Me Against The Watch

Before I start talking about the main topic, I have to confess this time of year, with a lead-in to another Olympic Games, is a sports junkie's dream.  It has been good for my recovery.  I’ve initiated my own little ‘occupy the couch’ movement with the US Olympic swimming and track/field trials, topped by the Tour de France as the background. 

While many of the participants of the larger ‘occupation’ movements were nebulous in what they desired, I have two goals:  The first goal is to let the lingering tendonitis in my ankles and knees completely heal.  It’s simple:  The only way to recover from an overuse injury is not to overuse what gets injured.  The second goal is to motivate myself into a frenzy of smart training once the Olympics are over.  It’s still going to be infernal, but I have a gym membership and a flexible schedule, so early morning and late evening training is not a problem.

Track and field events, and the Tour de France cycle race, have more in common than the average television spectator might guess, for a number of reasons:  When there are preliminary and semi-final heats at a track meet, the goal of most every athlete is to finish either in a position where they automatically qualify for the next round or in as fast a time as possible to be selected.  Does the athlete necessarily want to finish in first place?  All they need to do is exert just enough energy to qualify, save their energies for the final heat when a win means something. 

During the years when Lance Armstrong won seven Tours de France, he didn’t win every single stage.  He’d win a mountain stage here, and a road stage there; he would finish consistently close enough to the front of the pack every time he was on the road. 

There were races during the Olympic Trials, like the final of the women’s 5,000-meter run and the 3,000-meter steeplechase, where the leading runners not only had to win (or finish in the top three) to qualify, but also had to push the pace of the race in order to make the Olympic qualifying standard.  Some of the athletes collaborated with training partners and co-competitors to ensure a fast pace.  Others felt the need to go “off the front” and do it alone. 

Road stages of the Tour de France (and other cycling races) are a collaborative effort between teams and individual riders, both to push the pace or to hold the pace back…depending on their own best interests.  But there also is what is known in cycling as the race of truth.  Many stage races, including the Tour de France, begin with a short prologue individual time trial and also have one or two longer individual time trials during the course of the event.  The ‘race of truth’ sorts the good from the great athlete.  A rider can win a grand tour without being a great individual rider but there’s no way to win without being a good individual rider.  The time trial exposes every weakness in training, more so than the typical mass-start race.  There’s nobody to hide behind; no teammate to help pick up the pace should they falter. 

For runners, it’s more difficult is it to run a race going off the front alone without a supportive pacer than as part of a pack of individuals with near-identical fitness.

I trained under a coach who (i know) adjusted my training efforts based on recent racing results.  I never did time trials on my own because I ran at a level where I was out of reach of the really good runners and ahead of the slower ones…after the first mile of a race I was usually in “no-man’s land.”  But, when training a runner who is focused on, say, the half-marathon or the marathon, I like to schedule a 5,000-meter time trial on the roads to judge their fitness and make adjustments to their training paces.  It doesn’t necessarily have to be an organized 5K race (although I prefer a certified course), and it might not be until somewhere around six-to-twelve weeks out, but I prefer a course which resembles the terrain or conditions for their target event.

The goal of the time trial is either to run it at a slightly faster pace than the previous time trial, or to run it at the same time, but with a lower perceived effort.  If the athlete’s previous 5K time trial was at a pace where a few seconds of improvement will move them to a higher Daniels’ VDOT score, and subsequently faster training paces, I prefer the “same time at less effort” result.  Just like “heat racing,” the goal is not to light the fuse for a fantastic short race effort six, eight, or ten weeks out from the longer target event, but to develop the runner’s confidence; hiding an “extra gear” inside their head which they can save for race day.  It's the sum total of good runs, rather than a single great workout surrounded by a bunch of crappy ones, which are going to help define a running performance.

Twenty Minutes To (More) Speed - Tempo Runs

Everyone has seen this runner: They toe the line at the local 5,000-meter race, go out at 6:30 pace for the first mile, subsequently slowing down to 7:30 pace on the third one. When you approach their gasping form as they hang onto a signpost, they tell you, 'I could have raced this one, but this was only a tempo run.'

Oh? Really?

When I coached weekly workouts it was my "job" to provide training which worked as many energy systems as possible.

(ED. COMMENT: My coach reminded me we used to do tempo runs as part of the group's training, for which he is correct...a few things changed some over the course of a few years...sometimes change does not always move toward the more beneficial.)

One day a week we did a lot of aerobic-to-threshold-pace stuff at a short (one-to-two-minute) duration. The second workout of the week consisted of efforts lasting anywhere from two-to-five minutes. Several members of the training group liked the longer repeats a great deal. But it was difficult to encourage tempo running as a solo workout outside of training sessions.

I didn't run regular tempo workouts, either. Yes, there were the occasional "anti-social" Wednesday evening beach runs, where I'd go out at a low-seven-minute pace for as long as my lungs could stand, then push a little harder for the last three miles. But it wasn't until I became treadmill-bound and more-closely focused on my own training I started to look a little more closely at the tempo run.

Most recreational runners don't like tempo running; I'm not certain if it is because they don't know what pace to run, they think tempo runs are too painful, or they'd much rather socialize during their runs. But I can tell you they're missing out on some free speed at a low (time) cost-to-(speed) benefit ratio.

First, let's look at what constitutes a tempo run. Dr. Jack Daniels, in "Running Formula," says that (ideally) twenty (to-thirty) minutes of steady running at threshold pace is a tempo run. That's twenty minutes of steady running at an effort level where our body uses the lactate as fast as it is produced from carbohydrate metabolism during physical exercise.

For example, a person who runs a 21-minute 5,000-meters would - according to Daniels - run tempo runs at about 7:10/mile pace (for those who speak treadmill, that's about 8.4 mph). If you still don't have a copy of "Running Formula," never fear. Take your 5,000-meter race pace per mile and add 25-30 seconds.

Are tempo runs painful? I will say they are no easy, breezy walk in the park. After running my first tempo run in about a year - and my first tempo run on a treadmill - my average heart rate was about five beats higher across the board, and my max heart rate near the end was just shy of 85 percent of maximum. For those runners who prefer to not inflict twenty minutes of "comfortably hard" effort on themselves, Daniels recommends what he calls "cruise intervals" of one-mile or ten-minutes, broken up with 30-to-60-seconds of recovery.

Another challenge of tempo running comes from having the right course. The right circuit or course can make all the difference. If your favorite training stretch - for example, from the hotel where Suzanne and I like to stay to Audubon Park and back - has a lot of intersections and traffic, it's easier for me to run "cruise intervals." A good, lightly-trafficked and distance-marked loop or bike path, like the 4.25-mile or 5.8-mile loops on Pensacola Beach, are good for tempo work. Levees and rails-to-trails are also good.

And it doesn't necessarily have to be a solitary affair. Social runners who are at or near the same ability level can work together and ensure the run tempo does not slack off.

Tempo work is probably one of the most under-appreciated, and under-used, workouts which are available to the self-coached runner. The only things necessary for longer-distance speed gains are to know the proper pace, set aside twenty quality minutes, and keep pushing the entire piece.

Off (Or On?) A Tangent

I've run road races since 1995, but never really learned about how to run a course until I raced the 2003 Recycler Run in Ft. Walton Beach, FL. It was there Brian McMahon taught me how to run a race course. The Recycler Run course winds through a residential area, but what made this course even more interesting, outside of the live oaks on both sides through the neighborhood, were the gorgeous sweeping turns. There might have been two miles of straight road on the course...in total, but at no more than a two-block stretch at a time.

We had a gorgeous, cool, overcast morning for the race, so it didn't take long for us to get comfortable on course. I was pacing former Pensacola Runners Association president David Harris, who wanted to run 19 minutes for 5,000 meters, so we needed to run about a 6:19 pace. A pack of us were moving at about 6:20 pace, with Brian just a little ahead. We caught up with him & kept a comfortable clip. As we exited a corner, I could feel a little bit of a nudge from Brian, who was off my right shoulder. Brian & I at that time had a history of pulling a little college cross-country physicality (elbows & shoulders) on each other, so this was nothing new. I nudged him back.

He nudged my shoulder again, & said: "Mike, run the tangent." At that point I suddenly realized what he was doing. I always heard the shortest distance between two points was a straight line but to that point in my racing career had never practiced the technique. This had a lot to do with some of the courses I raced in Tampa being straight out-and-back types.

I could see a couple of guys perhaps five seconds ahead of us; at first glimpse they appeared to be drunk & weaving from the left to the right side of the road. Ah, so they were running the tangent. Brian & the rest of us commenced to play "follow the leader" until the turn-around point on the course, then headed back. I not only ran a good race, bringing David painfully close to his goal of a 19-minute 5K, but also learned that day road racing is a thinking person's game.

You can't go into a road race, shut your mind off & expect to run your best. Pacing yourself is one thing, & smart training is another, but you can needlessly waste precious seconds on a road race by not knowing the course & not running the shortest possible distance.

Most people know I measure courses for USA Track and Field certification. It's one reason I don't run a lot of races in Pensacola. If I show up for a local race three things happen: I'm asked whether the course is certified. I'm asked if I measured the course. And, I'm confronted by runners who say the course was long, according to their GPS receiver.

There aren't many races I'll run which are not on a certified course. I want to know the distance is reasonably accurate (which USATF defines as "not short"). This way I can tell how well my training has progressed over time. I've written much about the USATF measurement protocol, so I won't go into detail here. But even I forget about the technical limitations of GPS receivers & the USATF/AIMS (AIMS is the international marathon measurement authority) protocol. When I ran the Rock n' Roll/Mardi Gras Half Marathon last year in New Orleans my GPS mile splits would beep initially about five seconds (eventually a minute) before the measured mile splits. I fussed for a second, & then remembered the additional 5.28 feet/1.609 meters which were added to each mile to make certain I didn't run less than a half marathon.

But a lot of GPS wearers don't take the time to understand the measurement protocols, don't know the limitations of their equipment (up to 25 feet of error at a single point) &, most importantly, do not run the shortest possible distance on the race course.

Rather than take a winding section of road - some sections are more winding than others - let me use a standard 400-meter track as an example:

- The width of one lane of a standard 400-meter running track is 1.25 meters.

- An athletic track lane distance calculator (http://www.brianmac.co.uk/tracklane.htm) shows the distance around a 400-meter track, in lane three (3.75 meters out from the inside rail) is 415.71 meters.

- Multiply the additional distance by 12.5 (the number of laps in a 5,000 meter track race) and the total distance is 5,196.375 meters.

- The width of one lane of a two-lane roadway with a shoulder is approximately 3.75 meters, a little over 12 feet in width. Even when the five added meters for USATF's short course prevention factor is subtracted, that's an additional 191 meters of distance to run if you're one lane of road out from the tangent for the entire race.

Lose your concentration for five seconds if you're running a six-minute per mile pace & you can add a little over 20 meters to the distance run at a 5K.

In closing, even a set of legs, a heart & lungs in the best of shape can be defeated by a brain that's not prepared on race day. Knowing the course & running the tangents can save a runner from running an unnecessary additional three percent of course distance.

Revenge of The Fat Lazy B@st@rd

I talked myself into this race about six weeks ago as a tip of the hat to the local running club. Since one/more of their board of directors asked me the 'why don't you race local races any longer?' question, it seemed like a reasonable idea. I figured I was in better shape than I was after my horrible marathon experience in December, and had recovered enough from the half-iron distance triathlon. However, logic and reason began to scream in the back of my mind, 'why would you choose to run a race in the latter part of June, on Pensacola Beach, during the middle of the day!?'
Even my training runs weren't all that encouraging leading into the event. I kept feeling like ten pounds of used kitty litter in an eight-pound sack during my easy afternoon runs; and track work wasn't looking all that great, either. Mind you, most of the efforts were what I outwardly considered maintenance workouts; ideally at an aerobic (somewhere in the 70 percent maximum heart rate) pace. But, when I looked at my heart rate data afterward the efforts were lots closer to 80 percent, which could tell me one of two things:
1. The heat and humidity were worse than I feared, or
2. I was still a fat, lazy b@st@rd.
So, I didn't have too many expectations on this race. All I wanted to do was run as hard as I could for 3.1 miles and not embarrass myself too much.
Saturday's conditions were fairly conducive to racing; a bit of a breeze along the shoreline, partly to mostly cloudy, a little bit of rain (sprinkles) here and there. Since I hadn't raced a short race in a long time I made certain to be a little more ready, taking 30 minutes to walk along the bicycle path, then jogging easy for another 15 to 20 minutes. By the time I finished the warm-up I felt pretty good. Not confident, but good.
The first moments before the race are always hell on square wheels. While I wanted to line up as close to the front as possible I didn't know whether I was going to have the sustained power to keep from getting stomped on by some of the local greyhounds. However, I took my chances and stood one stride off the line. When the start was called it seemed like everyone and their mother went roaring past me; it probably was not so bad (high school runners and the really fast local dudes) as I feared. I tucked in behind five or six of the high school guys and cruised through the first 600 to 800 yards without too much strain. At about 800 yards it seemed like they were dawdling just a skosh (and I was concerned about a couple of my age group staying a little too close this early), so I gently knifed through the middle of their five-abreast formation and started to pick up my pace a little bit.
The time clock was set at about 1450 meters rather than a mile, so I couldn't take the time split or the call as gospel. In fact, when I looked down at my watch I knew the split was off; I haven't run a mile that fast in about four years. As always, the second mile would be the proof of how well I was doing. Got into the rhythm until it was time to turn back into the wind and run back toward the aid station. At that point the breeze seemed to pick up a skosh and reality began to set in. I managed to get past the second mile split before strange things began to happen (loose shoelaces, excessive heart rate, panic, and so on). I tried to stop for a second or two to at least tuck my shoelace into my training flats, to no avail. At that point I lost mental focus and all the bad things started to come into my mind...and when the mind goes the body is not long to follow.
My last mile and tenth was not particularly pretty; well, it was good for a half-marathoner or the run leg of a triathlon but not so good for a 5K road race. I ran a 19:16, which would time out to a respectable 10K or half marathon, and was good enough for a top-20 and age group first place. I groused for all of three minutes, then put it all in perspective as I watched some of my friends and athletes come in...it was warm, humid (not terrible) and not a goal race. And age group hardware is age group hardware no matter how you slice it.
What bothered me more was to see a guy in his early 50s, who uses me as a target for his training and racing, looking much like his life was over. He finished about 30 seconds behind me and looked absolutely despondent. I guess it's worth feeling that way if there's money or honor involved, but with a local race with little more than a beer glass (and perhaps local bragging rights) at stake...I'm not so certain.
I took the time to chat with him, ask a few questions about his training (he works strictly on speed training) and recommended he train with my friend George. I also told him what I felt it would take for him to beat me at a 5K. Dude, it doesn't mean that much to me...if it means that much to you, then here is what you'll have to do.
But, I did tell him the bottom line - you are only as good as your next race. Who knows when mine will be? Hard to tell.
Until then, it's back to training. Being a fat, lazy b@st@rd is no fun.

MB's Gumpian Moment For The Month

'They just couldn't believe that somebody would do all that running for no particular reason.' - Tom Hanks, as Forrest Gump, "Forrest Gump" (1994)

Sometimes as we head into the university track facility, a parent or walker or jogger who has seen one of our three-times-a-week workouts asks the inevitable question, 'so what are you guys training for?' At first, I flippantly told them, 'life,' and left it at that. Now I think to preface my comment with, 'this may sound a little flippant, but...' It tends to win friends and positively influence people a little more, I guess. Perhaps I'm starting to become more coach and less athlete.

I hope not; I love being an athlete. In spite of the fact I pay for my running habit; right now I get $500 worth of Snickers Marathon Bars, a singlet, a couple of technical fiber shirts, a hat and a pair of shorts per year, my goggles, glasses, shoes, bike stuff, sports drink, race entry fees and all the other stuff comes right out of my pocket. I am 90-percent certain that I like it that way. Snickers Marathon Bar asks me to race six times a year in their gear. That's not a lot of races, unless you're a marathoner. Since I'm a 10,000-meter to half-marathon specialist, who also dabbles in multisport, with a conservative training/racing schedule I can do six races a year.

However, it's a sign of weakness around this town should you decide to be conservative in your racing. Fail to show up at every little podunk, rancid possum (approximate) 5,000-meter road race and people start to talk about injuries. Since I only have to race six events a year to please my sponsor, I can be selective on what I want to do and when I need to be ready to race. And, in order to encourage my sponsor to keep me on their rolls, I choose larger regional and national-level races outside of town. Because probably 70 percent of my races are not local, people who don't know when/where I race think I do a whole hell of a lot of running for no particular reason.

I did a local 5,000-meter road race two weeks ago as an early-season fitness test. It wasn't great, but it wasn't a bad start to a season delayed by six weeks of no running whatsoever because of injury (fractured humeri heal slower when you run at the same time they're trying to heal). I managed to stay seconds ahead of a local runner who tattooed a bulls-eye on my @$$ this summer. He told me, straight to my face that his goal this fall was to beat me - why I was his goal I have no particular clue. Actually, I do; the guy is in his early 50s and focuses strictly on 5,000-meter races, which (to paraphrase Sam Mussabini, in Chariots of Fire) is "tailor-made for neurotics." He trains strictly for local events. He's become stronger since he started training with this focus. He's also wound up like a cheap freaking watch, the way I used to be before I got married.

Last weekend, I filmed my athletes at a 'relatively competitive' 5,000-meter race. The guy who has been gunning for me ran a decent race, but was beaten soundly (a minute or more) by a runner who came from New Orleans, who drinks Budweiser like it was iced water (I had a great time the next morning as we all ran an eight-mile run on the Bayou, after which he killed off three Buds.). And boy, was the guy p!$$ed.

Hello? McFly?

It's an object lesson I've provided to my athletes in the past two years, and one thing I spoke of often with my coach in the last year he worked with me:

Sometimes you have to find a new challenge; whether it's a different location, doing races outside of your home turf, a different distance (such as going from the 5,000 meters to the 10,000 meters and up...), a different discipline (from cross-country to track or road racing), or a different sport altogether...in my own case, multisport events. A change of scenery and a change of competition is almost always a good thing. It provides you the opportunity to find out where you truly stand in comparison with the rest of humanity. Oh, sure, we all can be heroes in our hometown. But there are races where I can run a personal best and be fortunate to get third in my age group, after the top-three are awarded in the masters' division. Far be it from me to get arrogant and say I think it's not fair. If there are guys out there who are my age that are training more consistently, are blessed with better genetics, and run smarter, faster races...more power to them. I want to know what they are doing in order to see how I can improve myself.

I've started to think seriously about whether I can run for no apparent reason other than the love of the sport, the visceral pleasure that comes from propelling myself up a hill or around a track. If nothing else, perhaps to pull others along to a fast time. It doesn't seem like a lot of sense in this 'I placed fourth in my age group in this 5K race; all I have to show for it is this stupid ribbon which I'll now use to wipe my @$$ and drop in the rubbish bin' society. Beer glasses break. Medals tarnish. Ribbons fade. Tattoos can be lasered off. Sometimes all we have to show for our sport is what we show up with in the first place.

Desire.