Looks like I’ll make it to the Northeast in time for the big race.

I’ll start in Columbia, drive to Raleigh, catch a plane, stop in Washington D.C., and finally arrive in Manchester, New Hampshire. I’ll visit Connecticut, hit the expo in Boston, and stay outside of Hopkinton. On the way home, I’ll layover in Atlanta. That’s seven states in three days (if I’m fortunate enough to give Rhode Island a miss). In the words of Sam Spade, “Are you getting all this or am I going to fast for you?”

You know you’ve had a stressful go of it when the thought of starting a marathon is eminently relaxing. At least I now know more about the arcane inner workings of the airline fare system than I care to admit. Please don’t ask me about it, I’ll have a disturbing flashback.

Now, as long as US Airways and Delta stay in business for 2 more weeks, I’ll be all set. Meanwhile, I plan on telling every airline official who’ll listen that I’ve qualified for the Manchester Marathon.

- Dean

I used to think that qualifying for the Boston Marathon was difficult; a challenge requiring dedication, stubbornness and hard work. But it all seems to have been child’s play compared to finding suitable last minute airfare and lodging for race weekend. Apparently this Boston Marathon thing is quite popular.

So thanks again Skybus! Two more lousy weeks were all I needed from you.

XOXOXOX,
Dean

As a trail runner, I’m not bored by long stretches of featureless road, my feet never ache, and I avoid recklessly inattentive teenagers who drive white pick-up trucks.

You should join me on the trails. Off road, you’ll experience varied terrain, often gorgeous scenery, and meet amazing runners who consider scaling wooded mountains an ideal way to spend the day. Ever freak out on the road when you can’t find a convenient restroom? Don’t give it a second though on the trails.

Train running offers a much needed respite from the techno-urban tornado. It’s like immersing yourself in those zen-like Alpine Lake or Bavarian Meadow ambient background CDs; just without the CD player, your bathrobe, or your living room. Admittedly, some people aren’t interested in relaxation. They’ve read Lord of the Flies once too often, and prefer to unleash the tribal primitivism of their inner Jack. We all run for different reasons.

Anyway, as you run, jump and swerve through the trails, you’ll work more leg muscles than exercised by ordinary road running. You’ll also greatly enhance something called proprioception; your body’s unconscious, non-visual knack for spatial orientation. Sorry, this doesn’t mean you’ll turn into Nostradamus.

Trail running has become my passion. I love the switch-backs, single tracks, stream crossings, and mud. I even enjoy tripping over roots and falling on my face.

Unsurprisingly, I also enjoy the wildlife. I’ve seen wild turkeys, squabbling raccoons, snakes, quail, foxes, coyotes, skunks, bunnies by the score, more squirrels than I can count, and of course spiders and their ubiquitous webs. I’ve also seen loads of deer. If I had a dollar for every doe, buck, or fawn I’ve seen on the trails, my servants would have written this post for me.

It all stands to reason. After all, I regularly cavort through their home. And deer are quite a jumpy lot. When runners come barreling through the trails, the herd scatters haphazardly like teenagers caught at an illicit bottle-spinning party. Deer literally hightail it away from humans. It’s quite a sight - in daylight.

But I also run the trails in the dark. Slapping a battery-powered light on your forehead for nighttime trail running is probably as foolish as it sounds. You can’t see anything more than a few feet ahead of your headlamp beam; except the sinister, reflected eyes of wild deer. Yeah, it’s creepy.

And I sometimes run alone in the dark. This can be somewhat unnerving, especially if you pause to consider its rank stupidity. But let’s not dwell on that. Recently, on a solo, pre-dawn trail run, I rounded a hairpin turn and was startled by the sudden appearance of two piercing, glowing eyes right in front of me. As I stood frozen in sheer terror, an enormous deer pounced straight up, bayed, and I can’t put this any other way, hissed at me.

At that moment, without benefit of calm recognition, I thought I was sushi.

The only thing that could have made this scarier would have been if the deer had burst into flames and announced in the deep distorted voice of the Dread Pirate Roberts, “I am the white-tailed viceroy of Mephistopeles, come to claim your soul!”

I swear it was pretty close to that. I was shaking for several minutes. Fortunately, I think the deer was more scared than me, and that’s saying something.

This might not be a rugged bear or cougar story, but encounters with large herbivores are quite enough for me, thanks. But consider the big picture. Regardless of the psychological trauma, I’ll take startled venison over close calls with speeding, two-ton vehicles any day of the week.

- Dean

Ok, I’d heard that the Little Rock Marathon finisher’s medal was huge, but wasn’t quite prepared for the sheer audacity of the thing. Races are competing for your marathoning dollar, and the gimmicks are coming out of the woodwork.

The self-proclaimed world’s largest finisher’s medal sort of looks like a shovel, and appears sturdy enough for real digging. But the kicker for me is the sparkling, silver ribbon. I may reveal my bias toward 70s and 80s Sci-Fi television, but doesn’t this look like a medal that Gil Gerard would have received from Erin Grey for saving the world in Buck Rogers and the 24th Century?

Better still, it reminds me of Dr. Theophilus, the frying pan robot that Twiki wore as a necklace.

- Dean

We’ll this stinks. Today, Skybus became the third airline this week to cease operations. Normally I would not care about this sort of thing. But they were my ride to Boston.

It started with a text message after this morning’s 18 mile trail run; “Dude, Skybus just tanked.” At breakfast, I ordered wheat toast (no butter), bacon, eggs, and a legitimate airline.

The Skybus website was laughably unhelpful. “Fuel is expensive. We’re closing. Sorry about that.” No phone numbers, resolution path, or Turtle Wax parting gift. Just the foreboding, “contact your credit card company.” I called right away (just like every single Skybus refugee in America). I’m brain dead from easy listening hold music.

But I suppose that’s what I get for picking a relatively new, discount carrier with no call center. The sweet airfare deals were quite literally too good to be true. But for a while, I felt like super consumer, sticking it to the overpriced airlines. Perhaps I’ll run Boston with a scarlet “caveat emptor” pinned to my singlet.

And that’s the proverbial large nut I must crack. I have to find an alternate means to get to Boston. I shudder at prospect of pricing airfare to Massachusetts on late notice. I could pop a blood vessel in my left eyeball out of deranged frustration.

- Dean

I’ve come across a unique book called “Not quite what I was planning.” It’s filled with memoirs from famous authors, each summarizing the essence of their lives.

While this sounds like something you’d discuss at “the finer things” club, the book offers quite an energizing twist. Inspired by an urban myth regarding Hemingway’s ability to tell compelling stories with very few words, each memoir is precisely six words long.

That’s hardly sufficient to summarize today’s weather, let alone the crux of an entire life. Hemingway offered the poignant, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” I guess that’s why he’s Hemingway.

Never one to wax melodramatic, I’d like to make a different contribution to the six-word story genre. The chief complaint I get here at ZeroToBoston is my failure to complete race reports in a timely fashion. So here they all are; precisely six words each.

DISNEY 2005
Hit the wall at mile thirteen.

DISNEY 2006
Collapsed at finish. Lovely Medical Tent.

NIPMUCK 2006
Rockier than you can possibly imagine.

BLUE RIDGE RELAY 2006
Ran day and night. Van reeked.

KIAWAH ISLAND 2006
First Boston attempt. I Bonked ignominiously.

MYRTLE BEACH 2007
At least there was free beer.

BLACK MOUNTAIN 2007
Friend fell, got hideous knee wound.

HITCHCOCK WOODS 50K 2007
Shoes still waterlogged; full of sand.

BLUE RIDGE RELAY 2007
The Mythical Frog Boil finished fifth.

STEAMTOWN 2007
Unlike Chicago, they stocked extra water.

NEW YORK CITY 2007
Sea of humanity enjoys vulgar Brooklynites.

ROCKET CITY 2007
Amazingly flat for a hilly town.

MYRTLE BEACH 2008
Qualification overshadows boring course, cheesy shirt.

MOUNT MITCHELL CHALLENGE 2008
Twenty-two miles up; Eighteen down. Curious.

BOSTON 2008
What color should my hair be?

Keep comments to six words, please.

- Dean

This post has been “tagged” with the circulating six-word memoir blogfad. Please visit:
http://www.dailyadventuresgretch.blogspot.com/

Photo by Heather Leah Kennedy

I unabashedly love Cadbury Crème Eggs. The whole gooey, chocolaty mess enthralls my taste buds, which otherwise shy away from prodigious concentrations of refined sugar. Only Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies (an excellent post-marathon treat) rival Crème Eggs as a discipline-smashing guilty pleasure.

Drooling excessively on my keyboard as I write of the Egg’s many indulgent virtues, I dream of the luscious rippling chocolate shell holding its succulent cargo of silky, flowing sweetness. I’m lost in the moment.

Oh yeah, I eat a lot of Crème Eggs.

No longer content to buy one Egg at a time, I purchase them in packs of four. I devour the first, and in the dizzying haze of my newfound sugar high, reach for the second; only to discover an empty box. I never recall eating all four. Is that a bad sign?

The Eggs satisfy my emotionally suspect chocolate urges, but they don’t do much for my training regimen. Have you ever run ten miles through trails fueled only by a handful of Crème Eggs? I assure you it’s not a pretty sight.

One Egg provides more carbs than the average (disgusting) Gel pack, but you also get enough fat content to sink a battleship. Based on a 2000 calorie diet, each Egg offers 17% (3.5g) of the Recommended Daily Allowance for saturated fat. I shudder at the prospect of multiplying this by four. But face it; if you’re downing multiple Crème Eggs in one sitting, you’ve blown the 2000 calorie diet to smithereens anyway.

What will I do? Maybe I can link my passion for running with my chocolate egg addiction. Perhaps Cadbury will sponsor me in a marathon. I’ll work the expo, wear a custom singlet, and agree to eat one egg per aid station during the race. I’d blow through at least a dozen. That’s impressive, right?

But there will be repercussions. High sugar concentration slows down stomach emptying, impeding the flow of real fuel to the muscles. That doesn’t bode well for endurance running. More pointedly, the harsh ebb and flow of insulin levels in my bloodstream would make for a spasmodic marathon experience. I’d drag listlessly into every aid station, down an egg, and zoom out like a Lovey Howell hopped up on sugar beets. I’m sure mathematicians could predict my rollercoaster sine wave splits based on some complex formula involving VO2 max and sugar calories per Egg.

This could work. But I’d only be able to train with Eggs a few weeks each year, when the Cadbury Bunny leaves her limited supply at convenience stores across America. And now Easter is over and they’re gone until next year.

Gone and we are lost! Lost, precious! Losssst!

- Dean

Photo courtesy of Loren kahle

So, is Katie running Boston or what? Unless we’re in for an April surprise, it appears not. For a while, I wondered if she intended to run every marathon I’ve entered. Just who is stalking whom?

Well, I’m pretty sure she hasn’t qualified. Her 5:29 marathon in New York would only suffice if she were eighty. Tom is one weird dude, but I don’t think he’s making babies with an octogenarian. If she’s interested, Katie will have to run Boston under other auspices.

People run Boston without qualifying, either through sponsorship or by supporting charity. Both options are legitimate, even fabulous. But somehow I find callow celebrity participation irksome. Am I simply jealous? Maybe. I’m certainly not surprised that the wealthy and illustrious get preferential treatment.

Let’s assume celebrities give regularly to charity (though I’m not sure Scientology counts). It’s unlikely that they need to give further via marathoning. And they almost certainly don’t require a corporate exemption. Stars run races like New York and Boston because these races are, well, New York and Boston. Luminaries participate because they can.

But Joe Six-Pack can’t enter these races on a whim. New York features a lottery system, and Boston’s standards have become legend. Jumping directly to the exclusive, high profile marathons smacks of privilege and entitlement; not something that would play well with the tabloid set.

One must take Hollywood gossip with a rather enormous grain of salt. Katie may never have intended to run Boston. But it’s just as likely that she backed off because of potentially caustic publicity. If so, score one for the purists, or at least the grocery store check-out straw poll.

I’d accept celebrity participation in Boston more readily if these folks first paid their dues running plebeian marathons like New Jersey or Myrtle Beach (regardless of finishing time). I just want them to take running seriously. Run a half marathon, local 5k, family fun run or something. Throw the running gods a bone.

Thankfully, some stars get it. Will Farrell proved himself by working down to a sub-four hour marathon. He treated our sport respectfully, and purged his engrams with sweat. That’s worth a few more movie tickets in my book.

I swear, if I read in The Enquirer that Brittney is running Boston, I’ll blow a gasket.

- Dean

The heavily pollinated, warming air tells me that spring has arrived. Time for baseball, taxes, and the Boston Marathon. I can hardly believe I’m at Hopkinton’s doorstep. If I don’t mark the moment, it will fly by before I can savor it fully. With that in mind, I’ll make a pledge. I will post an article everyday from now until Boston.

Seriously.

I know that sounds like an empty promise when cast on April Fool’s day, but I’m throwing caution to the wind. I’m sure you’ll hold me to my word. Friends, qualifiers, hopeful qualifiers, celebrity posers; join me in welcoming Boston with a flurry of creative output.

Yeah, this post counts.

- Dean

Photo courtesy of Jared Cherup via flickr.

I should write glowingly of the Myrtle Beach Marathon, where I finally felled the quixotic windmill. But the purist in me can’t generate enough enthusiasm. Unremarkable and devoid of subtlety, the race reflects Myrtle Beach itself. It’s the tourist trap of marathons.

Sure, I’m an exultant qualifier; but when it comes to Myrtle, I’m also the running equivalent of a jaded, apathetic middle manager. I’m that conflicted.

At least I don’t have writer’s block. I’ve offered my splits, now I turn poison pen to the race itself. So, enjoy my “I Qualified for Boston and Now I’m an Insufferable Running Snob Myrtle Beach Marathon Race Report”.

(Race officials, may want to get a glass of wine first.)

- Dean

In the finishing chute at the Myrtle Beach Marathon, a runner congratulated me on Boston and asked, “What was your qualification time?” I replied, “Three years, seven months, ten days, twenty-two hours, fifteen minutes, and several seconds.”

That’s not Rip Wan Winkle’s Boston threshold; it’s how long I’ve been a runner.

I donned a pair of cheap, inadequate shoes in July, 2004, and trained for the 2005 Disney marathon. There I ran an excruciating 4:48. I subsequently got running religion, returned the following year, and ran a 3:31. From then on, I had Boston on the brain.

I bonked Kiawah 2006 and ran Myrtle Beach 2007 just to get the foul taste out of my mouth. Later that year, I wilted in the searing heat and daunting hills of Steamtown; lollygagged in New York; came close at Rocket City; and finally qualified this February at Myrtle Beach, my fourth marathon in as many months.

I’ve been asked for a split-by-split recap of Myrtle, but I’ve never found that sort of thing compelling. Few care about the minutiae of anyone not named Brad, Angelina, Paris, or Brittney. And really, can Mile eight be any more interesting than mile nine?

But in light of the occasion, I’ll bring this egotistical stew to a boil. My splits will just sound more entertaining if you imagine I’m Ashton Kutcher.

MILE 1 – 8:11
Crowded, Dark, and Drizzly
Temperatures hovered ideally in the forties for the 6:30am start of the 2008 Myrtle Beach Marathon. Once underway I joined the frenetic hordes of half marathoners jostling for position, Jackrabbit relay runners bursting out at 5K speed, and marathoners fumbling amidst the chaos. It was slow going, but I never worry about mile one.

MILE 2 – 7:23
Broadway Loop
A 3:15 marathon requires a 7:26/mile average pace. I targeted 7:20/mile to create the elusive “cushion.” This mile was just about right.

The crowd thinned as we rounded Broadway at the Beach. Already warm in the pre-dawn darkness, I tossed my long-sleeve shirt (instant souvenir) to a bewildered, sleepy-eyed toddler.

MILE 3 – 7:20
Wavelength
In 2007, Myrtle’s third mile marker was off by over two minutes. Two minutes! I recall clocking a stout, unheard of (and probably impossible) 5:15.

This was a strikingly bizarre example of the Doppler Effect. One could hear angry groans of runners grow louder and more pronounced as one approached the mile three. Then the disgruntled expletives gradually receded into the distance as one moved beyond the marker.

Mercifully, the marker was correct this time. But from now on, whenever I pontificate on stellar red shifts and the expanding universe, I’ll use this metaphor. It can’t miss.

MILE 4 – 7:25
Sunrise
I didn’t like this split, but didn’t want to raise a fuss so early. Pushing for a few measly seconds in the early miles can cost minutes later. You could end up a putrefied zombie after mile twenty.

MILE 5 – 7:20
Relay Exchange Zone
Relay exchanges were awash with runners awaiting their turn with the baton. Sadly, the relay has been scrapped and won’t return next year. It lent character and idiosyncrasy to Myrtle. The weekend will be the lesser without the hip monikers of teams like “Scott and the Harem” and “Poultry in Motion.” I mean that sincerely.

MILE 6 – 7:25
Classic Myrtle
With the sun magnificently rising over the ocean, I ran this borderline split through the cheesy epicenter of the Myrtle Beach strip. If you love San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf, I-95’s South of the Border, or anything in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee (Dollywood anyone?), then you’d love this little corner of Ocean Boulevard.

Here you’ll find the infamous Gay Dolphin. Those not from the immediate area may wonder about the name and what inspires the infamy. The mundane, inevitable truth: It’s the largest gift shop in America. Elaborately tacky beach themed gewgaw awaits.

MILE 7 – 7:35
The Wall
This must be some mistake. I clearly scheduled my fade for mile twenty-four.

MILE 8 – 6:52
Over-compensators Anonymous
Either this split was dangerously aggressive or mile markers seven or eight were incorrect. The romantic in me prefers to believe in a dramatic righting of the ship.

MILE 9 – 7:19
Boredom
In this nondescript stretch heading toward the exceedingly banal Kings Highway, I returned to ho-hum target pace.

MILE 10 – 7:06
Halls of Montezuma
I’d been running with two marines for a while. Chatty and exceedingly polite, they moved things right along. I blame them for the drastic inconsistency of miles seven through ten. I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.

MILE 11 – 7:23
Shores of Tripoli
I clocked this split seventeen seconds slower than the previous mile and still dropped the erratic marines. My new mark: white shirt guy, fifty yards ahead.

MILE 12 – 7:17
In the Zone
I regularly passed half-marathoners and relay runners. Their looks of encouragement turned to surprise and alarm when they noticed (by my marathon bib color), that I wasn’t a comrade. This sounds arrogant, but I’ll take what triumph I can get. If I told you how many senior citizens have passed me in the upper miles of marathons, I’d be too depressed to write.

MILE 13 – 7:18
First Loop Complete
I caught Mr. White Shirt and said to him, “Now it’s time for the big boy run.” I targeted a pink-clad woman in a group just ahead. I decided to catch them by mile sixteen.

MILE 13.1 – 1:37:02
Half Marathon Actuarial Analysis
Non-runners, ignore the following. It will make your head hurt.

My average pace at the half was 7:24/mile (good for a 1:37:02 half and 3:13:52 marathon). My target pace (7:20/mile) would have yielded a much faster 1:36:03 half (and subsequently a 3:12:07 marathon). So fifty-nine seconds separated my actual half-marathon time (1:37:02) and my ideal half marathon time (1:36:03). That’s quite a lot, since most people fade in the later miles.

However, at 7:24/mile I was actually well within the magical 7:26/mile qualification threshold. A 7:26/mile average pace would have gotten me a 1:37:22 half marathon (and a 3:14:45 marathon). So, my actual half marathon time (1:37:02) was twenty seconds faster than Boston qualification pace.

It’s amazing how good one can feel about twenty seconds.

MILE 14 – 7:13
Counting Chickens
Fresh as a daisy, I cracked an inadvertent smile. Not one to tempt fate any more than reason, I wiped it from my face and settled back into a grim realism.

MILE 15 – 7:13
Reservoir Dogs
Mr. White and I caught Ms. Pink’s group (about 6 runners) earlier than expected. Since I was dressed in black, together we probably looked like a mobile, circa 1984 fabric swatch catalog. Either that or we were about to commit an exceedingly bloody crime with Harvey Keitel.

MILE 16 – 7:23
The Pace Group
With few runners ahead or behind, we ran in close-knit formation with a beautiful ocean view on our right. I’d never experienced such energizing solidarity.

The Unofficial 3:15 Pace Group ran together for most of the second half of the race.

MILE 17 – 7:25
Quiet Please
I didn’t like this split, but the entire group stayed together, alternately drafting in single file (Myrtle can be a bit windy). I remarked to all that we were the unofficial 3:15 troupe. No response. What a serious lot.

MILE 18 – 7:11
Caravelle’s Delight
I owe this excellent split to my family’s raucous support. For good measure, I burst to the head of the pack as my children cheered and held aloft hand-made posters. My daughter’s curious “Go Wildcat!” sign probably reflected her fascination with High School Musical 2 more than her devotion to Daddy.

Crowd Support - We have dragons. We have Wildcats. Oh yes, and a “Go Daddy Go!”

MILE 19 – 7:27
Heartbreak Mole Hill
Not a stellar split, but I led the 3:15 pack “up” only true incline of the course. Mount Mitchell runners would scoff, but it seemed quite significant at the time.

MILE 20 – 7:25
It Begins
At mile twenty I told Mr. White, “Now sir, we race.”

MILE 21 – 7:18
The Moment
It happened here. When I saw this split (my best ever beyond twenty miles), I knew without a doubt that I’d qualify for Boston. Only the precise mathematics of the final 5.2 miles remained. I calculated every possible outcome. There wasn’t much else to do on Kings Highway, easily the least inspiring stretch I’ve ever run in a marathon.

MILE 22 – 7:24
Winter Wonderland
In past marathons, I’d assume a mile had gone well only to find that I was substantially off pace.

Remember when you were ten years old and the weatherman promised a foot of glorious snowfall overnight? You spent all night anticipating frosty kidapollooza, but woke up to a depressingly snowless day and the correspondingly awful realization that you hadn’t studied for that big math test. Unexpectedly sub-par splits are like that.

Expected dismal splits are far worse. So you can imagine my sense of dread as I struggled through this mile. But at the marker, my serviceable Timex told me I was astonishingly close to target pace.

It was like waking up a week of snow days.

MILE 23 – 7:31
The Mantra
As the 3:15 pack inexorably pulled away, I began a mantra: “Don’t be discouraged. Just stay under 8 minutes.” I repeated this countless times, creating a cadence. But, I should have chanted, “Stay as close to 7:30 as possible”. Eight minute miles would jeopardize the qualification math. I preferred Language Arts for a reason.

MILE 24 – 8:01
Turn or Burn
I could have blamed fatigue, the wall, or the one mile slight incline for this heinous split. But I’d come too far to miss Boston by a few seconds because I failed to suck it up at the end of a race.

MILE 25 – 7:19
Renaissance
Busting target pace at mile twenty-five sealed the deal. I even passed a straggling 3:15 packer, and caught Mr. White. I wouldn’t overtake Ms. Pink and the rest, but now it hardly seemed to matter.

MILE 26 – 7:20
Qualification Management
Enduring the last mile, I felt lethargically slow but was actually smack-dab on pace. Mr. White asked everyone in sight how much farther we had to go. I knew precisely where we were, but couldn’t summon the energy to speak.

MILE 26.2 – 1:50
Finally
Fantasies of a powerful finish bow ignominiously to the power of lactic acidic build-up and glycogen depletion. Mr. White out-kicked me in the chute. I didn’t care. I raised a weary fist and crossed the finish line with a net time of 3:15:02. After all this work, it was over. My qualifying marathon turned out to be my easiest.

I’d done it.

The Finish
My kids jumped the fence and met me right after I crossed the finish. They tended to my weary bones and presented me with the Boston Red Sox hat I’d purchased 14 months earlier, but had never worn. I asked everyone in sight to sign it. Today it looks very much like a legitimate piece a baseball memorabilia. Perhaps someday I’ll offer it on eBay to some unwitting member of Red Sox Nation.

Boston, here I come!

Breakdown
Time
Clock - 3:15:17
Chip - 3:15:02
1st half – 1:37:02
2nd Half – 1:38:00
20 mile - 2:27:37
Worst mile – 8:11 (1)
Best mile – 6:52 (8)
Average Pace - 7:26:65/mile (missed 3:14 by .11 seconds a mile)

Placement
85th Place Overall (of 1684)
11th in my age group
6th place (if I were a female)
12th in the Relay
2415th in the Half Marathon (of 2844)

Noteables
Mr. White - 3:14:57 (10th place in my age group)
Ms. Pink - 3:13:19 (4th Place female, missing 3rd place by 2 seconds)

What’s Next?
About 45 minutes after finishing, I began wishing I had hit a 3:14 and had beaten Mr. White for 10th in our age group. Then I began dreaming of the assault on 3:10. Before I obsess over that, I’ll run the 112th Boston marathon on April 21st. I hope you’ll stick with me for the journey.

- Ashton

Allow me to introduce you to Buster Martin. Buster was born in 1906 when King Edward VII (son of Queen Victoria) reigned over England. He just turned 101 years young.

He’s not the sort of guy who idly watches the EastEnders, dully awaiting the inevitable. He works a regular schedule at Pimlico Plumbers in London and has been honored as the oldest employee in the United Kingdom.

This man is tough. He famously refused to take the day off for his 100th birthday. When mugged last year by three men, he fought back, kicking one poor chap square in the gonads. He’s fathered 17 children and holds a side-job that would make most males three-quarters his age jealous. He’s a special contributor for FHM magazine. Really.

And his name is Buster, which automatically makes him tougher than you.

Apparently Pimlico Plumbing fails to offer Buster a full range of excitement. He recently completed the Roding Valley Half Marathon, downing at least one Newcastle along the way. Like many successful half marathoners, he has set his sights on the full marathon, and intends to run London this year. If he finishes, he plans to celebrate like any properly knackered Brit, with “a pint and a fag.”

Yeah, he still smokes.

The public hail Buster’s unique drive toward the marathon record books. I want to love this guy, but I’m not quite ready to genuflect. Fellow runners, what will happen if he completes London? I’ll tell you: We may never again receive the awe and admiration of our peers. Tell me you’ll love Buster when you’re at a cocktail party and someone says, “Oh, you ran the marathon? Didn’t some 101 year old man do that?”

So keep Buster’s achievements under your hat. And for Prefontaine’s sake, don’t tell anyone about the Joggler, or all will be lost.

- Dean

I’m not a natural athlete. I recall a day in seventh grade gym class when I forgot my shorts and sneakers. I asked the PE teacher if I could run the 100 yard dash anyway. Looking upon me with prescient pity, he allowed it. Twenty yards later, the pencils and magic markers flopped out of my back pocket and I had to stop. It wasn’t the finest hour of my adolescence. The guy who “pantsed” me later would have agreed.

Such is life for those blessed with an artsy, Lego-loving genetic profile.

Ah, but I made up for my weedy physique with a fierce drive to out-work competitors. I’d simply “want it” more. I’ve cultivated a certain wiry stubbornness. This grit has probably made me the decent marathoner I am today.

Still, I’ve not yet qualified for Boston.

THE MYRTLE BEACH INCIDENT
Consider last year’s Myrtle Beach Marathon. I clocked a 3:28 (then a personal record). Afterwards, a group of friends congratulated me. Amidst the congenial back slapping, one person (an accomplished runner whom I’ll simply refer to as “Intensity”) pulled me aside and bluntly asked, “Why haven’t you qualified yet?”

Taken aback by her direct question, I dribbled out flimsy rumblings about a “wall,” withering pain in my legs, and that drastically inaccurate 3rd mile marker.

Mercilessly she added, “You should have qualified by now.”

Then she just stared at me. Her eyes bored into mine like a penetrating sensei demanding that I, Daniel San explain why the Cobra Kai had just steamrolled me again.

I responded with more verbal meandering, explaining that I did my best, fought through pain, and never, ever walked. This I felt, was perfectly reasonable. “I just don’t have enough leg strength,” I concluded.

“No,” Sister Intensity responded coldly. “You are mentally weak.”

If you’ve never been looked in the eye and proclaimed the mental equivalent of a box jellyfish, you just haven’t experienced life to its fullest.

You’re respected professionally, educated, and hardly ever eat fast food. Nevertheless, you’re a troglodyte. Even though you’ve run endurance races attempted by only a small fraction of the population, you’ve been declared protozoa.

You’ll have to trust me here. Intensity has “more dedicated runner than you” written all over her. Somehow, I sensed that the grammar school “rubber and glue” defense would not salvage the situation.

What could I say? I log 70+ mile weeks during marathon training. I run through forest trails in the dark for crying out loud. And I assure you, weather never stops me. How could she question my resolve?

CRANIAL SPLIT
The mind can convince itself of anything, even that it is strong. But the marathon calls the mind’s bluff. It brings commitment and focus into stark relief. It forces one to confront the true nature of determination.

Worse, our brains are wired to work against us. In the latter stages of the marathon, every fiber of the body cries out for relief. The brain becomes a crisis manager, interpreting signals of exhaustion from the body as threats of imminent system failure. In turn, it sends out powerfully incessant demands to cease any unnecessary running.

And your brain can be quite persuasive.

It will actually send signals that mimic collapse before the actual point of collapse. It wants you to stop before you crumble. This is why mid-race you feel like death warmed over but somehow find the energy to “kick” at the finish. Your brain realizes you’re about to stop and allows a last burst of speed. This is real science, folks. Your brain tricks you. If you’re not ready for this clever cerebral assault, you will fold like a cheap lawn chair.

So, I have an extremely capable, strong brain. And really, thank goodness for that.

The problem lies with my mind, that small part of my consciousness that believes I can exceed my limits. My mind must conquer the ponderous evolutionary imperatives of my lumpy grey matter. Yes, it actually is mental weakness to give in to the influence of your brain. Sit in a rubber room and think about that one for a while.

And so I run Myrtle Beach Saturday. My body is trained. The machine is ready.

But what of the ghost within?

- Dean

January Flower seen today in my yard. “Bae yeak gul bahear namesaewaed”

Now that winter has abated in South Carolina, we can look forward to the impending vernal equinox. It’s time for milder weather (it was a frosty 65 yesterday), Stravinsky tunes, cleaning out the closets, and of course the Boston Marathon.

sigh.

Kind readers, I am determined to line up at Hopkinton this summer (April 21st qualifies as summer here). To this end, I’ll soon run the dreaded Myrtle Beach Marathon. On February 16th, I’ll inhale vast quantities of automobile exhaust during the mind-numbing five mile stretch on Kings Highway. At least it will be flat.

I can only hope that Richard Gere will summon enough positive mental energy to propel me to a sub-3:15, though he may need to be convinced that my goals are somehow linked to those of Tibetan independence.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m ready to run. But trepidation always creeps in before a big race. While watching SPIRIT OF THE MARATHON last week, I was comforted to see that Deena Kastor expressed noticeable anxiety before the 2005 Chicago Marathon.

She won.

I ran a hilly marathon under grey skies, headed toward the center of a dreary town.

I recognized the blight from my youth. This was my boyhood home, Waterbury, Connecticut. Once a bustling industrial powerhouse, Waterbury boasted giant factories and the promise of modernity. It was quite literally the brass capital of the world; until plastics emerged on the scene.

Today, dilapidated, empty factories dot the landscape. Like many Northeastern industrial towns, Waterbury has not truly recovered from post-World War II industrial upheaval. To the chagrin of my family, I describe the place as New York without any of the positive traits. I left at age eighteen.

Now here I was, running in the Waterbury Urban Decay Marathon. That’s enough to put me on the couch, I’m sure.

But then things got strange.

Early in the race, I was already expending considerable effort. Every step seemed heavy and laborious. My peripheral vision was oddly restricted. I could hear my own harsh breathing resounding in my ears.

Apparently, this is what happens when you run in full medieval armor. I really can’t say if it was Gothic, Salet, or Fleur des lis. I just know it was heavy. Displaying the true grit (stubborn resignation) of the marathoner, I just trudged along anyway, worried only that my finishing time would suffer.

But it wouldn’t be that easy. The course began to wind through parks, courtyards, stairs (exterior and interior), and even through offices and stores. At one point I was on a bus worried about missing a Society for Creative Anachronism joust.

Course markings were perplexing to the point of lunacy. Lines painted on the road were either dotted, straight, red, white or yellow (or any combination of these) and featured symbols I didn’t understand. They cross-crossed each other, ran in parallel, and doubled or even trippled back on themselves. Runners came and went from every direction. The course looked like a Family Circus map of little Billy’s diversions on the way home to dinner… if Billy were a thirty-seven year old knight errant wannabe.

Suddenly (and inexplicably) I found myself inside the magnificently austere Dawes, Tomes Mousely, Grubbs Fidelity Fiduciary Bank from MARY POPPINS. There I stood, helpless in an absurdly long teller line. Everyone else ran easily outside the rope line, crossing a mat and triggering the incessant beeping of timing chips. I feared a delay, but couldn’t get out of the velvet maze. Either that, or I really needed to deposit that tuppence.

As with all dreams, details are hazy. I was parched, but paradoxically had a DEFCON ONE urge to use the bathroom. All the while, I was possessed by that feeling you get when watching Dave Bowman approach the monolith at the end of 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY; Just plain weirded out.

I won’t even mention the incident with the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

Interpretations?