Wednesday, April 30, 2008

It Takes Discipline

For the last week and a half, I have been getting out an running a very small bit almost every other day. For me, this takes two forms of discipline; first to limit the volume (I'm currently running just about a mile and a half (2.5 km)}, and second, just to get out there, especially when the volumes are so small.
I know I have made progress, having gone from sore legs at 0.8 miles to minimal discomfort at 1.6 miles. Still, I have a way to go. I am planning to run a 5K race on Memorial Day. Thus, in four weeks, I need to double my distance. I know I will not be prepared to race, but I will be ready to complete the distance.

Last week:
Mon 0.8, Wed 0.8, Fri 1.0

This week (so far):
Tue (wimped out on Mon - rain) 1.6

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Monday, April 28, 2008

Some Thoughts On The Women's Marathon Trials

Having watched the women's trials on the internet a bit over a week ago, I was struck by Magdalena Lewy-Boulet's effort. I did not see the early miles, but I understand she ran away from the pack essentially at the starting line. She ran a very nice race, building up a two minute gap before a mid-race pace increase by Deena Kastor reeled her in, finishing in 2:29:35, and looking like she felt pretty comfortable. Lewy-Boulet managed to hold onto second, finishing in 2:30:19, but did seem to be struggling in the later miles. Blake Russell finished third, covering the course in 2:32:40, but also seeming pretty comfortable. Zoila Gomez took the alternate spot by outsprinting Tera Moody to finish in 2:33:53.
Here's my take on the race: Kastor ran the race she wanted to run. Lewy-Boulet did as well, but Kastor's race was the smarter of the two. Lewy-Boulet probably beat up her legs and body a whole lot more than Kastor did.
Because of that, my money is on the following finish for the American team: Kastor, Russell, Lewy-Boulet (assuming all three get to the starting line). Kastor has a real shot at a medal, it will probably take a lucky break for either of the other two to do so.
Of course, an awful lot of us old-timers were rooting for Joan Benoit-Samuelson to post a good race there. She ran 2:49:08 at age 50! (I wish I could come close to that!)
What really intrigues me is whether the big time spread between the men and women will show a benefit to an earlier team slection in the marathon. I had the chance to speak to Ryan Hall, albeit very briefly, following his London Marathon race. He put up a 2:06:17, and he seemed fresh just about 10 hours after his finish. I am confident that he'll contend barring injury or accident.
One other comment - when growing up, the American flag was to be respected. It did not touch the ground. It did not get intentionally dirtied. At both the men's and women's trials, athletes appeared to be given flags and wrapped themselves in them. To me, using the flag as a wrap for a sweaty body is an act of disrespect. I realize times and standards change, and I think giving the athletes a flag is great, just don't encourage them to wrap themselves in it.

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Monday, April 21, 2008

Patriot's Day (Boston Marathon Day)

Today, in Massachusetts and Maine, Patriot's Day is celebrated, which means that the Boston Marathon will be running as I write this. Here's a poem on why Patriot's Day exists.

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.


He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."


Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.


Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.


Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.


Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.


Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.


A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.


It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.


It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.


It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.


You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.


So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Oh, and I ran this morning, for the first time in a long time. Just 0.8 miles, but it's a start. My weight is a bit north of 185, and that must change.

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