SNIPSA - part two...thousand nine

I raced a 5K over the weekend. This was my 4^th official 5K race of 2009 and 9^th total in my short career.

The race benefits the Spay, Neuter, Inject, Protect San Antonio organization. They rescue dogs and cats that have hit bottom (via abuse, abandonment, etc.) and invest time, energy, and love in order to get them back to the top. It’s a good cause run by good people (literally in this case).

I ran the SNIPSA event last year in the midst of my IT band (illiotibial band…not computer geek heavy metal) injury/recovery nightmare. Although I dealt with pain during and after that run in 2008, it provided a string of “firsts”: first sub-21 minute 5K, first top 10 overall place, and first time receiving a physical prize (outside cheap medal or cheaper ribbon) for an age group placing. For second place in the 25-29 age group I landed high-end dog shampoo (for sensitive skin), a year supply of flea medicine, multiple discount coupons/gift certificates and some organic treats (unfortunately still for the dog). I want to believe I am a person whose soul cries out for all the abused pets in the world, but I’ll be honest -- a majority of the motivation behind this year’s race was because we were running out of doggie shampoo. Don’t judge me.

I showed up around an hour before the race and went through the normal race day registration procedure. I received my bib, pins, some Frisbee looking thing and my shirt. “We’re all out of sizes except medium,” the man told me. “OK. I’ll take one,” I responded. And I did, but I have no use for it. In fact, the 2008 version of the race shirt remained in my trunk until June of this year – I ran out of towels to dry my car one day and, well…

I threw the shirt in my trunk and pinned the bib on the right side of my tights. Right, I wear running tights for races. There are never any issues with chafing and I don’t have to worry about wind making my 3” inseam shorts any shorter. So the bib went on, my wind pants came off and I started my warm-up run. For a 5K, I like to run the entire course for a warm-up. I understand some will assume this defeats the purpose, but on most training runs 3 miles is roughly what it takes for things to start clicking. So there.

The course was difficult to follow. There were arrows marked with flour, other arrows marked with spray paint, and what appeared to be arrows from races past. Despite which direction I followed, though, the course was beginning to reveal its true nature – hilly. They were steep. Some were long. I was starting to grow genuinely nervous about my chances.

After I finished the warm-up and changed into my race gear (racing flats, singlet, etc.), I made my way over to the starting area. I saw quite a few people I knew were going to be there, but was surprised to see my cousin, Adam. This was his second 5K. He had logged a 23:36 the week before and was looking to lower that time here. I warned him to take it easy the first two miles, but that the second was net downhill – go nuts. He listened: 21:59 was his chip time. Very fine run.

I didn’t find Bob until right before the gun sounded. Bob and I run together a lot. At the 4^th of July race, we went out together, but he flashed his speed and dropped me at mile 2. Although I had been training a bit more diligently than he had recently, I didn’t fully believe him when he said he wanted to stay around 10 – 15 seconds behind me. Bob is a short/middle distance runner with explosive finishing speed and a penchant for downhill running. Anything less than 30 seconds on this course wouldn’t be enough to hold him off. Still, I thought, I was here to run my own race. We wished each other luck and took our starting positions.

After the patriotic shout out, the gun sounded. I started 3-4 rows back from the start for the first time ever in such a short distance race. I love getting out in front early; it helps me establish a solid pace without having to worry about running in/around people. Still, it’s hilarious how many people treat a 5K like a 400 meter race. So much speed, so many elbows flying. I hung back until I saw an opening.

It came on the first downhill. We were only 0.3 miles in or so, but I was already passing people who were breathing heavily. I was working my way through the crowd and when we hit the hill, I opened my stride like Bob had showed me. Gravity let me pick off another 5 or so runners. At the bottom of the hill I heard quick, long steps approaching fast. I knew it was Bob. “Hey,” he acknowledged. “What’s up?” I responded. A couple breaths later Bob mentioned, “I’m tired.” I laughed under paced breaths, because he didn’t sound tired at all. Regardless, he dropped back soon after. I heard him off my right shoulder for a while (his Nike shoes popped a flat recently and hiss air with every footfall), but lost him in the sounds of the race behind me not long after.

With ¾ of the first mile in the bag, I was running in solo 6^th. It appeared I had put some space between the runners behind me. Two runners were immediately in front of me and the 3^rd place runner, a woman, was about 20 yards away. I took care of business with runners 4 and 5 on the first uphill, dropping them fast. The woman, however, proved to be pretty strong. When I got closer, I noticed a tattoo of a beetle on her back. I remembered her (and the tattoo) from the July 4^th race. She was running in some pink Brooks Burn shoes at the time that I thought were cool. Today she was in the Launch, a shoe I also use for training. When I was close enough for her to notice I was there I mentioned, “Those are great shoes.” At the time I thought this was a valid comment to make. Upon writing it, however, it does sound a bit creepy. I’m not sure if she huffed and ignored me because she was deep in concentration, or because it was such an awkward comment to make during such a high-energy endeavor. Regardless, I pulled away and dropped her on the next turn feeling a little embarrassed.

Right around the time I turned the corner, a funny thing happened: my legs ceased feeling tired and my breathing became completely relaxed. In the midst of a hard, hilly 5K, I hit a runner’s high. For the first time ever. It only lasted for a couple of climbs and descents, but I was able to put some distance on the rest of the field. By mile 2, I couldn’t hear a single person behind me – no one was close. I didn’t help my pursuers, however, when I took the wrong turn. Instead of taking a left down the hill I went right and uphill. I stopped when I couldn’t find the arrows and turned on the following cross street. After running on this for a while, I came upon the course again – I had made the race roughly .1 miles longer and hillier. Sigh.

Still, there is nothing like getting lost to fuel the fire of urgency. I had given up around 10-15 seconds stopping and looking for the proper route, so I floored it. I had just around a half mile left to the finish and I was burning fuel fast. I saw the 2nd place runner making his way up the last hill. I was about 30-40 seconds out. That deflated the tires a bit, but I finished at a good clip. They took a picture of me right before the finish. I was tired.

Manu Ginobili handed me my award. The medal was nice and heavy, but the PR was worth gold.

18:25 - 3rd OA - 1st AG.

zoo run - 2 miles

I raced in Brackenridge Park yesterday. It was here, under a bridge and along the brick walls lining the San Antonio River, where I learned to fish. On a stone picnic table several feet from the banks is where I learned of my parents’ decision to divorce. In front of the main pavilion is where, for the first time, I crossed the finish line in under 20 minutes for a 5K race. The park is famous for vagabonds and feral cats.

This race only had 60 or so people. Perhaps less. Weekly races don't tend to draw huge numbers, but the quality of patrons was unquestionable. Everyone was nice. Accommodating. People called out to one another by name. At the starting line, an older man balanced on a curb while a shirtless kid stood below him. He was needling him: “I’m going to beat you. Perhaps not today, but some day. Just you wait.” “Ha. Nah uh. You’re never going to beat me," the boy responded. I believed him.

Perhaps because of my similar shirtless appearance, the kid came up to me after I arrived from my warm-up jog – two miles and change. “I’ve seen you at a lot of races,” I called out to break the ice. “Yeah, I run a lot. Were you at the Freedom 4-miler?” I acknowledged I was. “Yeah, everyone was at that one. I think I remember seeing you, too. I finished with a 6:30 pace. You?” After complaining of the number of unaccommodating walkers in that race, I told him my time: 6:19 pace. “That’s fast.”

I previously raced at this park earlier in the year and the starting line was in the exact same place. I lined up as the race announcer began the countdown. “On your mark…” I noticed everyone was facing me; I felt immediately self-conscious. But I quickly realized why – I was facing the wrong way. “Get set…” I leaped across the line and turned to face the opposite direction. “GO!”

The kid took off at a break neck speed. He cut the corner under a twisted oak tree at the start, but I flared to the outside. The roots of this tree had caused the concrete and asphalt surrounding it to crack and swell. It looked like waves receding from a cliff face. Another silent victory for nature. It wasn’t too long until the tree was no longer a focus. I glanced at the watch on the second turn; the kid and I were running around 5:20 pace. This was too fast for me. Too fast for him. I decided to slow down.

We crossed the bridge over the San Antonio River where a man was fishing. Some ducks were patiently waiting by the shore anticipating bread to be thrown their way. Someone was bound to do it. They always do.

We wrapped around the public bathrooms and headed back up the only hill in the entire park. It lasts for 50ft. This is when the kid started to drop back. He didn’t have a watch on, but he must have known he was running through his fitness. I fashioned a peace sign as if to say, “see you later” or “good luck,” or both. I wanted to be a friend to the kid. I wanted to show him that there is always room for kindness – even during a race. I’m not sure the peace sign conveyed that, but it was worth a shot.

After around 0.3 miles we were running on the trails. I’m not as fast on trails as I am on road, but I maintained focus on my turnover. I was following the lead bike and it felt good. As it was my first time in the lead at any race, it felt more foreign than anything. It wasn’t long, however, that I heard the sound of someone on my heels. The kid gave me a heads up before the race: “Gabriel is probably going to win this, even with the stroller.” I listened intently for the sound of wheels. Unmistakable – it was him. First the large front wheel appeared in my peripheral vision, but it wasn’t soon after that dad and son were in front of me. I was surprisingly comfortable with this.

For the next mile or so I remained close. The turns would slow him down slightly, but any attempt to catch up would be met with a surge or two on his part. He never looked back to see where I was, but he must have known. We were racing after all. With a quarter mile left to go, I dropped the hammer. It was in a straight-away that I often run my intervals – I knew the distance perfectly. The previous acute-angled turn had slowed me down to just above 6-minute pace. I started to widen the stride and move the arms more. 5:50…5:40. I was gaining ground, but not enough to retake first. I knew I would come in second, but I wanted it to be close. 5:30…5:22.

I finish 6 seconds behind the man with the stroller -- Gabriel Guerrero. And son. After congratulating each other on a good performance, I discovered he had attended St. Anthony. He was in the class of ’89. I was ’98. His mentor and coach was J.G. Well, I thought, that’s alright then. I saw the kid, Conrad, come in third. He’s only 12 and averaged a 6:12 pace. He’s going to be unstoppable in high school.

After I inhaled several cups of water, Gabe invited me on a cool down run around the park. I accepted and we started shortly after the last racer crossed the line. Along the way we talked of his upcoming 20-year reunion. Had it been that long? He mentioned Father Salas and Dr. Higgins. After forgetting his name for the last two years, I asked if he remembered a Father Hall. Richard Hall. He said no. Yeah, he was a young guy I mentioned. We ran past the kiddie park. The canopy above the carousel housing the fighter planes had a hole in it. The 10-foot high roller coaster was completely rusted out and any remaining paint was cracked and peeling away. As if attempting to flee from the place. We turned the corner and ran away too.

We passed some runners Gabriel knew and I noticed a girl with a Boston marathon shirt. Technical. I’ll be there, I thought. Give me time. We then turned onto River Road. So many feral cats. I used to feel sad for them all, but then I met the kid, Conrad. Before the start of the race we joked about how many there were. He responded, “My dad comes out and picks them up. Gets them fixed. He sometimes releases them back out here, but sometimes he doesn’t.” I nodded in appreciation. There are still a couple left, I thought.

We passed the pavilion and the stone bench where my parents said “I don’t.” Running back over the bridge, the man was still fishing. His 5 gallon bucket was empty. As an inebriated man once told me along Town Lake in Austin, he “needs to get busy catching.” We finished the run and I received a blue ribbon for my achievements. I stayed and clapped for everyone. It was difficult to find who to pay. One dollar. That’s all it cost. Well worth it.

2-miles – 11:31 – 5:46 pace.
2nd Overall

9 film review

On 9/9/09 of this year, I sat in the front row of theater 9 (really) at the Drafthouse and watched the movie “9.” This is my review of the film. It will most likely be the first of many reviews, but I don’t purport to be a critic per se. I am, however, terribly critical, which should give me all the tools I need.

“9” begins with images from a flashback that seek to figuratively and literally weave a story of creation. We are witness to human hands delicately working on a rag doll--setting robotic eyes into empty sockets, stitching together seams, and painting the number 9 on its back. The rest of the film, however, focuses on telling a story of destruction. The initial images of a room awash in loose papers, displaced books, and warped wood provide an ominous tone that is soon confirmed when the character opens a nearby window. The camera draws back from the window to reveal a landscape painted with thick strokes of apocalyptic imagery: blown out buildings with exposed frames, blackened vehicles, rusted metal and rolling hills of crumbled concrete.

The imagery and artwork were instantly compelling, but the film’s greatest strength was its initial silence. Without life’s background noise, the audience was wholly immersed in the aloneness of the character. The abundance of nothingness caused everything to echo. Loudly. To the extent we could hear the character’s emotions. To my disappointment, however, 9 quickly runs into another numbered doll who provides him a voice box. This meeting ushers in what would become the dominant theme of the film: unbridled action.

Through a series of fortunes and misfortunes (all too convenient to be plausible), 9 finds himself in the company of other numbered, sentient dolls. Although each of these dolls own a particular set of attributes and personality traits (along with different numbers), the development of these characters is driven solely by their reaction and relation to 9. They might as well have never existed before 9 appeared. Still, the director covered all the archetypal bases – there is the over-protective father figure, the muscle, the love interest, the slightly insane yet curiously cute oddball, etc. I’m sure you get it.

Back to the action. Once it started, it never seemed to stop. Although I don’t imagine most one-eyed, saw-wielding robots would offer “time outs” in their quest for ultimate destruction, the pacing was such a departure from the opening first half of the film. The director attempted to slow things down by developing tie-ins – the character was shown newspaper clippings and news reels depicted how the world came to an end – but that just begged more questions and exposed obvious plot gaps. What had started as a profoundly quiet film was growing uncomfortably mind-numbing. For me.

I hope I don’t dissuade many readers with this next comment, but “9” the character is a typical non-heroic hero. Cue in spear-wielding love interest that also acts as party strong-(wo)man. I normally have no problems with this dichotomy, if only the director didn’t belabor the point by having 9 become a victim to the over-produced love at first sight shot – pupils get large, slight gasp, hold the breath, pan in slowly to capture expression. The story pretty much writes itself after this. Still, I couldn't help but think that the asexual construction of the dolls wouldn't really lend itself to a useful relationship. Feeling the love would be an issue. Not to sound crass.

Now that I have spent the better part of this review falling just shy of berating many aspects of the film, I’m going to pull an about face. I thoroughly enjoyed this film. As a fan of anything post-apocalyptic, animated and artistic, “9” sung to my soul. Sure, there were plot deficiencies. The characters, too, may have suffered from lack of depth, and the dialogue seemed to work against itself at times, but I’m willing to look past all that. Why? Because to develop an idea of this nature and produce it as visually artistic as this is commendable. It’s also important. Why? Because very few films can succeed at grasping the human conundrum without featuring a single human being. It challenges us to ponder – can humanity exist without being?

17 and a life to go...

Holy shitzl. I have never wanted to NOT run more than this morning. Martin came in yesterday, which means we were in a Mexican restaurant having ritas by 2pm. We had 2.5 each. He had an allergic reaction to something either in the chips, salsa, or drink. It made his face red and blotchy. Hilarious -- if not for the not being able to breathe aspect of the reaction.

After watching Longhorn football at the Fox and Hound and having dinner at Dough I had consumed a total of 7 alcoholic beverages including Tequila, Texas-made beer, and Italian wine (Feudi). I was carbed out. And pissed. Drunk.

I woke up after an odd night of sleep. Buster whining. Too hot. Too cold. I wrestled back and forth with the idea of scrapping the long run. After about an hour of this, I quietly laced up the trainers and left.

I opened up well enough -- easy. Thankfully, the detox came quicker than expected. I had forced myself to drink as much water as possible before bed. Note to self: this works. Like clockwork, though, I felt a pain in my gut indicating that I needed to drop a deuce. I remember looking at the watch to see how far I had run -- only 1.8. Funny, I thought, right before "2." I soldiered on.

Somewhere along mile 4 or 5 I started to hit a stride. Clicking off 7:45s, I was fully committed. I then came upon a guy setting out cones for runners. He was nice and acknowledged me with a "good job runner." I nodded and said thank you. He eventually passed me later in his car; I assumed he was heading out to set the next marker. What surprised me, however, was when he stopped in the middle of the road a little less than a quarter mile away. Already another marker? Can't be I thought. In fact, he had stopped because 4 or 5 feral dogs were laying near the street. I had already picked several rocks up and was fondling their grooves in order to become familiar with how I would defend myself. The dogs never attacked. In fact, my presence barely registered a response from any of them. I appreciated their disinterest, but I really appreciated the act of kindness from the guy in the car. I waved and he drove off when the situation appeared safe.

At around the time I turned back, I was oiled and ready to roll. I started hitting 7:30 - 7:35 miles. I was hardly breathing and my legs felt sharp -- transition was smooth. On the return route I ran past scores of joggers and bikers. Although there were a few cordial riders, the rest gave me no reason to withdraw my criticism and bias towards them. If they rode in groups, they chatted one another's faces off. If they rode alone, their seriousness was akin to Floyd Landis in his doping hearings. C'mon people. Perhaps they were still frustrated from trying to fit their fleshy mass into those compression suits. Who knows. I sure don't.

I finished a bit tired, but strong enough that if I was pressed to do 26.2, I could have finished it at an even lower pace. This is the first time I have ever felt this way. Trust me; I have run MANY hung over long runs. Now, on to bigger and better.

17 miles - 2:12:16 - 7:47 pace