Race Day

5:00 AM. The race doesn't start until ten. Now what? Five hours! Internet news, two cups of coffee. That might eat up an hour. Some stretching? Not four hours of stretching. Can't take on a house-chore. Need to save my legs. Besides, no one else will be up for two more hours. I'm usually done running by eight o'clock. What do I do until ten?

Thankfully the pre-race jitters didn't start until yesterday. Sometimes they set in a week before, sometimes two weeks. I've been calm about this race. I've done it twice before, so I know what to expect. My training was disrupted by a lingering cold and a sore calf, so my plan is to take it easy. Start slow, have fun, and come in with a respectable, unimpressive time.

But yesterday I got an email with final race instructions. That set me off. Got me thinking about the race. A 10K trail run. Lung-burning hills. Enough rocks and roots to trip a mountain goat. Last year I pushed hard the whole race and age-grouped. This year, my legs feel great. Injury free for three or four weeks. Had a clean taper. Why am I holding back? I could smoke this race!

No. Stick with the plan. I haven't even charged my watch. Running on breath, on feel. I don't want to be a slave to pace. I don't want to stress about how slowly I'm hitting the hills. I picked out my travel music – a live Clash disk. Angry, driving music. Might help me release some steam, some tension.

It's freezing out. Frosty. What to wear? Tights? Shorts? How many layers? Which gloves? Where should I leave my stuff during the race? In my car? Too much extra walking. Should I take warm clothes for the after party? Should I have more coffee? Should I eat? What should I eat? Should I take food with me?

7:00 AM. The house is stirring. Kids are up and streaming Netflix. My wife is drinking coffee, watching me pace around the house. Go to the bathroom, foam-roll, go to the bathroom, stretch, go to the bathroom. Pack my bag. Take everything. Tights, shorts, four layers, a coat, two pairs of gloves. In the car fifteen minutes earlier than I expected. Glad to be gone -- I was driving everyone nuts.

8:45 AM. Packet pickup. Much colder than I expected. Maybe 28 degrees. The sun hasn't cleared the mountains and the trees. Everyone is shivering. Guess I'm running in tights, extra layers. Grabbed a coffee, discussed the course with other anxious runners. Too cold to stand outside. Back to the car -- my early start won me great parking. My feet are numb, heater blasting. Assess the race bag. Pin my bib to my shirt. Too low. Now crooked. Not centered. Fourth time, good enough.

9:30 AM. Pre-race briefing. Review of the course. Jokes about the perils of trail-running. Nervous laughter all around. Finally some sun is reaching the ground, much appreciated warmth. But the frost hasn't melted. I'm ditching the tights. Back to the car, back to the heater, back to the Clash. Minutes to go. Decide on my attire. Go minimalist. Shorts and a long-sleeve shirt. Plus the t-shirt with my bib. I can't possibly change that now.

10:00 AM. Halfway back in the pack, anticipating. A cannon roars and we’re running. Well, jogging. I usually start up front, set an early, unsustainable pace. This is different, more relaxing. Next mile and a half is up hill. Passing lots of runners. They’re slowing down, I'm speeding up. At the top of the hill, I'm all out. Race pace. Running with a man and woman who will be with me the rest of the race. The woman is fast and strong, but slow over the rocks. The man is a slightly stronger version of me. The woman and I pass each other several times. I wish she would just attack the technical stuff and stay in front of me. She wishes I'd quit jogging the flats and stay ahead of her. These guys are fit. And young. I must be running well, fast. I dig in.

10:42 AM. Starting up the mountain. Everyone is walking. I've vowed to run it this year. I’m not any faster, but it feels right. And I get a bit of an edge when I hit the top. I’m already running, not questioning when to restart. Back on the flats. That pair of runners pulls away from me. I'm used up, nicely. Still running hard, but no burst left.

11:06 AM. Out of the woods and onto the home stretch. I see the clock and I crack out an exhausted "Ha!" Five minutes slower than last year. But I finish strong. Folks cheer as I cross the line. My wife and kids are there. Some running friends. High-fives. A post-race beer. Camaraderie. Part of a tribe, 250 crazy souls willing to gut through a sub-freezing 10K in the mountains.

And then it's over. I go home and resume my day. I wonder if it is worth all the stress, all the worry. Yes it is. Two days later, and I'm still buzzing. Still feel the adrenaline. Picking a line through the rocks; hopping a creek; ducking a branch. Me against nature, or me in the midst of nature. Looking forward to this weekend, to my next trail run.

People Who Died

You Tube – People Who Died Video – From the movie "The Basketball Diaries". Sorry for the delayed start.  

Jim Carroll's ode to his screwed up life. To his friends that didn't make it. A long song. The version I use is five minutes. It starts, four down-stroke chords, and then it's rolling, careening. Tongue-twister lyrics and a depressing refrain. If you're not listening to the words, you think it's an upbeat song. Straddling the line between new wave and punk, it's a song that most people seem to like. I like it for its energy and beat. End of the workout, fifty-some minutes in. When I want everyone to push one last hard drill. To finish strong and spent.

Last week I used it for Tabata. This is cheating. Tabata is four minutes, and you're smoked at the end. This was 20% longer. But the song is so fast, so fun, people hang on. Keep pushing beyond comfort, even beyond suffering. Twenty seconds on – 100% effort (I always say 120%, it makes the point). And ten seconds off – nothing is expected for those few moments. On, off, on, off. True Tabata is eight sets. People Who Died, ten sets. The last five are brutal. Typically, I follow it with alt-country. Iris DeMint or Laura Cantrell. I'm sucking wind too, and I don't want to talk. The music says we're done.

Teddy sniffing glue he was 12 years old

Fell from the roof on east two-nine

Cathy was 11 when she pulled the plug

On 26 reds and a bottle of wine

Bobby got leukemia, 14 years old

He looked like 65 when he died

He was a friend of mine

Those are people who died, died x4

They were all my friends, and they died

G-berg and Georgie let their gimmicks go rotten

So they died of hepatitis in upper Manhattan

Sly in Vietnam took a bullet in the head

Bobby od'ed on drano on the night that he was wed

They were two more friends of mine

Two more friends that died / I miss 'em--they died

Those are people who died, died x4

They were all my friends, and they died

Mary took a dry dive from a hotel room

Bobby hung himself from a cell in the tombs

Judy jumped in front of a subway train

Eddie got slit in the jugular vein

And Eddie, I miss you more than all the others,

And I salute you brother/ this song is for you my brother

Those are people who died, died x4

They were all my friends, and they died

Herbie pushed Tony from the boys' club roof

Tony thought that his rage was just some goof

But Herbie sure gave tony some bitchin' proof

"hey," Herbie said, "tony, can you fly? "

But tony couldn't fly . . . tony died

Those are people who died, died x4

They were all my friends, and they died

Brian got busted on a narco rap

He beat the rap by rattin' on some bikers

He said, hey, I know it's dangerous,

But it sure beats riker's

But the next day he got offed

By the very same bikers

Materially Relevant

"In twenty, twenty-five years, she will be completely irrelevant. You'll see." This was my brother, dissing Madonna. I think we made a bet, but we were drinking so it’s unlikely that anyone remembers what was wagered. There were six or seven of us in all. The sides were drawn on gender. My girlfriend, my college friend Alice. They were the pro-Madonna camp. My brother Dana, Joe, and one or two of the Michigan Eds were the antis. That's University of Michigan. Joe and the Eds went there. Madonna went there too. Just a couple of semesters, but she calls it her Alma Mater. That pisses off Joe, Ed and Ed. Where was I? With the women, I was propping up Madonna.

I wouldn't call myself a fan. I didn't switch the radio station when a song came on, but I also didn't have any of her albums. This was 1990. Madonna didn't need much propping, she was on fire. Always on the charts, usually in a movie, reliably in four or five magazines. I was arguing against my team. We were cooler than Madonna. We listened to the Pixies, Jesus and Mary Chain, Throwing Muses/Breeders, Camper Van Beethoven, Nirvana. Alt-anything. Madonna was bland pop. No art, no risk. Just a hit-maker. Or so we said. But everyone has their secret favorites. A soft spot for a song or a band that seems completely out of character. Neil Diamond's "Song Sung Blue" is one of mine. Madonna, another. So here I was, propping her up.

Twenty-five years later, this seems like a stupid conversation. The unending parade of stars influenced by Madonna is a who's who of popular radio. From Brittany Spears to Lady Gaga, scores of female singer-songwriters owe a debt to Madonna. Clearly she's still relevant, She's still producing music, still making hits. And while I don't seek them out, whenever I hear new Madonna songs, I kind of like them.

But for me, the bet was settled in 2007. This was Al Gore's Live Earth concert. Here, Madonna introduced Gypsy punk band, Gogol Bordello to the world. At this point in the essay, the three  Gogol Bordello fans who will ever read this post will get indignant and huffy and say that the band  already had a global following. Sure, but the truth is that most people, especially those watching Live Earth, never would have heard of them if they didn't join Madonna on stage. A week after that concert, Gogol Bordello was on Letterman, and for years hence a regular fixture on the late night circuit. Two years later, they were on a major commercial label.

The song they sang? Well, it is really two songs. Madonna's Latin-themed "La Isla Bonita" interspersed with segments of the Romani-Gypsy folk song "Lela Pala Tute." The racous outcome is the perfect blend of pop and punk, singing and screaming. A long song, almost six minutes, with a driving beat from beginning to end. It starts fast and ends faster. It is one of my favorite songs to feature in my spin class. And it is always on my MP3 player for long-runs.

Listen to La Isla Bonita from Live Earth

Madonna is still everywhere. She's released a dozen original albums, acted in twenty-one movies, and at least one, Evita, was well received. She's still in magazines, in controversies, and omnipresent on the internet. Just a few years ago, Lady Gaga nailed a number one hit with a remake of Madonna's "Express Yourself" – she called it "Born this Way."

It's been twenty-five years since that argument, that bet. It's time to take stock. It's time to check in with Dana, Joe, the Eds. They didn't win that bet... Madonna did.

Portrait of a Runner

It all starts with the feet. The birth-place of injuries. I'm a life-long heel striker, and I've paid the price for it. When I started running in the seventies, proper running form didn't exist. Well, this isn't true, but my cross country coach never once mentioned form. He talked about strategy. "Crest the hill" was his favorite saying. But form? Nope. He never mentioned nutrition either, except one time after a Friday practice, he said "Don't drink too much beer tonight, kids, we have a meet in the morning." This was the seventies. Things were different.

My long, loping stride, launch from the toe, land on the heel was common, fine with my coach. And the result was nasty bouts with shin-splints and twenty years of knee bursitis. I can be stubborn. I always think I know what's best – for me, for others. I could never be convinced that my running form was related to my injuries. Running partners would complain about my foot-slapping gate. Running on a treadmill was an embarrassing racket. A recent reading of Christopher McDougall's "Born to Run" changed all of this. His early chapters talking about form and injuries caught me off guard. Made me think of myself. And his descriptions of trail running reminded me that wooded trails were my favorite place to run.

Eighteen months ago, I set out to work on my foot strike, my stride. Move to a mid/front sole landing, with a tight, gliding stride. And I think I've finally got it. I have the evidence. A few weeks ago, I ran a five mile road race. My first in two years. Since coming off an injury (knee bursitis, again), and rebooting my stride, I've stuck to the trails, even in races. Nothing on the road for 24 months. But this race is special to me. I was its first race director, and I had the privilege of laying out the course. A simple out and back with nothing but hills. It's not a very popular race, too hard for the 5K crowd, not long enough for the half-marathoners. 8Ks and 10Ks seem to be out of favor these days. At least in my region.

At the home stretch of this race a photographer was shooting the runners as we finished. He got a couple of good ones of me. One head on, and one from the side. With these, I'm able to evaluate my stride, my posture. And because it is the end of a race, when I'm tired, the data is more pertinent than when I set out – when proper form is foremost in my thoughts. Looking at these two photos of my finish, I'm elated but surprised to see good form. Upright posture, a perfect foot strike. Right on the ball of my foot. This success has been hard won. Switching strides thirty-five years into your running career takes effort, pain. Relearning what you know. Building new muscles. Back to basics, back to the start. Every run felt like my first. My calves hurt all the time. My foam-roller was my most important running equipment.

My pace took a two minute hit while I learned my new stride. Everything I ran was at a ten-minute pace. Not my normal eight. Short, long, it didn't matter. All runs came in with ten-minute splits. And my pace has been slowly creeping back down ever since. My overall time for this race was about thirty seconds off the time I posted four years ago. This race was 8:10 per mile, so I'm going to call myself done. I'm as fast a runner as I used to be, pre-switch, and now I have proper form.

Two years ago, I ran the same race and did fairly well. I can't compare times because the volunteer who set up the turn-around point missed by a quarter of a mile. Still, it was one of my faster race-paces since I left my thirties, down in the sevens. The same photographer was taking pictures at the finish and he got a clean one of me. I looked like hell. In pain, terrible form, and somewhat emaciated, skinny, old. Fast, but sickly.

I work at a community center with an awesome fitness center. Huge floor, comprehensive selection of weight machines and free weights. But I never used them. My exercise routine was spinning and yoga. I was disdainful of people who pumped weights. I didn't see the point. I was strong, flexible and fit. Most people at a fitness center are trying to lose weight. I couldn't have been any thinner, more lean. I felt that I was everything that everyone else was trying to achieve.

The guy who finished the race immediately after me was Brad, my co-worker's boyfriend. We were in the same age group, and he trash-talked me a bit before the race. There is a good photo of him finishing the race as well. And the contrast between his photo and mine is sickening. He is upright, buff, confident. Pumped up, almost cartoonish – like Captain America. He looked great. It doesn't matter that I beat him. He looked better losing. Much better. I was so shocked by the difference in the photos that I started lifting weights again.

Fitness-wise, this has been a ground-breaking two years for me. My entire adult life, I've exercised, a lot. But I've never really had an exercise program, a clear idea of what I was trying to achieve, (other than fitness). Running, mountain biking, soccer. Weight-lifting, swimming, yoga, spinning. I've been fairly fit, but without a plan. In and out of fads, focus areas. Essentially working however I wanted, whatever felt right. Without thought to an overall fitness goal. Imbalanced muscles – especially my quads – countless injuries.

After comparing myself to Brad, I wanted some muscle mass. I wanted to look fit, not just thin. And I'm a much healthier person for it. I began to put as much mental effort into my fitness program as the physical. I began researching workouts, proper form, muscle balance. I incorporated plyometric drills and compound lifts a la Crossfit. Stole bear-crawls and power-ups from Parkour. I inserted intensity drills into my spinning class after completing a HIIT certification. And I added body-weight exercises from www.bodyrock.tv (I go to that site for the workouts, really). Gone is the split-system weigh training I used twenty years ago. My exercises now are much more in line with real-world activities, not just pressing weights.

The results have been remarkable. Not only do I look more fit, I am more fit. Better muscle balance, fewer exercise injuries, faster recovery. A stronger runner, more of an athlete. Body awareness, tighter, sturdier, stable. This all helps my trail running, and it helps me age. Now in my fifties, I feel that my fitness is still improving, or once again improving after a long break. It gives me hope that in ten or twenty years, I'll still be running trails, working out, instructing spin classes. My current retirement-career goal is to be a personal trainer to the over-fifty crowd. Not for people just wanting to tone up or lose some weight. Folks who are looking for true fitness. Setting new goals, stretching to achieve them. But for now, I'm working on myself.

(The photos in this blog post were taken by Dennis Steinauer)

Kiss

The Pinewood Derby car I entered in the family category of my son's Cub Scout competition. Just about the only part of Scouting I like. At times immaturity can be a good thing.

Why Fixed?

"The bike cannot coast. The pedals never stop turning. Can't stop. Don't want to either." - Premium Rush (movie 2012)

"That's stupid. Coasting is the best part." - My brother, David.

Two disparate quotes, polar opposites. A starting place that indicates common ground will never be reached. That's fine. It isn't an important topic. Doesn't affect society, not worth arguing about. Not like climate change, gay marriage or Lady Gaga. It really only impacts the rider. It is about aesthetics, purity, preference. It is riding “fixed.”

Fixed gear bikes have gained in popularity over the past two decades. Their simplicity is undeniable. Fewer moving parts, less to break down, to maintain. Less to rust. Less to steal. The design is straightforward. The bike has no freewheel. A device invented more than a century ago; it allows the back wheel to spin without moving the pedals. On a fixed gear bike, a fixie, as the hipsters call it, the pedals, the chainring, are essentially chained to the back wheel. If the wheel is spinning, so are the pedals. If the pedals are spinning, so is the wheel. Frontwards or backwards. The pedals and the wheel move as a unit. Pedal hard, the bike goes fast. Stop the pedals, the bike stops. Not much is simpler than that.

I began riding fixed when my kids finished child care, started grade school. No more drop-offs and pickups on my work commute. It had been eight years since my last stint as a bike commuter. I was itching to resume riding to work. Hell or high-water. Hot enough to fry an egg. Rain, sleet, dead of night. Any other clichéd adverse riding description. Any weather, any time. As early as 4:00 AM, as late as midnight. I didn't want to ride my 'good' bike. I had to park outside. I would ruin it. Or it might get stolen. I had a decades-old Trek 1200 in my attic. Nice frame, light, aluminum. It was all I needed. I stripped off the gears, the derailleur. Ditched one of the two chainrings and all other extraneous parts. Cut my dropbars into bullhorns. 'Flop & Chops' they call them. Shortened the chain. The only money I spent was on a cheap back wheel with a fixed hub. And then I rode it for years. Back and forth to work, all over town. Pretty much rode it until it was worn out, too hard to maintain.

The bicycle isn't as old as many people think. Barely older than the automobile. I once read on a bike-shop website that "for centuries Americans have enjoyed riding bicycles..." Not correct. The first pedal-propelled bike wasn't invented until almost 1860, and the first chain-driven bikes became available in the mid-1880s. But five years later, bikes included pneumatic tires and the familiar diamond design. And there it was. Just 30 years after the first pedal-bike was created, the bicycle was perfected. Materials have changed. Lighter, more durable metals, more pliable rubber for the tires. Improved machine techniques make everything sleeker, stronger. But the basic design was set. And they nailed it from the start. My brand new Specialized Langster is conceptually identical to a bike I could have bought in the late 1890s.

With proper seat-height and alignment, a bicycle is the most efficient means of human transportation. Least calories expended per miles covered. And on this machine, the engine gets stronger the more it is used. I would argue that the bicycle is the most perfect machine ever invented. In the past 125 years, engineers and manufacturers have tried hard to improve on the design. Adjustments made to the geometry. Shocks, disk brakes, and gears, lots of gears. Some of the changes have merit, some are just stupid and don’t last. But in the end, the basic 1890s design will work adequately for many if not most riders.

I have two bikes right now. The Specialized Langster I mentioned earlier and a 2012 Giant Seek. The Seek is marketed as an "urban-influenced sport bike." Sort of a cross between a mountain bike and a road bike. Geometry-wise, it looks and feels more like a mountain bike, but it is road bike through and through. Sort of a bad-ass hybrid. It has 24 gears. I'm not opposed to gears, or even a freewheel. Both are nice on a long hilly ride. But for popping around town, I find them extraneous and in the way. One more thing to worry about. Am I in the right gear? Much more satisfying to just dig in and ride the gear I have. Attack the hills, control the descents, stand dead-still on my pedals at traffic lights. Trackstanding. Like a unicycle, fixies are far easier to keep upright when stopped. Imperceptible rocking, forwards and back. An inch or less. Riding fixed is fun. Aesthetic. Artistic. Human and machine working as a unit. Zen.  No need to switch gears and ride the brakes around every corner.

And for me, that's really what it comes down to. Connecting with the bike. Riding fixed pays homage to the roots of cycling. Recognizing that the bicycle has been perfect for well over a century. I find happiness in fixed-gear riding. It leaves me feeling peaceful. In touch with a bygone era. In touch with my favorite machine. For years I have been striving for simplicity in my life. So when asked why I ride fixed, I forego this long explanation. I usually answer "Why not?"

Racism

On the day I ran in my town’s “Race Against Racism”, the big sports news was that Los Angeles Clippers’ team owner Donald Sterling chastised his girlfriend for hanging out with African-Americans. To him, this was embarrassing. To paraphrase his comments, "fine, hang out with them in private, but don't do it in public, people will talk." From an eighty-one year old rich, white dude, this probably shouldn’t be all that surprising. Undeniably, this attitude was common a half a century ago. Walk into any affluent country club in the United States and my guess is you will be able to find at least one racist octogenarian.

I have always considered racism as a crime of ignorance. To believe that a group of people, a specific race, a descendant of a different national or cultural origin, is inferior, I’ve assumed the racist must have limited encounters with people from the group he is stereotyping. This isn't the case with Sterling. He is constantly surrounded by African-Americans. They are his employees, his critics, his marketers, his peer-group. Sterling is surrounded by some of the smartest, most successful, accomplished African-Americans in the country. Even his girlfriend, the recipient of his racist remarks, is of African-American descent.

In this case, Sterling simply seems to be a jerk. Full of hate. I'd like to think this is a generational problem. A point of view that will eventually die-out with the handful of older people still harboring racist view-points, but I know this isn't true. I went to college in Lynchburg, VA in the 1980s. Not exactly the deep-south, but southern enough, remote enough to seem that way. Strong racism was prevalent. At parties within the community, I continually met racist people. I met Klan members. I met a guy my age who tried to argue that the downfall of slavery was unfair to white people –slave-ownership was our God-given right.

But it isn't just a southern problem either. A large portion of the students at my school came from northern states. New York, New Jersey, Connecticut. There was heavy recruitment from that region. I found that many of these people were just as racist as the folks from Lynchburg. The only difference is they were less public about it. While growing up in the suburbs of Washington, DC, I didn't realize these attitudes still existed. My high school had a small population of African-Americans, but no one I knew treated them differently from anyone else.

Since leaving my naïve, sheltered upbringing, I've learned that racism is still prevalent throughout the country, the world. In this country, religious intolerance is on the rise. Just this morning, I read a quote from popular tea-party pol, Sarah Palin: “Waterboarding is how we baptize terrorists.” The queen of clever language. Is she saying that we will not coddle terrorists, or is she saying that we intend to torture people into becoming Christian? I’d like to put forth the reminder that not all terrorist organizations are non-Christians. Our homegrown terrorist group, the KKK, morphed into a Protestant organization during the 1900s. Persecuting, terrorizing, attacking those who were Catholic, Jewish, immigrant or black.

The world is growing smaller. We are more interconnected than ever before. We interact on social media with people from all cultures, people around the world. Yet many are still holding on to their old stereotypes. Donald Sterling is entitled to his beliefs, but he is also entitled to the fire-storm that has flown his way. Only by holding accountable those who spout bigoted, narrow views, will society continue to make strides against prejudice. There can be no “they”, no “them”. Each individual must be judged on his or her own merit. When this is ignored, racism persists. We each have a responsibility to speak out against bigotry. To challenge those who judge without basis. This is true for Donald Sterling, for Sarah Palin, the guy at the country club, the guy down the street.