Float On Down

Monday night I sat in an eddy pool in the creek on the edge of Zap Fitness' campus. The waning half moon cast age-smoothed boulders around me in shadow but was luminous enough to reveal the colors of pebbles in the stream bed.  While cold water washed over my legs, trout minnows nibbled at my toes, no doubt cleaning the gnarled result of the miles I've been running.  Sitting under the moon, stars, and canopy of pure green forest after a long day of travel, I reflected on the season and races and training to come.  The only sound was of the creek racing between the two large boulders that held back my pool.

The night before in Portland, David McNeill was quickly opening a gap on the field during the third lap of the Portland Track Festival 5k after a slower half mile split of 2:12.  Third in a chase pack with Mo Farah and Aron Rono, I felt the pace surge as Farah worked to stitch the rift to the Australian.  By 2k we four ran in a straight line, locked into 65 second quarters.  This was it: a chance to exploit the stellar training of momentum May in cool Pacific Northwest conditions under the lights.  Minutes before on the line, my blood stream a cocktail of adrenaline and caffeine rushing after pre race strides, the anticipation of the start reached near uncomfortable levels.  I love every component of racing:  The nervous excitement of the warmup, the focus on the track during the race, and the runner's high saturated wind down afterward.  I've come to thrive on the highs and lows of a meet, and being on the line of a race might be the most alive I ever have and ever will feel.

3000 into the Portland Track Fest 5k, Mo Farah leads Aron Rono, Tyler Pennel and I.  German Fernadez is in fifth and David McNeill (orange shorts) sixth.  We had a great crowd cheering us on.

Two months ago in the Mt. Sac Relays 5k it was only halfway into the race when I faltered, bleeding places and time.  Tonight I flew through that mark relaxed, smooth, and on the rail.  On the backstretch I heard children screaming "Go!  Go Daddy Go!" and thought "I'm racing men with kids, that's funny" before realizing they were the Olympic champion Mo Farah's kids cheering him on.  Daddy surged on the seventh lap with Rono following and I made the second major pace change of the race to catch up.  Zap Fitness team mate Tyler Pennel bounced along behind me.  McNeill having dropped back, our pack of four split 8:42 at 3200 meters as Tyler surged to the front.  In the next 200 we formed a Mo Farah - Zap Fitness sandwich with Tyler bravely leading.  A half mile later we passed 4k, the checkpoint where I met my demise a month ago in the Payton Jordan 5k.  Again I broke through, running stronger this time around.  McNeill had worked back into our pack and now took the lead from Farah, pushing hard with two laps left.  I swung wide and closed the gap over the next half lap, splitting 30.0 seconds from 700 to 500 from the finish.  At the bell, Farah hit the afterburners and scorched a 53 second final lap.  Finally the lactic acid caught up with me and all I could manage was to hold pace for 13:36 and fourth behind Rono.

In the moments after I felt disappointed with the time.  It wasn't a personal best or under the US 'A' standard.  But having watched the video and thought about it, I realize how well I raced.  Making at least three significant pace changes throughout probably took the sting out of my kick.  In the larger time frame of the season, I did the best I've done yet, coming within a lap of running a perfect Five.  The best part is that I have opportunities to execute that finish this summer.

In the past two years I've run 13:33, 13:34, 13:36, 13:38, and 13:40.  That's consistent, which is desirable.  But it's also somewhat frustrating running without improvement.  I believe that enough water against the dam yields a breakthrough, and that I'm on that edge right now.  No matter what level you're at, there will be times when you can't seem to get faster.  Sometimes a change in training and a fresh mindset is needed.  But there's nothing better for a runner than patience, poise, and belief that the breakthrough will happen.  Every performance, good or bad, is a movement towards that day we all dream of.

Back in the creek I watched a fallen leaf trapped in the eddy float slowly once, twice, three times in a circle around my pool. Finally it found the gap between the boulders downstream and went rushing onward.

Race Results

Race Video

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Bit of an update on my remaining track schedule:

June 26	USATF Outdoor Championships	Sacramento, CA	Outdoor 5000
July 5	Flanders Cup Oordegem	Oordegem, Belgium	Outdoor 1500
July 12	Flanders Cup Kortrijk	Kortrijk, Belgium	Outdoor 3000
July 19	KBC Nacht	Heusden-Zolder, Belgium	Outdoor 5000

I'll be blogging regularly during my European travels, be sure to check that out!

One of Them

I lay on a mildewy, weather hardened pole vault pit as the breezeless evening air grows cool. The Los Angeles twilight gives way to stadium lights on tarnished steel girder stands, like Hollywood set lamps illuminating a movie scene.  The meet announcer's excited voice rises occasionally above the din of the crowd of several hundred assembled in the stands and along the track's edge, a very small gathering given the spectacle about to unfold.

On the other side of the pit lounge members of the Salazar and Schumacher Nike Oregon Project groups, their baby blue Nike warmups standing out.  The two factions sit apart, separated by almost ten feet.  Combined they have the best America has to offer in distance running (ever), together with Mo Farah, the British 10,000 and 5,000 London Olympic champion.  Eight bucks will get you into this seemingly small distance gala at Occidental College in the foothills of Hollywood, CA to see the best in the US and world run rabbited time trial style races.  I can guarantee you that the guy sitting on his porch across the street within earshot of the meet announcer has no idea what's going on.

2800 meters into the race, Puskedra leads.  I'm on the outside (far left) in the white singlet (showing off some luv handels)

Some of the best moments in American running- Sportscenter Top 10 Plays caliber moments  - happen unbeknownst to the uninitiated at small college tracks on pleasant spring evenings in California.  American Records.  World 'A' standards.  Down to the line, six man wide finishes.  Tonight at Oxy, the small crowd cheers occasionally when a well known runner is introduced.  The 1500 heats manage to bring them to their feet during the finish as the noise level rises to a subdued roar.  Where are the television cameras?  The food and merchandise vendors, athlete escorts, grandstands like at the big relay meets?  Our sport's finest wait to compete on a musty pole vault pit.  Across from them, I can't help but feel a little star struck.  But I'm going to have to get over that.  I'm about to race against them.

We pass the mile in 4:16.  During the warm up, my right knee had been flaring up and it hurt to walk.  Now, settled into about fifth place, adrenaline and focus take over and the last thing I'm thinking about is my knee.  Up front Belota Asmeron rabbits the field of 24, his sole mission to put us on World 'A' standard pace.  Somewhere behind me lurks the full might of both Oregon groups.  4:16 is the fastest I've opened a 5000 in, but I'm feeling nothing yet, only anticipation.  Those guys are coming up here soon.

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I woke up suddenly one sultry morning in the summer of 2007 in a University of Wisconsin dorm room.  In the dim light, then Badger harrier Chris Solinsky, my high school cross country camp counselor yelled for me to get out of bed.  "Ready to go?  It's 7:05"  I trusted my watch alarm, now muffled under the bed sheets, to get me up.  Embarrassed, I sprung out of bed, already in my running shorts, and padded after him down the hallway for the morning run.  How could I screw that up?  Solinksy.  The fastest native Wisconsinite ever and my idol throughout high school and beyond.  He'd go on to be a fourteen time All American and five time individual NCAA champion for Wisconsin before following coach Jerry Schumacher to Oregon, where he set the American 10,000 record running for Nike.  I remember looking at his high school marks and being absolutely baffled at how someone could break fifteen minutes on the Ridges Golf Course, our state cross country meet venue.  The newspaper clipping covering the first sub four miles run on Wisconsin soil by Solinsky and team mate Matt Tegenkamp still hangs on my bedroom wall in Milwaukee.

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Now, almost six years later, 2000 miles away, and five laps in, I'm racing him, and he's right behind me.

It's time.  First the Salazar group, their black kits with NOP winged skull insignias roll silently by.  Rupp, then Ritzenheim, then Farah, then Puskedra ambling after.  The Schumacher group, led by Solinski, follows a lap later. The black and blue wave reaches its crest at the front of the race, breaking and jostling as men fall back into position.  For a moment I let myself soak in this experience.  Then I latch on, recalling the pain of Payton Jordan two weeks ago and prepared to fight for it again.  We pass 3000 meters in 8:06, the same split as then.

Two more laps go by.  I can recall little of them.  In the late stages of a race, you experience something like tunnel vision.  It seems as if the brain ceases to lay memories down, so focused on the task of running through the discomfort.  A subtle windup of the pace begins as we near a kilometer to go, and I allow a small gap to form.  Psychologically, the two yards between myself and Puskedra seem like an eternity.  The gap slowly grows until I find myself trailing, bouncing around with others trying to hang on.  Perhaps I let up a little, for just a moment, collecting myself.  That's easy to admit in hindsight.

600 meters separate myself and the finish.  What did you come here for?  I think about my plain white singlet.  No name on my chest.  The money I don't have that I spent to get here.  I think about last year, missing the Olympic trials by two spots in the 5000 and one spot in the 1500.  I'm not representing anything or anyone but myself.  The US 'A' standard is 13:30.  The clock reads exactly twelve minutes.  I need some magic.

That magnetic mecca and its beautiful wafting fragrance that is the finish line finally slaps me awake.  Something deep inside me recalls the rhythm of four minute mile pace, and through the pain my foot strike moves forward to the toes and my head comes up.  I target Puskedra on the backstretch.  200, 150, 100 to go.  I'm slowly gaining.  On the homestretch, long after Mo Farah wins in 13:15, I hold even with Puskedra.  He's an American.  He'll be on the USA 5k list, and could potentially bump me from qualifying.  But unable to catch him, I cross the line in 13:33.13, a five second PR.

Video of the race by Flotrack. "They all became Mobots for a second there"

With this race I draw a little closer.  A little closer to the ability to run with men who before had been untouchable heros to me.  The best of them, talented enough to quickly progress through the levels I've spent many years working through, once would easily lap me in this race.  Now, I'm rounding the final turn as they finish, in sight.  It's time to stop being star struck, even when in Hollywood.  To stop letting gaps form because I'm afraid of their credentials.  It's time to realize with that just a couple more breakthroughs, I'll be one of them.