On a cool evening in July 2008 I watched my son, Colter, sidle on up to the starting line for Wednesday Night at the Races, Bayfront Park edition. He joined the motley collection of boys, each jockeying for position, elbowing and shouldering in an attempt to gain slight advantage over his rivals. To each one, front row position was invaluable. So much so that one of them could have waddled up in two walking casts, yet still feel inclined to fight for ownership of his share of starting line real estate.

 

A race organizer, recognizing that the body to start line ratio was a bit unbalanced, divided the squirrely boys up, moving roughly half to a second row behind the first – amid much muttering. My son had won the front row lottery, and got to stay put. The boys stood leaning, fidgeting; nervous energy barely contained, until – BLAAAT! – the starting horn ripped the air. Like the bursting open of doors at Wal-Mart on Black Friday, the swarm took off – and instantly much of the back row over-ran the front as they tried to regain precious lost ground. A good number of little bodies hit the ground in a tangle – and I noticed that at the bottom of that rugby scrum was my son, who was on the receiving end of the run of the 7-year-old bulls of Pamplona.

 

Colter got up, looking a bit shook and somewhat distressed. As the kids raced away down the track, he came over to the sidelines looking for his father; the race now an afterthought. In the brush up he had gotten trod on a bit, most notably receiving a good stomp across his hand. First things first, let's make sure the digits work, I said. He made a tentative fist. Good - no reason to cancel the piano lessons any time soon. A quick once over indicated everything else still worked as well, with perhaps only pride taking any real damage. By the time I got him chinned up and squared away, however, the 7 and 8-year-olds were crossing the finish line.

 

At that point Colter looked at me and asked, "Will I still get a ribbon?" Torn, but holding to a belief that one must earn his rewards; I responded simply, "No. You have to finish the race to get the ribbon." A hang-dog look came over his face. His age group race was pretty well complete. We weren't in a position to send him off and make the masses wait. He watched dejectedly as the 9 and 10-year-olds started to gather near the starting line. I offered, "Do you want to run with the next age group?" He perked up. "They're a bit bigger, but you can give it a go and see what you can do," I said. To my satisfaction, he nodded and answered, "Yes".

 

A few minutes later, he stood once again at the starting line – or should I say, near the starting line, for he picked a spot that he had determined was the best "trample-free" zone. Standing a full head shorter than the 9 and 10-year-old boys, he looked a bit out of place – but he obviously didn't feel so, as he confidently leaned forward in a classic starting crouch. BLAAAT! – the starting horn split through the air once again.

 

Now, I'm not going to tell you this was a made-for-Hollywood ending where the 7-year-old David whips all the 10-year-old running Goliaths. Colter finished that race sixth from the back. But to him, that was victory. Beating five 9 and 10-year olds was a great source of pride. I know this, because he reminded me of the feat many (many) times on the way home. He had also earned his ribbon, a young boy's version of the marathon T-shirt. All of this seemed to be a catalyst for him the rest of the Wednesday series. Going in, he had been a bit tepid about the Wednesday Night Races, and he hadn’t quite shaken his ambivalence two weeks in. After dusting himself off and running with the big boys he declared that he was now going to run every Wednesday race, and earn every ribbon he could. And, to his credit, he did just that.

 

Last week as we waited at PSS, the first of the 2009 Wednesday Night Races was called off just short of starting due to approaching weather. The organizer indicated we could collect our ribbons before leaving. Colter looked at me and offered a challenge to race around the track. Then he took off, rounding the track as fast as his now 8-year-old legs could carry him, with me in hot pursuit. Once again, he was earning his ribbon. In the end, he beat me by a nose (wink), and now had bragging rights over a handful of 9 and 10-year-olds, and one 42-year-old.

 

As I ran with my son, I wondered how long we would get to run side-by-side before his life's commitments reduced such experiences to the fleeting few - and just how long it would be before having him beat me was something I actually had any say in. Hopefully many years, in both cases...

If one were to lift Maryland up in two hands and break it over a knee, it would likely snap right along South Mountain. This grand, old Appalachian ridge runs largely north-south, spanning the junction where the state's handle attaches to the broad aspect of its rough frying pan shape. The Appalachian Trail (AT), in turn, runs along South Mountain's backbone as if painted on like a racing stripe. As luck would have it, my sister's cozy home is nestled on the west side of this mountain. A quarter mile or so up the densely wooded slope lay opportunity. Time for a run...

 

My course was pretty simple on paper - access the AT on South Mountain's southern end, at a trail head near the Potomac River, run up and along the ridge line approximately 10 or 11 miles to a point above my sister's house, drop down the side of the mountain via a handy shelter spur, then follow an informal trail (more so a suggestion of a trail) along a creek the remaining distance to home.

 

On Saturday morning I was pumped and ready to go as I entered the woods near Weverton, MD. The profile on the AT section map indicated I was to ascend 1000' in elevation in approximately the first mile and a half. A good, stiff climb to be certain, but manageable. I set off at a measured trot... only to stop about 200 meters up the trail. Approaching me was another runner, coming down the trail – walking slowly and limping noticeably, bearing some obvious contusions. Seeing me in like running garb, he offered an understated, "Hope yours goes better than mine..." and chuckled a bit. Battered and bruised, but in good spirits, he waved me on. I nodded, gulped, and moved on up the trail, perhaps measuring my trot a bit more closely.

 

The hill climb was a technical gem; steep inclines, switchbacks, rocks of all shapes and sizes, and erosion breaks consisting of logs large enough to require a slight hurdling motion to get up and over. About a mile in, the slope relented, but the rocks apparently felt no need to do likewise. I soldiered on, forced to continue the "rock runner shuffle", bouncing laterally to and fro as I sought any relatively horizontal surface in what looked like a field of bowling balls. The rocks varied from rounded, to pointy, to something like plates driven into the ground on their edges. It was great fun, but I have to admit that two miles in I was a bit concerned that the entertainment value would certainly dissipate should this last, say, another 10 miles. Thankfully, it did not.

 

Smooth sailin'...	Not so much...

 

A bit further along, the trail relaxed into a nice hard-packed dirt path, and my legs took off like a thief released from prison. The rock fields would come and go over the miles, keeping me honest, but they were mixed well with the hiking super-highway that composed much of this stretch of the AT. Many hikers were out and about; by my count I encountered approximately 20, a mix of hard-core and day trippers and a few were accompanied by (well-behaved) dogs. To my enjoyment, I also met 4 other trail runners, none of which were nearly as bruised as the first. In that regard, I also made it through generally unscathed – only one good digger. Ironically, this was on a relatively flat, open section of trail in which I got a bit complacent – and managed to trip over probably the only rock I had seen in a quarter mile. C'est la vie...

 

Taking stock at the spur I was to take down the mountainside, I realized that my legs felt great and I was rather enjoying the whole experience. So, I skipped the spur and continued on to the next trail head, which emerged at Fox Gap a couple miles further on. I could wind my way back to my sister's house on the county roads.

 

In the end, the Appalachian Trail run was a good half-marathon worth, leaving a mere 2162 miles of the AT left to run. Looks like I'm going to have to plan some more trips...

 

On all race days there are factors you can control, and factors you can't. Despite my whining about running in heat, I do realize that it is what it is. So, when the temperatures once again started pushing north on the thermometer on Grandma's morning, I simply buckled in and went along for the ride. That being said, there were times over the course that I sure wished I could have hung my head out a car window like a Bassett hound, tongue flopping in the breeze. I mean, sure, I'll deal with it, but I am allowed to dream right? Or, maybe it was mounting heat exhaustion that was creating such canine visions...

 

Every now and then, as we ran along Scenic Hwy 61, the wind would briefly turn around and come off the lake for a moment. At such times I could actually hear the crowd of surrounding runners elicit an audible "Ahhhh...", which was followed by a collective sigh 15 seconds later when the plug on the erstwhile air-conditioner got pulled. It struck me as humorous in a way. Here we all were, running beside the world's largest refrigerator, and it was teasing us.

 

Despite our plains-of-Oklahoma-like weather, things actually went reasonably well for most of the race. Decent pace, kept well hydrated. My only concern going into the day was a question mark regarding a bit of a high ankle strain that I had run into two weeks ago. Having rested it well, I believed I had left it behind me. However, the self-imposed rest had cost me most of my running over the last 14 days. So, I had no effort longer than my 3 to 4 mile shake-out runs this week upon which to draw conclusions. Since those seemed fine, I was hopeful.

 

At the outset of the race all was good, but a few miles in I felt the ankle start a low-level twinge. No problem, says I, it's just kind of sitting there in the background, kind of like the dull murmur in a theater before the previews start; and it actually stayed that way for the better part of 20 miles. Then, apparently my ankle got jealous because I was not paying enough attention to it, and decided to start harassing me like my cat come dinner hour. The pinging increased until it seemed I had hit the reset button back to two weeks ago.

 

I have to admit to some frustration, as my legs felt pretty good from a conditioning point-of-view, and the rest had actually freshened them up a bit. So, I was disappointed in having to move into race mitigation mode, dropping pace and alternating sections of running and striding. Such is life, I guess. This was about the time I met up with Shane, and we passed and re-passed each other for quite a while, and occasionally moved along together. Shane mustered some closing energy and went on ahead, finishing a good 4 or 5 minutes in front of me. (Nice job, Shane.) In the end, I crossed the line at 4:10:22.

 

Two years ago, in my inaugural Grandma's Marathon, I ran it in 4:10:28. So let's see, after 2 years and hundreds of miles of training, I have improved my Grandma's Marathon time by, uh, a solid 6 seconds. Hmm. By my calculations, at that rate of improvement I only need to run about 104 more marathons to get to the elusive 4 hour mark. I guess that'll keep me busy.

 

I can't complain overall, though. As another sage-like blogger on this site says in his introduction, "I may not get my best time but it will be my best on that given day." I hear ya', Tim. I took what I could get on a tough day – and had a great 20 miler; followed by a less-than-impressive 10K, it's true. But, when all is said and done, it'll do.

 

My ankle is now on the clock. I have 3 weeks until the Voyageur Half-Ultra. Time to work out a game plan...

Ah, yes... It's Grandma's Marathon week. Soon enough the spandex and poly clad throngs will be ambling their way over to the DECC, clutching blue entry cards in hand like they are the golden tickets allowing entry into Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory. It will be a time for reflection, to be certain. Many will be pondering the path that led them here, while at the same time considering the journey yet to come. I will be among the masses, my thoughts wandering as well. Trying to answer a single, powerful question...

 

Just what is it with 26.2 miles? Oh, no. I'm not waxing philosophical on you - as in "What drives a man to run 26.2 miles?", or "What powerful accomplishment will this represent in my life?". Nope, I'm looking for more practical answers. I mean, literally, why 26.2? Why not 26? Or a nice, round 25? Setting the marathon distance at 26.2 miles seems akin to running, say, the 103 meter dash. To us obsessive compulsives, it's like cross-threading the peanut jar lid and leaving it that way. Why, it's not even a simple metric conversion issue; the distance equates to 42.195 K. (cringe)

 

Of course, anyone who has toed the line at a major running event will rattle off the Cliffs Notes. Looking at you in bemused fashion, they will recite, "Why it's the distance from Marathon to Athens, run by a soldier who was sent to inform the assembly that victory had been achieved in the Battle of Marathon." To which they will add, "Oh, and by the way, the soldier immediately fell over dead after delivering the news." Hmm. Thanks for that uplifting note as I head out to attempt such a feat myself, but actually, that's a bit of an incomplete history.

 

In 1896, the first modern Olympics featured a new event as its capstone, an epic race traversing a course from the Marathon Bridge to Panathenaic Stadium in Athens. True enough, this marathon was designed to symbolize the legendary distance covered by the soldier - Pheidippides, or alternatively, Philippides, or Phil to his friends – as he ran to declare the victory over the Persians in 490 BC. But that distance was actually about 24.85 miles, or for those of us looking for nice round numbers, 40 K. If they had settled on that distance, Grandma's runners could simply hang a left on Lake Ave. and run straight to the finish line - and I would have been able to blog about more compelling topics. So, where did that extra 2.2 miles come from that forces us down to 5^th Ave. and around the back of the DECC?

 

Interestingly, the distance of the marathon varied over the first 7 Olympic games, ranging from 24.85 miles up to 26.56. It wasn't until 1924 that the length of 26.2 miles was established as the official benchmark. OK, but still... why 26.2? Well, you can blame that one partly on the English. You know the guys; the ones that like to base units of measurement on the length of human appendages? To be fair, this distance was based not on being too lazy to find something that does not, uh, grow, but on another affectation of the British... royalty.

 

It's 1908, you are the mighty British Empire, and the Olympics are coming to town. Where would you start the penultimate race of the fortnight? Ooh! Castles are nice. How about Windsor Castle? Done. Easy crowd control, short commute for the Princess of Wales... Good. Let's see, we need to run to the White City (Olympic) Stadium in London. Distance? 26 miles. In the ball park - go with it. Right about here a royal courtier leans in and clears his throat. Oh yeah, and we're going to need to finish in front of King Edward VII's royal box. (Excuse me, you've just run 26 miles, but would you be a chap and run a bit further so I can have a better view?) Settled then. Final distance? 26 miles, 385 yards, or 26.2 miles.

 

Out of the various marathon distances run between 1896 and 1920, the 1908 length was chosen by the IAAF as the standard, even over the perhaps more authentic distance of that first Marathon to Athens route. It's not entirely clear why this was the favorite. The 1908 race did feature a hard fought and dramatic finish between Italian Dorando Pietri and eventual winner American Johnny Hayes that created a world-wide distance running fever, perhaps unequaled until the running craze of the 70's. It has been postulated that this drove the decision. Never underestimate the power of ready-made marketing. I have to admit, though. I also wouldn't be surprised if a number of members of the IAAF board spoke with a cockney accent. In any case, 26.2 miles it is.

 

So, on Saturday I'm going to head on out and run that 26.2. Despite the mileage difference, I'll do it for Phil. I think he earned it. In my own little world I will run from Two Harbors to Duluth, perhaps envisioning bursting into the Duluth City Council chamber and declaring that we have defeated the Canadians at the Battle of Agate Bay. At this point I will end the play-acting, however, as keeling over dead would make it difficult for me to find my way to the beer tent.

Saturday, as I set out from the Munger trail head in Carlton with designs on trotting my way down to Moose Lake, I had to admit I was a bit melancholy. True, my legs felt great and the run, my last long jaunt before Grandma's, would prove to to be more than satisfactory. Even so, I had to admit it was time to say "Uncle!". I have previously established that I had been looking for some sweat-inducing weather to prepare myself for the possibility of toasty conditions on Grandma's weekend. On this, my last opportunity for a "fine and pleasant misery" run, I was once again moving along in 50 degree weather, with a cooling breeze to boot. (sigh)

 

In hindsight, I believe my error was in hitching my wagon to the wrong horse. Here I was depending on this guy, the Heat Miser. It seemed a prudent choice. HM is a bit ornery, irascible even. Short on patience and long on pride, he seemed like the man for the job – one of those "my way or the highway" blustery types who could help me achieve my ends through sheer force of will. Alas, I miscalculated.

 

Unfortunately, the battle for Duluth area spring weather has to go through Heat Miser's sibling and arch nemesis, the Snow Miser - who by his very nature is a cooler, more calculating customer. And it's my guess that the ice man knows full well his brother's strengths are also his weaknesses. Likely, the conversation went something like this:

 

[HM] "Hey! Ice for brains! I'm going to need you to lighten up and let me drop a few sweat bombs on the Duluth area over the next couple of weeks."

 

[SM] "Oh, and what, pray tell, for?"

 

[HM] "Well, I have this unnamed benefactor who seems to think it's a good idea. He's given up on simple incantations and is willing to grease the skids of prosperity. Mine, that is. A rather lucrative deal, I might add."

 

[SM, seeing opportunity] "Tell you what... Let's race for it. One quick 5K. You win, you get Duluth area weather for the season. I win, I get... let's say, Waikiki Beach."

 

[HM] "A 5K? What? Are you kidding? Why I haven't run in..."

 

[SM] "Hmm, yes... I always was the faster one in the family. So, I could understand your reservations. I'd hate for you to be, um, embarrassed out there..."

 

(No, Heat Miser. Don't take the bait...)

 

[HM] "What?! You faster? Embarassed?! Me? Why, I could beat you three ways from Sunday! Where the @#$% are my shoes?!"

 

(Doh!)

 

Now let's be honest here. The Heat Miser isn't exactly a physical specimen. A little red in the nose and with a bit of a paunch, I suspect he partakes in more than his share of 12 ounce curls. And while I definitely support the use of good ale as an essential part of a balanced training diet, everything has its limits. Snow Miser, on the other hand, has the svelte, lithe body of a distance runner. Use your imagination a little and he even looks like an ice encrusted version of Sebastian Coe. I'm certain that immediately after the gun went off ol' Heat Miser watched his brother disappear like the Millenium Falcon jumping into hyperspace.

 

So, none of my incantations or burning of oils, nor my efforts to stimulate the economy of the Miser household has been effective. It is now up to sheer fate as to whether Grandma's Saturday will be tolerable or not. I guess I'll just have to deal with it. OK, then. Now if only those folks on the beach in Waikiki had brought their sweaters...