I took part in the 20th running of the Ohlone Wilderness 50K, the fourth time I had chosen to embark on such a daunting scramble. My crazy decision was made while running through Death Valley with the race directors, Larry England and Rob Byrne, who reminded me that it was the 20th aniversery of the race and they had plenty of "special surprises" in store for those who dared to enter. They caught me a great time. The run from Echo canyon to Slot was fantastic and I was intrigued as to what they might have in store. Sure, I'll sign up.
The day began with a little less than an hour drive from my apartment in Mountain View to Del Valle park in Livermore. I enjoy the drive due to the east bay foothills and lack of traffic at that hour (5:00 AM) and enjoyed it even more this time with my itunes piping "My Top Rated" songs through my Miata's stereo. The beautifully serene setting and the combination of bands like The Mountain Goats, Decemberists, Belle and Sebastian, The Hold Steady among others, made me wish the ride would never end. Maybe having to run 31 miles through hellacious fire roads and single track trails had something to do with it though as well. :-)
I parked my car at Del Valle around 6 AM and snoozed through a few more songs, enjoying the last few moments of a gently beating heart and gentle breath. A woman parked beside me and appeared to be doing the same as ultra runners collected around us. I could hear their laughter and lively conversations. These folks seem to have much more energy at 6 AM than most might have all day.
I finally pried myself out of the car to get myself ready. The air was cool, but not as cool as I had hoped. If you're about to start a long race, it's a great sign if you feel the need to say "Brrrr" when you first meet the morning air. If it feels comfortable outside at 6 AM, that can be a very bad sign, indicating some warm temperatures to come. The air was closer to comfortable than "brrrr"
I saw some unsual vehicles after locking up my car and making my way towards the public transportation. There were some luxurious looking buses parked and standing around them were some men dressed in suits. An SUV limo drove up and the driver asked a volunteer if he was in the right place. A runner in front of me took a step into one of the buses, then came right out. It was as if she had accidently gone into the men's bathroom. I took a step in myself and almost felt the same way. Inside were leather sofa-like benches. There was a stone-tiled floor and champagne glasses stacked against the wall. The ceiling was purple with funky disco-like lights. In the back were controls for the stereo. This was a party bus. It was our party bus.
I plopped down on the cushioned leather with a smile while other runners did the same. Unlike your typical two-to-a-seat bus that makes it easy to put your head against the seat in front of you to doze, this bus begged you to interact with the other runners that were seated across from you and two your sides.
"From Madison, huh?", the man to my left asked, who was with his wife, both running Ohlone for the first time. "Yes, at one time", I responded, realizing I had my typical red shorts on with "Wisconsin" proudly printed on them. It turned out he was from the twin cities with family that had gone to my fine alma mater. I caught his wife's attention when I said, "I usually do this one every two years, after I've lost my senses again". "So do you think we need two bottles?", she asked. You betcha.
A young asian woman sat across from us, looking bright-eyed an bushy tailed. She sat with just one water bottle, just bought from the store. From the sounds of things, she had only done a few half marathons and maybe a marathon. This was her first trail race. She sat wide-eyed, soaking in as much knowledge as she could as she engaged with other runners. At one point I heard her say, "I feel a bit out of place".
We arrived at the Stanford Avenue parking lot, which was filled with cars. Runners were ambling around, getting their last loose ends tied up before a call to the start would be made. A long line to the porta potties had formed, a very familiar sight at most races. I jumped in the queue as we were all getting a little pressed for time.
Rob Byrne spotted me while I waited and came over to chat. He was wearing a very loud orange volunteer t-shirt, loud because it's hard to believe that something could be so bright of an orange without having some sort of energy source. It's fun to know the race directors of a fairly well-known ultra. We chatted for a bit before he went back to his race duties.
It would not be a stretch to say that Rob is an elite ultra runner. He's not going to impress anyone with blazing speed these days, but his ultra resume' has very few peers that I know of. This year he'll be trying to complete his 10th Western States in under 24 hours (though this will be his 12th time doing it) and will also do a 7-day endurance run in Viet Nam in November. Competing in 100-mile races and navigating through foreign territory are common place to him and are what he considers to be fun. "He's living a great life.", his wife Chris told me, when we chatted after the race, adding, "as long as he stays alive" In the few times I have talked with her, I can tell she still hasn't quite come to grips with her husband's need to run outrageous distances in outrageous places.
The guy in front of me had a "2006 Boston Marathon" hat on, a good conversation starter, since I did my first Boston this year. It turned out he had done 4 in a row, including this year, which we agreed was a lot better weather wise than the media had claimed. He said this was his first ultra, which I told him was quite a race to pick, and wondered how marathon times would translate to Ohlone times. Though he blew me away with his P.R. of 2:52, I told him, "Walk every inclinde, including the one we see right here. This is a very different breed of runner that you're going up against." He seemed to take the advice well and I thought he was very well prepared with a camel back and a stategy of staying with the back of the pack at least for the first half of the race. "You'll be fine", I told him.
As I continued to step through the line, eyeing my watch, I spied my friend Jim walking around the parking lot, camera in hand. He said he'd try to come to the start and indeed he made it. Jim is one person that I typically associate the Ohlone wilderness with. He usually runs up to Mission Peak on New Year's day and I've had the pleasure of joining him a few times. He actually used to do weekly training runs up to the peak, which is astounding. The Ohlone 50K has conquered him with 90+ degree heat in the past and in turn, he has conquered the 50K, running a very strong 6:17 time in a year where we were all rained on through most of the race. He knows the wilderness very well.
We chatted for a bit and he wished me luck, then minutes later, I could hear the megaphone broadcasting Rob's voice, calling people to the start. We all moved through the gate like cattle into a realm where 31 miles beckoned. Rob gave us some simple instructions, mainly reminding us not to litter and to be kind to the volunteers, some of which had camped over night in the wildnerness for the sake of providing an aid station.
After a 10 second count down, we were off. Ultras tend to not have quite the explosive start of road races and given the beginning incline, most runners, including myself, began with a gentle trot at best. Unlike other races where the speedsters in the front are gone if you blink, the Ohlone front runners were visible for quite a long time as we scrambled on. They looked so close, yet I knew that they were traveling at speeds that would probably have my breakfast asking (actually, telling me) to be let out.
I could see the young asian girl I had seen on the bus, running free and easy up the incline, one bottle in hand. As I continued to march through the hills, the distance between us was shrinking. By the time she was 50 feet away, she had her jacket wrapped around her waist. I passed her about 2 miles into the run, then she skipped past me later as I decided to step to the side and start my GU schedule. About a half mile away from Mission peak, she stepped aside on the single track and urged me to go. As I went by her, I said, "Lots of climbing today", to which she responded with what I'd maybe describe as a sigh. It was a combination of confirmation and exasperation, mixed with heavy breathing. As locquacious as she was on the bus, Mission Peak had caught her toungue. "Get used to it", I added, and that was the last I saw of her. I wondered if she would survive.
Boston Marathoner was quietly losing ground behind me, following my advice of walking the hills. He seemed very focused and disciplined at this point in the race. As I ran on some of the flats and down hill, I wondered if he'd ever shoot past me. With a 2:52 marathon speed, I'm sure most speeds on this race would feel like a crawl to him.
At the mile stone of Mission Peak, stood the unmistakeable form of Catra Corbett, cheering on the runners. She appeared to be dressed to run, but I'm not sure what she was up to this time. There had been times when she had traversed the course 3 times in one running. She stood with her tatoos and piercings along with a partner that held a sign. Funny enough, I never even read it, I just wanted to get on my way down the other side of the peak.
After walking most of the first 4 miles or so, it was nice to be able to run hard again. The slope coming down Mission Peak is technically challenging at first, but then becomes smooth as you work your way down to Laurel Loop. There were some pretty single track trails to navigate through as we left the fire road. This is definitely one of the more enjoyable areas of the course.
I hit the Laurel Loop aid station at a 1 hour and 15 minute clip. The orange t-shirts nicely illuminated the respit and the friendly volunteers inside them were ready to serve. I saw my first familiar face in Valerie Doyle, a charter member of the Tullamore Dew Running Club. She was enthusiastic as usual and it was great to see her. My first and most impresionable memory of her is of a Benedict Arnold adventure through Yosemite on trails whose names elude me now. I do remember some incredible views of the Hetch Hetchy river and a very rigorous run which toasted all of us. Valerie, as a 61-year-old, dusted us all. It really struck me at the time that age doesn't have much affect on an ultru runner. She proved that.
I refilled my bottles and picked up some Succeed salt tablets (very good for ultras) before hitting the trail again. I was feeling good, but reminded myself of a time when I felt just as good and decided to pick up the pace, enough to catch the leading woman (What a mistake!). I ended up cramping at mile 14 and turned the rest of the race into a 17 mile death march. I was going to use some wisdom this time.
I continued onto Sunol, feeling fresh and enjoying the cool morning air. I encountered some hikers along the way who gave us ultra runners a second look. It was good to see people enjoying the Ohlone wilderness. As I was running through the course, I noticed the familiar site of golden poppies. It seems this part of the bay area tends to hold onto this California flower for a little longer than most. It must get a little more moisture somehow.
The Sunol aid station was one of the few that contained no familiar faces, but it made up for that with my favorite food of the day, strawberries. They had sliced up a big bowl of them and I was nearly swallowing them whole, they were so good. My favorite ultra food is water melon, but strawberries have just taken a close second. After squeezing a few GU's into your mouth, ripe strawberries serve as a nice way of rejuvenating your taste buds.
I continued on through the single track trails, encountering a boy scout troop, which was smart enough to realize that we bib-wearing folk wanted to get through fast and kind enough to oblige us. They looked a puzzled, but didn't question. Some gave encouragement in the form of a "good job".
The climbing was starting up again as I strode into the Backpack aid station, nearly 13 miles into the course. I heard the familiar voice of Debbie Mayhew pushing runners to eat everything that the table had to offer. She has been through many races like this one and knows what it takes to get through. Her aid station mates were none other than Ann Trason and Carl Anderson. As Rob Byrne is an elite ultra runner, this husband and wife are world class. They were an extraordinary pair to be filling up water bottles at an aid station.
Much walking took place between Backpack and Goat Rock, which stood at the half way mark. I found myself starting a game of cat and mouse with Don Lundell, co-owner of Zombie Runner, one of the race's main sponsers (In fact, our bibs said "Zombie Runner"). I passed him before coming to the Goat Rock aid station, but could tell he was still brimming with energy, seeming to be on a leisurely stroll. He blew by me at the aid station while I refueled and chatted with Helmut, who said, "I think you should stay with Don. That would be good for you." I had no idea of who he was, but sarcastically replied, "Thanks Helmut".
Goat Rock to Maggie's Half Acre is one of the stretches where you earn your finisher's plaque. You just keep rising and rising and rising. There comes a point where you wonder where the peak is, because it's fairly well hidden until the end. Where are you Rose Peak?
It was during this part where I appreciated how beautiful this wilderness is, maybe because I was fresher than usual and didn't have any running partner to talk to. The views of Mission Peak and the bay from the east side are spectacular. The hills are decorated with long golden grasses that move in waves through the cool breeze and the wild flowers up at that height have not given up to summer quite yet. As rigorous as the climbing becomes, that's my favorite part of the course. It's just gorgeous and you feel so far away from everything.
It was also during this time that took out the most road kill. Ultra runners are tough to kill though. In most races, even marathons, generally when you've overtaken a runner, you might see some fight from them, trying to assume your pace, but usually they will die within a minute and that's the last you'll see of them. Ultra runners are much more resilient. They may let you get ahead, even out of sight, but their second wind (or third wind or fourth wind or...) is coming and if you daudle at an aid station like I do, you'll see them again.
It felt like I had just gotten to Maggie's half acre when sure enough, a collection of kills that I had strung together came and went. This included Don Lundell (I called him "Zombie" to myself), who continued our cat and mouse game, which I think I'll rename tortoise and hare. But who was who? Only more time and more running would tell.
Coming out of Maggie's half acre offers runners a time to fly, repaying much of the downhill for all of that uphill. It took a while before I started seeing some of the bastards who gave me the job of passing them again, mainly because I think my strength that day was uphill speed. I took a cautious gate when navigating down the gravel frosted fire roads, choosing to save some energy and my knees.
After taking down a few runners and getting back to a world of climbing, I saw the zombie again. He was out for his afternoon stroll, looking like he just started. He uttered something along the lines of "nice job...lots of hills today" as I passed him for the 3rd time. "Yep...you too".
"This is my favorite part of the run", I heard a runner say to another as I approached the final ascent to the second last aid station. "Why is that?" the other responded. I feel the sarcasm from the 50 feet I was away. "You'll see", he replied. Yes he will, but will the joke be funny to him by then.
The "You'll see" is this ungodly part of the run where their a few false summits at the end of some brutally steep climbs. The air is so stagnant and hot as hell that you feel as if you're at the beginning of summer in Death Valley. I took my hat off and dumped water over my head a few times. I was amazed at how quickly my hair was drying.
I finally climbed out of the valley and into a nice down slope, seeing some familiar fluoresent orange shirts in the distance. This was Larry England's, aid station. He greeted me with his always friendly, "Mr Taylor!". "Mr. England", I said, as I had my water bottle refilled by Ian, another familiar running friend.
Another couple of runners came barreling down the hill, both of whom I had passed at one point. One of them had salt all over his face, which isn't usually a good sign. "What do you need?", asked Larry. "Everything", he said. He looked spent and I think "everything" included a new pair of legs.
Larry England is the other half of the race directing team and very accomplished as a runner in his own right. Four kids and some injured knees (this is an understatment...His knees are visibley mangled) have probably kept him from being at the same level as Rob Byrne, but his boundless energy has given him an accomplished running career nonetheless. He's done over 150 marathons, which is mind boggling and has a few Western States 100's under his belt. Probably the most amazing story I know of him, is when he kept his Big Sur Marathon streak alive (he's done every one) with a broken foot, doing the whole course on crutches. When he came into the finish after 7 hours, he went to the medical tent and asked for some band aids for his blisters. They asked him to remove his shoes. "No, they're on my hands", he showed them.
Without much further chatter, I continued on, ready to tackle the last 5-6 miles of the race, still feeling relatively good. I started down the slippery single track and quickly caught a woman ahead of me that was none to pleased to be passed. Usually when see someone closing on me fast, I step aside and let them through. She was having nothing of it and gave me an insincere "Nice job" (at least I thougt it sounded insincere) when I found a way of getting by her. C'mon lady, I'm working hard in this race too!
The slippery single track became and issue for me as I took a couple hard falls, bruising a hip on each. As I write this, my right hip looks decorated with some sort of abstract art, a collage of scratches and bruises. An ultra just isn't an ultra if I haven't gotten lost or fallen hard enough to come away with some souvenirs. My falling a couple times didn't allow that woman to catch me, but another runner did. I did practice what I preach and stepped aside for him. What's a few seconds when you're out there for 6+ hours?
I caught him anyway when we had our last round of tough uphill, which leaves everyone incredulous. As you're looking down on Del Valle park (which is a spectacular view, by the way), you're wondering if there's enough mileage left to get you down there or it someone will have a parachute waiting for you at some point.
I took down my last road kill not too far away from the last aid station. "This is just not my day, he said, "I just can't run uphill anymore", he said. I was able to amble by him and keep pushing towards the finish. The end was near and I was starting to think about a cheese burger.
I whizzed (ok, so it was a little more like "shuffled") past the last aid station, where I saw Lorri Paulsen, who reminded me the next day that I didn't even use the aid station. I had everything I needed and just wanted the last two miles to be done. "Thanks for being here", I yelled.
The last couple miles are were mainly steep down hill, navigating around hikers, who were using their poles to keep from slipping down the fire roads. A few of them encouraged me as I ran by. But downhill wasn't all that was left, there was actually still some uphill to be had. I thought the climbing ended after the 29th mile, but I need to amend that recollection. It's a little over 30 miles when you can actually stop using your calves.
It's one of the greatest feelings to finish a long race and see the finish line. I was through battling the beast of the howling Ohlone wilderness and saw Rob Byrne awaiting me at the finish line. "Mark! Good job", he said as I crossed the line, starting to zone out after being focused on running for so long. "Here, let me make it official" he said, handing me the wooden plaque that now sits two others on my bookshelf (my first one is at work). I was done.
I lightened my load, which included my pack, goodie bag, plaque and hat and headed straight for refreshments. I pounded a coke and then a water and sat in a fog for a little while. A way-too-fresh-looking finisher asked me if I was ok and told me to drink more. I was fine. Just give me space, lady. :-)
I filled my plate with a beautiful cheeseburger garnished with chips and water melon. What a wonderful lunch to enjoy after toiling in the hills. I sat back and watched others cross the line, sympathizing with that feeling of relief they were expressing. I wondered when the last runner would cross the line and how the others were doing.
Not one to let the grass grow under my feet, I took my wares and headed to my Miata, which was baking in the Del Valle sun. I cranked up the air conditioning and my itunes and made my way out the exit which carried a sign which said, "No re-entry allowed". Don't worry, I'm not coming back. See you another another time, Del Valle, perhaps. :-)
Epilogue
139 out of the 140 starters finished, including the Asian girl I was concerned about. Apparently Debbie Mayhew set her straight on eating right and grazing at aid stations, so I think that must have helped. Larry England said she told him that she had lost 3 toe nails, not realizing she needed some bigger shoes for trail running. She made it though and I give her a ton of credit. The Boston Marathoner finished at a time a little over 7 hours and I saw him basking in the sun, lying on the grass. He said he couldn't hold anything down, including GU, about 10 miles into the race, but rallied and recovered. He said the remaining 20 miles were a lot of fun and felt that he could get into ultra running. Good for him.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Monday, April 02, 2007
The Red Elvises
On Friday night (3/30/2007) I met up with my friend Vijay to check out a band called The Red Elvises It turned out to be a unique experience. They were playing at a venue called the The Blank Club in down town San Jose.
I followed my google directions to 44 Almaden Blvd, which is not too far from 87 and Santa Clara, and continued along Almaden to find parking. It was deadly quiet in that area, being mostly an industrial section of the city with high rise office buildings and hotels. I parked in a garage near Almaden and San Carlos that almost seemed completely empty and walked north along Almaden, which practically felt like I was in a modern ghost town. As I neared the double digit block of Almaden, I was wondering if I was in the right place. How could a concert be held in such a silent area?
But lo and behold I saw a neon sign on a beat up building that said, "The Blank Club". There was a line along the sidewalk fild with characters of all sorts. I was in the right place. I stood behind a guy in a red hat that looks a lot like the one drawn on the caricature that fronts their website He was also wearing a dark shirt that had "Staff" printed on the back (who knows what that really means) and last, but not least unusual, a black kilt (yes, a kilt). I had a feeling that I was in for an interesting evening.
After waiting in line for a while, I paid my 10 bucks at the door and stepped in. My first thought as I entered was, "why did they have us standing in line for so long?" There was barely anyone in the place, maybe 15 people. It was very dark inside, enough that you needed to let your eyes adjust before walking around. I'd say it's about half the size of Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco with a good sized stage in front and a bar in back, proudly advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. It has a little more of the feel of a dance club given how dark it is and the fact that they eventually put on these twirling red disco lights that orbited the floor when the band came on.
A thinly dispersed crowd suddenly became quite thick when the band came on the stage, roughly an hour after I had entered the place and sipped through a vodka cranberry. They were a colorful collection of characters, led by their two originators Igor Yuzev and Oleg Bernov. Both appeared to be 40 somethings attempting to retain their youth by wearing outlandish pajama-looking outfits, completely ready to rock out. They started a set to warm up with that Oleg, in a thick russian accent, described as being "lounge style" music. "So sit back and sip your martini", he said. And so they traveled through a sultry song to loosen the crowd up.
The rest of the band consisted of a drummer, Adam Gust, from "sunny Minnesota", keyboardist Elena Shemankova from Moscow and two people whom I can't remember the names of but do remember where they're from: A female guitar player and vocalist from Texas and a tuba player from St. Petersberg, Russia. They were quite an eclectic mix of players as were some of the numbers they contributed to, some of which used the combination of an accordian, tuba and banjo.
The two women were memorabley adorned in form fitting leopard skin dresses that added some eye candy to the performance. Vijay described the way that Elena played as practically "making love to the keyboard", which is about as well as you could describe it. For some numbers she was tilting the keyboard off the ground and playing from the side in a very erotic way. I was amazed at how well she played despite the karma sutra style. The other woman was not nearly as provocative, but equally musically talented and easy on the eyes, pounding out guitar solos when called upon and switching to a banjo when needed. Vijay said they were additions to the band from the last time he saw them. We weren't complaining.
The band rocked out to numbers that were recognized by the cult following that surrounded Vijay and myself. Many times Igor would dip the microphone into the crowd, encouraging people to sing along, some times orchestrating vocal contributions from different areas of the club The songs were sung mostly by Oleg or himself with thick Russian accents and mostly comical lyrics, not taking themselves seriously, as one might expect. Before one song, Igor said, "Feel free to form a conga line for this one" and sure enough, a 30-person conga line was marching around the Blank Club. At the end of the first set, he said, "We're going to take a short break. Go get some alcohol and we'll sound much better".
The second set seemed to be pure encore with each song preceded by Igor belting out, "Do you want to hear one more?"..."Yeeeeeeahh!!!"..."Come on, you can do better than that. Do you want to hear one more?"..."Yeeeeeeeeeah!!!!!" And so they continued with several crowd favorites, each song seeming to be unique from the rest. At some point during their sets, Igor announced they would be continuing their "2000 City tour" by going to Petaluma and Sacramento, so we should "ask our grandparents to come watch". The guy was hilarious.
I really enjoyed the show they put on as much as they seemed to enjoy putting it on. Each of the players is exceptionally talented and they seem to allow for a lot of individual performances during the sets (Adam Gust put on quite a drum solo at one point). Oleg plays a guitar that looks enormous enough to be a prop, consisting of a huge bright red triangle and long shaft. The only down side I found about the show, is that it's very loud, which makes me sound like an old man. I found that my ears were ringing slightly as I left the Blank Club, not enough for me to not want to see them again, but not what I'm used to. I'd also like to learn their songs a little more so that I can join crowd next time.
Tips and Tid bits:
I'm now finding as I've gone to a few indie style shows that it's not necessary to show up on time. In fact, showing up on time or a little after can be very, very early, as bands tend to play at least an hour or two after the doors open...Pet peeve: This dude that seemed to be about 8 feet tall (probably closer to 6'3") with a ginormous (new word used by a friend of mine - giant+enormous) head that had its own gravitational pull stepped in front of me during the performance and was swaying from side to side (which caused me to sway from side to side). Folks, if you're that big, think about standing off to the side or towards the back. Of course, I'm tall enough that I may have been doing the same thing to some other poor soul, but I had established position for a good half hour before they came on...PBR Boy, one thing I'm noticing is that Pabst Blue Ribbon is showing up everywhere in bars across the bay area. I thought that beer had died, but its made a huge resurgance. Not sure if that's a good thing.
I followed my google directions to 44 Almaden Blvd, which is not too far from 87 and Santa Clara, and continued along Almaden to find parking. It was deadly quiet in that area, being mostly an industrial section of the city with high rise office buildings and hotels. I parked in a garage near Almaden and San Carlos that almost seemed completely empty and walked north along Almaden, which practically felt like I was in a modern ghost town. As I neared the double digit block of Almaden, I was wondering if I was in the right place. How could a concert be held in such a silent area?
But lo and behold I saw a neon sign on a beat up building that said, "The Blank Club". There was a line along the sidewalk fild with characters of all sorts. I was in the right place. I stood behind a guy in a red hat that looks a lot like the one drawn on the caricature that fronts their website He was also wearing a dark shirt that had "Staff" printed on the back (who knows what that really means) and last, but not least unusual, a black kilt (yes, a kilt). I had a feeling that I was in for an interesting evening.
After waiting in line for a while, I paid my 10 bucks at the door and stepped in. My first thought as I entered was, "why did they have us standing in line for so long?" There was barely anyone in the place, maybe 15 people. It was very dark inside, enough that you needed to let your eyes adjust before walking around. I'd say it's about half the size of Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco with a good sized stage in front and a bar in back, proudly advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. It has a little more of the feel of a dance club given how dark it is and the fact that they eventually put on these twirling red disco lights that orbited the floor when the band came on.
A thinly dispersed crowd suddenly became quite thick when the band came on the stage, roughly an hour after I had entered the place and sipped through a vodka cranberry. They were a colorful collection of characters, led by their two originators Igor Yuzev and Oleg Bernov. Both appeared to be 40 somethings attempting to retain their youth by wearing outlandish pajama-looking outfits, completely ready to rock out. They started a set to warm up with that Oleg, in a thick russian accent, described as being "lounge style" music. "So sit back and sip your martini", he said. And so they traveled through a sultry song to loosen the crowd up.
The rest of the band consisted of a drummer, Adam Gust, from "sunny Minnesota", keyboardist Elena Shemankova from Moscow and two people whom I can't remember the names of but do remember where they're from: A female guitar player and vocalist from Texas and a tuba player from St. Petersberg, Russia. They were quite an eclectic mix of players as were some of the numbers they contributed to, some of which used the combination of an accordian, tuba and banjo.
The two women were memorabley adorned in form fitting leopard skin dresses that added some eye candy to the performance. Vijay described the way that Elena played as practically "making love to the keyboard", which is about as well as you could describe it. For some numbers she was tilting the keyboard off the ground and playing from the side in a very erotic way. I was amazed at how well she played despite the karma sutra style. The other woman was not nearly as provocative, but equally musically talented and easy on the eyes, pounding out guitar solos when called upon and switching to a banjo when needed. Vijay said they were additions to the band from the last time he saw them. We weren't complaining.
The band rocked out to numbers that were recognized by the cult following that surrounded Vijay and myself. Many times Igor would dip the microphone into the crowd, encouraging people to sing along, some times orchestrating vocal contributions from different areas of the club The songs were sung mostly by Oleg or himself with thick Russian accents and mostly comical lyrics, not taking themselves seriously, as one might expect. Before one song, Igor said, "Feel free to form a conga line for this one" and sure enough, a 30-person conga line was marching around the Blank Club. At the end of the first set, he said, "We're going to take a short break. Go get some alcohol and we'll sound much better".
The second set seemed to be pure encore with each song preceded by Igor belting out, "Do you want to hear one more?"..."Yeeeeeeahh!!!"..."Come on, you can do better than that. Do you want to hear one more?"..."Yeeeeeeeeeah!!!!!" And so they continued with several crowd favorites, each song seeming to be unique from the rest. At some point during their sets, Igor announced they would be continuing their "2000 City tour" by going to Petaluma and Sacramento, so we should "ask our grandparents to come watch". The guy was hilarious.
I really enjoyed the show they put on as much as they seemed to enjoy putting it on. Each of the players is exceptionally talented and they seem to allow for a lot of individual performances during the sets (Adam Gust put on quite a drum solo at one point). Oleg plays a guitar that looks enormous enough to be a prop, consisting of a huge bright red triangle and long shaft. The only down side I found about the show, is that it's very loud, which makes me sound like an old man. I found that my ears were ringing slightly as I left the Blank Club, not enough for me to not want to see them again, but not what I'm used to. I'd also like to learn their songs a little more so that I can join crowd next time.
Tips and Tid bits:
I'm now finding as I've gone to a few indie style shows that it's not necessary to show up on time. In fact, showing up on time or a little after can be very, very early, as bands tend to play at least an hour or two after the doors open...Pet peeve: This dude that seemed to be about 8 feet tall (probably closer to 6'3") with a ginormous (new word used by a friend of mine - giant+enormous) head that had its own gravitational pull stepped in front of me during the performance and was swaying from side to side (which caused me to sway from side to side). Folks, if you're that big, think about standing off to the side or towards the back. Of course, I'm tall enough that I may have been doing the same thing to some other poor soul, but I had established position for a good half hour before they came on...PBR Boy, one thing I'm noticing is that Pabst Blue Ribbon is showing up everywhere in bars across the bay area. I thought that beer had died, but its made a huge resurgance. Not sure if that's a good thing.
Monday, January 15, 2007
California International Marathon 2006
I "got up before dawn, went out to the race track". I had fifteen minutes before the 24th Cal International Marathon would be in "lift off" status, just having stepped off the bus and adjusting to frigid conditions that I had yet to grow accustomed to, even after doing this race for the 4th time. My teeth were literally chattering and I was lamenting the fact that I was deploying my usual strategy (or lack thereof) of not making use of the "sweats check". This is a typical amenity available at most marathons which allows you to throw your belongings, which are usually a sweat shirt and sweat pants, into a large plastic bag that they'll bring to the finish for you. But there I stood, in just my shorts and long sleeve running shirt, freezing my you know what off.
The night before I had set a new record for getting through a marathon registration, parking my car near the Sacramento Convention Center with only a quarter and fifteen minutes to spare. When I returned to the meter, with bib, chip and goodie bag in hand, there was still one minute left. I was hoping this P.R. for registering would be a sign of good things to come.
I had checked into the Travel Lodge, which was only a short walk to the shuttle bus, the morning of the race. There were no carpenter ants in the dresser and no flies in the screen. There were no cryptic messages at all to write about, which again, I was hoping would be a good sign of things to come.
Back to the cold morning of the race, with very little time to spare, I tried to warm up by heading to the food mart that we had used last year, but unfortunately they were limiting entrance to the heated oasis. "Sorry, we're limiting the number of people in the store at one time", an employee of the mart told me as I tried opening the door. I looked at the two people who I then realized had been waiting ahead of me. "Don't ask why.", one of them said, with an annoyed look on their face. I looked at my watch, which read that I just had ten minutes before race time, and decided that it wasn't worth the wait. I was probably better off continuing to move through the frosty air.
I stepped onto the road which lead to the starting line, just noticing a large divider that I could have easily tripped on. The incident sparked the memory of last year's marathon, where I witnessed a runner not noticing this same divider and going down hard on his shoulder. He was down for several moments and even when he was up, was still unresponsive to his friends. I still wonder how the rest of his day went.
As I walked towards the starting line I could see a link pink glow, a hint of a sunrise in the direction that we runners would be rambling in. Casting my gaze into no man's land, I wondered what layed ahead for me that day. I was taking a crack at Boston again, for the second time in as many months, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to pass the test. A few of my running buddies had given me some encouragement in the days before. They believed in me. I just wasn't sure if I agreed with them.
Regardless, I scanned the small running crowd near the start for my pace group. I could see a "3:00" sign and a "3:30" and then a "3:40", but "3:10", the time that was etched in my head as the one I needed, had yet to show itself. My watch told me that there were only 7 minutes left. Where was my pace group?
Suddenly, like a cluster of poppies (california poppies) exposed to sunlight, more signs sprang up from the crowd. "3:20", "3:35", "3:15" and oh yes, there it is, my "3:10" magnet. It would be the second time in my running career that I would try to keep pace with this sign. The first was a couple months ago in Portland, which ended at mile 19, where my ham strings stiffened with cramps and I started dry heaving (not a pretty sight). I wasn't sure what would be the result of hanging with this breed of runner again, but I was ready to give it a shot.
Soon enough, I heard the P.A. guy announce that the wheel chair division would be starting in a minute. Soon after we were all counting down from 10 to see them off. And soon after that, we were doing our own count down. It was time to run another marathon.
After the count down hit zero, I slowed myself down as much as I could, waiting until the last possible second before I crossed the starting mat, which would register the racing chip I had strung through my shoes. I wanted to have some buffer between what I saw on the official clock and what my actual time was. In the beginning of a race, 15 seconds is nothing to make up. At the end, it's a god send to strip that extra time off of what the clock says. 3:11:14 could be translated to 3:10:59 with one swipe of my shoe.
Despite the buffer I built up, my pace group was still within sight and with a few hard strides, I was right up with them. The pace felt good, with no need to catch my breath to catch them and my legs feeling nice and loose (and warm, finally). Then again, it was only the start. I quietly wondered how I would feel as the mileage broke into the 20's.
The darkness was broken by the dawning light and the still crisp air felt pleasant against my steaming self. As we came closer to the double digit miles, I still felt comfortable, but the pace was very fast. I needed a 7:17 pace to qualify for Boston, while my group was moving at closer to 7:07. I hung with the pacer, but was curious at that point as to what his strategy would be. He offered words of encouragement and advice to us, which was helpful. He said, "Let's slow down here, 3:10 group" a few times, but slowing down never happened. My watch still told me we were hauling from mile to mile.
We crossed the half marathon mark at a time of 1:33:59, which is identical to my split in Portland. To that point the pace groups (Portland and Can International 3:10) were employing the same strategy, one which I questioned. My best marathons were ones where I ran a slower first half than the second and I found myself second guessing my decision to stick with the Portalnd pace group. Would I be making the same mistake in this race? More time and running would tell.
Between mile 14 and 15, I decided to finally engage with the pacer. Maybe a little conversation would slow him up a little. I brought up the subject of Western States Endurance Run, a 100-mile race that he had done two years ago and one that I had paced on this year. He said that this race should be a "piece of cake" compared to that. Sure, if I actually ran the whole Western States course...pacing was actually the "piece of cake". At mile 16, he asked me how my legs felt, commenting that I didn't seem to breathing too hard. I told him the truth, that they were tight, which he had no response to. He was probably thinking, "Oh boy...this guy's dead". Eventually I weaved myself away from him, not wanting to talk anymore. I had to save my energy for running.
"Stay with me until mile 20", became the pacer's mantra, "stay with me until the bridge". I could start to feel some fluttering in my calf muscles, which is a sign that cramps may be on their way. "Stay with the group until 20" became my mantra. I wanted to push myself to at least reach that point, which would be an improvement from Portland. I felt I could do it, but wasn't sure about the cost.
As we came closer to 20, the pacer said again, "Stay with me until 20", then added, "then we're going to push. That's when the race begins." Huh? To that point, we were still under 7:10 minute miles. Why in the hell would we push harder after that point? Did he mean that it would feel like we were pushing harder, but we would be going the same pace? I didn't get it and I was getting a little frustrated.
The mile 22 marker was the beginning of the swan song for my story of staying with the 3:10 pace group. My legs were getting very heavy and tight and I could feel some light cramping. I fought to keep them near me, but knew that I couldn't stay. "I can't do this pace", I said to myself, getting more frustrated. The group was out of sight by mile 23, which is where I started some damage control as I could feel some spirit draining away and fatigue climbing in to take its place. A psychologic battle was beginning.
I immediately flashed back to the Portland Marathon, where I had lost the pace group at mile 19 and started dry heaving and cramping pretty noticeabley and was able to recover by walking for 10-20 seconds. While I wasn't feeling nearly as bad, I had given up on the idea of qualifying and was contemplating a plan for keeping myself going. I wondered if I needed to walk a bit and where a good point would be.
Several different goals came to mind for me to shoot for. I thought about going for a P.R. for Cal International, which would mean getting under 3:18. Then I thought that breaking 3:15 would be a lot better. I didn't want to fail at reaching two goals in the same race, but needed to find something that I could still push for and be happy with.
I started trying to pump myself up by making note of the fact that I had stayed with the pace group longer than I had ever had and could build on that for the next marathon. Next marathons starting popping into my head, if you can believe it. I was thinking about getting back on the horse again, even as I was still riding.
Disappointment kept lingering. I thought of the people who had encouraged me and thought this would be the day for me. I felt as though I was letting them down. What would I say to them? What would be my excuse?
But there was this little voice that each of us has a personal copy of that was speaking to me any time my mind became quiet. "You can do it", it said, "You can qualify". I didn't want to listen. At the same time, as I was contemplating when would be a good spot to walk, my legs just kept driving as if to say, "We're going to Boston with or without you pal". Especially with the gentle down hill grade that had made an appropo appearance in the final miles, I didn't have the heart to tell them to stop.
"Only 8 blocks to go!", a woman shouted as I sauntered past her. Is that it? I always hate it when people give the wrong distance to the finish, especially when they're short. Note to anyone that's reading this and will spectate or volunteer at a race: Be very accurate when telling runners how far they need to go, if you're going to tell them. Believe me, most runners can tell a big difference between a mile and 1.1 miles.
But I trusted her, and began the count down, saying the numbers out loud so that I could remind myself that it was almost over. In between corners I repeated a mantra that I've used in a lot of races with urban finishes: "street light to street light", "street light to street light". When you're running along a long stretch with no turns, it helps to pick out markers to shoot for. The street lights are what I usually go for.
I was down to "one" on my count down and could see the final turn coming up, accompanied by a beautiful "Mile 26" marker that every marathoner loves to see, almost as much as the finish line. As I crossed the marker and made a turn to the left, I pressed on my watch to get a 26th mile split and then took a glance. It read "8:08" on the split, which I was sorry to see. However, I also caught a look at the cumulative time, something I hadn't looked at the whole race. "3:08:58", it read. Oh my God...I'm going to Boston!
"Full speed ahead" was the command I gave to my aching legs which had found new life. I saw the finish line clock approaching in the distance and saw that it still had a 3:09 sitting in it. It wasn't until I was within a handful of steps that it turned to 3:10, which reaffirmed that I was going to do it. I felt as if I was "floating from branch to branch, lighter than the air." My day had finally come.
I quickly went back to my watch after I had stepped onto the red mat which would collect my chip time. "3:09:58", my watch said. It was nice to be able to peel 15 seconds off of the offical clock that I had just crossed under. Regardless, I had met my goal and pushed two clenched fists into the air as if I had won. I did. I was going to the super bowl!
As I walked back to my hotel room, with water bottles in hand and silver space blanket draped around me like a cape, I felt a zen-like calm inside, which was probably an indication of the weight that was off my shoulders. I have to admit that what I also felt, was surprisingly, a little tinge of sadness. The journey to 3:10 was over. I'd no longer be striving towards that goal in the same way and I can appreciate the fact that the juice was in the getting there, not in the arrival.
Still, victory was sweet and I'm thankful for everyone that encouraged me and belived that I could do it. That's what I think drove me most as I was pushing through those last miles. I received many congratulations from my running friends and some surpise decorations from my running partner Chris, his wife and my friend Antje. I caught them in the act as I came back home. :-)
The end.
p.s. Here are my splits...probably the most interesting thing about this blog:
1. 7:03
2. 7:16
3. 6:39
4. 7:12
5. 7:09
6. 7:18
7. 7:16
8. 7:16
9. 7:08
10. 7:01
11. 7:17
12. 7:19
13. 7:18
13.1 1:33:58 (first half split)
14. 7:11
15. 7:20
16. 6:54
17. 7:22
18. 7:10
19. 7:08
20. 7:07
21. 7:11
22. 7:25
23. 7:20
24. 7:34
25: 7:46
26: 8:09
26.2 1 minute
The night before I had set a new record for getting through a marathon registration, parking my car near the Sacramento Convention Center with only a quarter and fifteen minutes to spare. When I returned to the meter, with bib, chip and goodie bag in hand, there was still one minute left. I was hoping this P.R. for registering would be a sign of good things to come.
I had checked into the Travel Lodge, which was only a short walk to the shuttle bus, the morning of the race. There were no carpenter ants in the dresser and no flies in the screen. There were no cryptic messages at all to write about, which again, I was hoping would be a good sign of things to come.
Back to the cold morning of the race, with very little time to spare, I tried to warm up by heading to the food mart that we had used last year, but unfortunately they were limiting entrance to the heated oasis. "Sorry, we're limiting the number of people in the store at one time", an employee of the mart told me as I tried opening the door. I looked at the two people who I then realized had been waiting ahead of me. "Don't ask why.", one of them said, with an annoyed look on their face. I looked at my watch, which read that I just had ten minutes before race time, and decided that it wasn't worth the wait. I was probably better off continuing to move through the frosty air.
I stepped onto the road which lead to the starting line, just noticing a large divider that I could have easily tripped on. The incident sparked the memory of last year's marathon, where I witnessed a runner not noticing this same divider and going down hard on his shoulder. He was down for several moments and even when he was up, was still unresponsive to his friends. I still wonder how the rest of his day went.
As I walked towards the starting line I could see a link pink glow, a hint of a sunrise in the direction that we runners would be rambling in. Casting my gaze into no man's land, I wondered what layed ahead for me that day. I was taking a crack at Boston again, for the second time in as many months, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to pass the test. A few of my running buddies had given me some encouragement in the days before. They believed in me. I just wasn't sure if I agreed with them.
Regardless, I scanned the small running crowd near the start for my pace group. I could see a "3:00" sign and a "3:30" and then a "3:40", but "3:10", the time that was etched in my head as the one I needed, had yet to show itself. My watch told me that there were only 7 minutes left. Where was my pace group?
Suddenly, like a cluster of poppies (california poppies) exposed to sunlight, more signs sprang up from the crowd. "3:20", "3:35", "3:15" and oh yes, there it is, my "3:10" magnet. It would be the second time in my running career that I would try to keep pace with this sign. The first was a couple months ago in Portland, which ended at mile 19, where my ham strings stiffened with cramps and I started dry heaving (not a pretty sight). I wasn't sure what would be the result of hanging with this breed of runner again, but I was ready to give it a shot.
Soon enough, I heard the P.A. guy announce that the wheel chair division would be starting in a minute. Soon after we were all counting down from 10 to see them off. And soon after that, we were doing our own count down. It was time to run another marathon.
After the count down hit zero, I slowed myself down as much as I could, waiting until the last possible second before I crossed the starting mat, which would register the racing chip I had strung through my shoes. I wanted to have some buffer between what I saw on the official clock and what my actual time was. In the beginning of a race, 15 seconds is nothing to make up. At the end, it's a god send to strip that extra time off of what the clock says. 3:11:14 could be translated to 3:10:59 with one swipe of my shoe.
Despite the buffer I built up, my pace group was still within sight and with a few hard strides, I was right up with them. The pace felt good, with no need to catch my breath to catch them and my legs feeling nice and loose (and warm, finally). Then again, it was only the start. I quietly wondered how I would feel as the mileage broke into the 20's.
The darkness was broken by the dawning light and the still crisp air felt pleasant against my steaming self. As we came closer to the double digit miles, I still felt comfortable, but the pace was very fast. I needed a 7:17 pace to qualify for Boston, while my group was moving at closer to 7:07. I hung with the pacer, but was curious at that point as to what his strategy would be. He offered words of encouragement and advice to us, which was helpful. He said, "Let's slow down here, 3:10 group" a few times, but slowing down never happened. My watch still told me we were hauling from mile to mile.
We crossed the half marathon mark at a time of 1:33:59, which is identical to my split in Portland. To that point the pace groups (Portland and Can International 3:10) were employing the same strategy, one which I questioned. My best marathons were ones where I ran a slower first half than the second and I found myself second guessing my decision to stick with the Portalnd pace group. Would I be making the same mistake in this race? More time and running would tell.
Between mile 14 and 15, I decided to finally engage with the pacer. Maybe a little conversation would slow him up a little. I brought up the subject of Western States Endurance Run, a 100-mile race that he had done two years ago and one that I had paced on this year. He said that this race should be a "piece of cake" compared to that. Sure, if I actually ran the whole Western States course...pacing was actually the "piece of cake". At mile 16, he asked me how my legs felt, commenting that I didn't seem to breathing too hard. I told him the truth, that they were tight, which he had no response to. He was probably thinking, "Oh boy...this guy's dead". Eventually I weaved myself away from him, not wanting to talk anymore. I had to save my energy for running.
"Stay with me until mile 20", became the pacer's mantra, "stay with me until the bridge". I could start to feel some fluttering in my calf muscles, which is a sign that cramps may be on their way. "Stay with the group until 20" became my mantra. I wanted to push myself to at least reach that point, which would be an improvement from Portland. I felt I could do it, but wasn't sure about the cost.
As we came closer to 20, the pacer said again, "Stay with me until 20", then added, "then we're going to push. That's when the race begins." Huh? To that point, we were still under 7:10 minute miles. Why in the hell would we push harder after that point? Did he mean that it would feel like we were pushing harder, but we would be going the same pace? I didn't get it and I was getting a little frustrated.
The mile 22 marker was the beginning of the swan song for my story of staying with the 3:10 pace group. My legs were getting very heavy and tight and I could feel some light cramping. I fought to keep them near me, but knew that I couldn't stay. "I can't do this pace", I said to myself, getting more frustrated. The group was out of sight by mile 23, which is where I started some damage control as I could feel some spirit draining away and fatigue climbing in to take its place. A psychologic battle was beginning.
I immediately flashed back to the Portland Marathon, where I had lost the pace group at mile 19 and started dry heaving and cramping pretty noticeabley and was able to recover by walking for 10-20 seconds. While I wasn't feeling nearly as bad, I had given up on the idea of qualifying and was contemplating a plan for keeping myself going. I wondered if I needed to walk a bit and where a good point would be.
Several different goals came to mind for me to shoot for. I thought about going for a P.R. for Cal International, which would mean getting under 3:18. Then I thought that breaking 3:15 would be a lot better. I didn't want to fail at reaching two goals in the same race, but needed to find something that I could still push for and be happy with.
I started trying to pump myself up by making note of the fact that I had stayed with the pace group longer than I had ever had and could build on that for the next marathon. Next marathons starting popping into my head, if you can believe it. I was thinking about getting back on the horse again, even as I was still riding.
Disappointment kept lingering. I thought of the people who had encouraged me and thought this would be the day for me. I felt as though I was letting them down. What would I say to them? What would be my excuse?
But there was this little voice that each of us has a personal copy of that was speaking to me any time my mind became quiet. "You can do it", it said, "You can qualify". I didn't want to listen. At the same time, as I was contemplating when would be a good spot to walk, my legs just kept driving as if to say, "We're going to Boston with or without you pal". Especially with the gentle down hill grade that had made an appropo appearance in the final miles, I didn't have the heart to tell them to stop.
"Only 8 blocks to go!", a woman shouted as I sauntered past her. Is that it? I always hate it when people give the wrong distance to the finish, especially when they're short. Note to anyone that's reading this and will spectate or volunteer at a race: Be very accurate when telling runners how far they need to go, if you're going to tell them. Believe me, most runners can tell a big difference between a mile and 1.1 miles.
But I trusted her, and began the count down, saying the numbers out loud so that I could remind myself that it was almost over. In between corners I repeated a mantra that I've used in a lot of races with urban finishes: "street light to street light", "street light to street light". When you're running along a long stretch with no turns, it helps to pick out markers to shoot for. The street lights are what I usually go for.
I was down to "one" on my count down and could see the final turn coming up, accompanied by a beautiful "Mile 26" marker that every marathoner loves to see, almost as much as the finish line. As I crossed the marker and made a turn to the left, I pressed on my watch to get a 26th mile split and then took a glance. It read "8:08" on the split, which I was sorry to see. However, I also caught a look at the cumulative time, something I hadn't looked at the whole race. "3:08:58", it read. Oh my God...I'm going to Boston!
"Full speed ahead" was the command I gave to my aching legs which had found new life. I saw the finish line clock approaching in the distance and saw that it still had a 3:09 sitting in it. It wasn't until I was within a handful of steps that it turned to 3:10, which reaffirmed that I was going to do it. I felt as if I was "floating from branch to branch, lighter than the air." My day had finally come.
I quickly went back to my watch after I had stepped onto the red mat which would collect my chip time. "3:09:58", my watch said. It was nice to be able to peel 15 seconds off of the offical clock that I had just crossed under. Regardless, I had met my goal and pushed two clenched fists into the air as if I had won. I did. I was going to the super bowl!
As I walked back to my hotel room, with water bottles in hand and silver space blanket draped around me like a cape, I felt a zen-like calm inside, which was probably an indication of the weight that was off my shoulders. I have to admit that what I also felt, was surprisingly, a little tinge of sadness. The journey to 3:10 was over. I'd no longer be striving towards that goal in the same way and I can appreciate the fact that the juice was in the getting there, not in the arrival.
Still, victory was sweet and I'm thankful for everyone that encouraged me and belived that I could do it. That's what I think drove me most as I was pushing through those last miles. I received many congratulations from my running friends and some surpise decorations from my running partner Chris, his wife and my friend Antje. I caught them in the act as I came back home. :-)
The end.
p.s. Here are my splits...probably the most interesting thing about this blog:
1. 7:03
2. 7:16
3. 6:39
4. 7:12
5. 7:09
6. 7:18
7. 7:16
8. 7:16
9. 7:08
10. 7:01
11. 7:17
12. 7:19
13. 7:18
13.1 1:33:58 (first half split)
14. 7:11
15. 7:20
16. 6:54
17. 7:22
18. 7:10
19. 7:08
20. 7:07
21. 7:11
22. 7:25
23. 7:20
24. 7:34
25: 7:46
26: 8:09
26.2 1 minute
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