zonca grind wasabi root into sushi accoutrement and imagined myself as the root).  I developed significant pain in left hamstring and right calf.  Near Mercy (no pun intended), I was passed by the 3:10 pacer I'd ditched long earlier.  Apparently making up for lost time, he seemed to be running negative splits in the second half of the marathon.  At any rate, he passed me like I was standing still; although, he led a significantly smaller group of runners.  I checked his splits, and they were, in fact, nearly negative for the later miles of the race.  He finished at 3:09.

I started to rely not on the mile markers, but on the street signs.  The 30s meant only 20 or so blocks until the end.

16th Street Moving at a crawl by this point, I heard my former credential colleague Sarah cheering me on.  After finishing the first leg for her relay team, Sarah set up shop between 20th and 19th streets to cheer on the final participant.  Needless to say, her presence had a powerful impact on my morale.

9th Street Just before Frank Fat's I hit the mile 26 sign.  The pacer was long out of sight, but I held out hope that somehow he'd gone too fast, and that I'd cross with a time worthy of qualification in the Boston Marathon.

Left on 8th Street The crowd grew enormously.  I turned a familiar corner and joined a number of other, slowing runners focused on crawling across the finish line.  I took another left, finishing in front of the Capitol in 3:12:15, one minute and 16 seconds over the Boston qualifier time.

Post-race Immediately after crossing, I saw Beverly Zook mirroring my steps.  She held our post-race bag, and offered a congratulations and a concerned look.  I immediately took to stretching my calves, wrapped myself in a martian blanket, and posed for a photo with my finishers medal.  I picked up my pre-race bag, lying on the grass in front of the capitol, and sought the pancakes offered to finishers.  My body felt shredded; I cramped up in the food line, and hobbled to the curb like a drunk Frankenstein.  I heard from Beverly that Ben has called, and Stephanie is advancing to the grid.  I'm told it'll be around 50 minutes.  Things are considerably better since my time in the changing tents, and I've traded my shorts for sweats and a free Kaiser beanie to focus on Stephanie's finish. We found her at the corner near the 4:09 minute, looking strong.

After the dust settled, the braincells restored, and the baths taken, Stephanie and I set off for a celebratory dinner at the The Kitchen.  Everyone's a winner with wine flights!