This is my friend, Sunny. She's fast.

Thanks, Syd!  Let me explain.

Syd had a birthday this week.  And one of the many great things about birthdays, is it usually brings together all your local friends from different groups to one location at one time to do one thing... smile and laugh and occasionally imbibe (even if the only reason you imbibe is to remind yourself why you don't imbibe to that extent but once a year).  Syd's birthday was no exception, and since our connection to each other is triathlon and a mutual love of impromptu dance parties in the the oddest places, she had friends I never met.

Now, it is always interesting to hear how people describe you to others who may not know you.  I get the feeling sometimes that "She's tall..." is the first thing people use to describe me.  But, since we were sitting down, and I was there already, I was expecting something like "She's a triathlete" or "She's a scientist"  or "She actually likes broccolli".  But instead, I got "She's fast".  That could go so many ways.  And, as per my personality, I took it there of course.  (i.e. pretending I race indy cars and work as an exotic dancer, told in an ironic and slightly surreptitious tone).

But, fast.  I guess so.  When I race against other professional triathletes, when I train with professional runners, and ride with national champion cyclocross riders and pray not to get lapped.  I don't think about being fast.  I think about how awesome these other athletes are that they have dedicated so much more time than I have to the pursuit of our mutual craft.  To them, I hope I seem worthy and real, and not the dabbler that I often feel like.

So, Sunny, the dabbler.  This was really driven home for me earlier this week.  More specifically, I joined a spin class/yoga session that a friend instructs for the combined OSU cycling/triathlon teams.  Oregon weather had turned on the water works, and I blanched at the thought of what the weather would do to the mechanisms of my bike were I to ride in it.  Not to mention, how cold and wet I would get in this most health precarious time in my training.  Decision made, I tossed the sports bra, cycling shorts, and yoga pants into a bag and headed to the gym.  As I was riding in one place, surrounded by 20-other mostly 20-somethings, (and a few 30-somethings like me), looking in the mirrors looking at other people, I started looking at clothes.  My clothes, their clothes.  And also feeling the chamois in my shorts against the unfamiliar saddle.  And noticing the thread bare and balled inner thigh region of the material.  And looking at the snapped elasticity around the leg bands.  Egads.... my shorts are five years old.  They have a hole in them.  I only have three pairs of cycling shorts, and if I think about the math, I've put probably 200 rides in each of them.  And with the exception of two of my Brooks shorts, the same goes for my running shorts and sport bras.

I want to look fast, too.  So, the dabbler is going to go pro!  I ordered new (and matching) running clothes yesterday, two complete outfits (from Brooks Running, where else?)!  I've got a new kit from my cycling team on the way.  And I have plans to get a new pair of cycling shorts with chamois so nice it will be like riding on a pillow.  The only sport in which I excel at accessorizing... swimming.  Thanks to Dawn at Splish who always has to remind me to get a new, cool suit with the question "Don't you need a new suit?"

The lesson here?  You do your hardest working when working out and your clothes are working just as hard as you are.  And, they are sitting right next to one of the most important aspects of your body, your skin!  Take stock and don't be afraid to toss out and get new!

Sometimes it rains...

And sometimes it doesn't!

Had a full weekend. Here's the short version. Run, swim, bike, run. In that order.

Here's the (slightly) longer version:

Signed up on whim for the Willamette Mission Trail Challenge, a 10K trail run held in the MUDDY river flats of the Willamette River up North in Salem. According to the race website

"Expect very muddy conditions and heck, you may hafta wade through some water too! Be prepared for tons of mud and standing water on the course!"

Rumor had it that with all the rain we had been getting in the soggy Northwest (Thanks, Global Warming!), parts of the course, the park entrance, and the Honey Pot had all been submerged under four feet of water. (I may have made that last one up). But, you wouldn't know it come race day. Don't get me wrong; it was muddy, shoe-suckingly-so in some spots. However, there was little-to-no standing water (except for the giant puddle at the finish which I two-footed). And in most spots you could stump-jump from semi-dry spot, to grassy patch. That didn't stop me, though. I got a respectable amount of mud on my legs, had a run in with an errant twig (left a sweet mark on my forehead), and managed to turn my new pink Cascadias into a nice shade of river-bottom brown. It was 10K of sheer joy.

And apparently, I am "the Corvallis fast girl" who "crushed the muddy 6.2 mile course in 43:25" (according to the newsfeed on the Run Wild Adventures website). Crushed might be a strong word for it. Perhaps, squished would be more appropriate.

This is the face of someone not having fun.... (Oregonpixels.com)

And then there was Sunday. Oh, beautiful Sunday. How often does the sun come out, warm my back, and freckle my nose in the depths of winter? Well, apparently at least once. The last day of my first build to half ironman shape. The day I needed to get in a 4+-hour road ride no matter what (okay... I would have done a 4-hour cyclocross ride if the weather were really terrible). The day I had circled in pink highlighter on my calendar as the evening when I would eat dessert and imbibe on the fine pinot noir I had selected from Eola Hills, just up the road near Rickreall, as a special treat for being good for three whole weeks. Yes, that day turned out to be bright, mostly sunny, no rain, dry roads, only a breath of wind, awesome.

And to top it off, I had a fresh collegiate, 21-year-old riding partner capable of ripping my legs off as we climbed up Decker Rd. for the last 10 miles. I earned that pinot noir.

Getting back to business.

Two weeks into my first three week build of the training season, and my muscles are screaming. And with all the training, racing, working, and socializing plans swimming around in my brain, there hasn't been much room for thoughts of single-dom. Almost. But, on to cheerier topics. Training. Triathlon. Treats.

The week-end was good... not exactly epic. But, I can't complain about an entire road bike ride in semi-dry, sunshine, and 50s... in January. Followed by a Sunday run that was entirely off-road!

Though, it all had the potential for disaster. The weather powers-that-be never want to get Oregonian's hopes up by suggesting that there might actually be sunshine on a week-end. So, the forecast remained mostly cloudy with a 40 % chance of rain. I was meant to drive up to Portland with a friend, but he sent me a very sad email, mid-afternoon saying he was out, down for the count, sick as a dog. Not going. A quick texting, emailing, and facebooking frenzy ensued as I and the two other people in his car reworked our plans. It was decided that I would sweep through the Willamette Valley, picking up people and bikes on my way to Sauvie Island. The only condition of riding in my car.... stopping at Trader Joe's. The Corvallis location opens in two weeks, but I can't wait that long for my Joe's Coffee Beans.

Ride destination: Hills. The hardest thing to simulate on a trainer is riding up a hill. Sure you can get out of the saddle, put your bike in the hardest gear, but you miss the handling of the bike, the momentum of the climb, not to mention the scenery! So, when Matt asked me and the boys where we wanted to ride, we all pointed up. Up to Skyline Rd. This was a real treat for me. I had never ridden (as a cyclist... done four triathlons there) in Portland. And we were riding the cream of the crop. So many cyclists. And up and down and up and down, until my quads would no longer fire, and we blessedly descended back to the cars.

Day two: the off-road run that would never end. I got an FB bulletin around 11:00pm from a fellow Brooks IDer. Meet at the Saddle at 8am for 14 miles. Doable.... if I fell asleep at that exact moment. I set the alarm anyway, packed my bag, laid out my running clothes and nutrition and read myself to sleep.

At the trail, I was on-time to meet the Corvallis Ultrarunners Group. Slightly under-caffienated, under-nutritied and over-sore. We started off running the 1-mile uphill side of the loop, which was okay because I'm pretty speedy uphill. But at the "top", we swung around on Powderhouse Trail and went all the way down to Peavy. At the bottom, I was introduced to "Sondra-Creep" a phenomenon encountered when Sondra comes on a run and starts to suggest modifications to our route involving trails that add a mile here, two miles there, and before you know it, your 14 mile run has become a 21 mile run. We wound around the Discovery trail, the Calloway Creek Trail, and the bottom of 305 before I glanced at my watch.... 1:25 and we were still at least a 30-minute run from the cars by the shortest route! And the shortest route, what we ended up taking, is almost straight up. It encompasses some of the grade from the Mac Forest 15K, so you know it's steep. At the top, FB-friend Erica and I pealed off to bee-line back to the cars, even picking up the pace a bit to avoid getting too cold in the rain that had started up.

Fantastic run, fantastic ride, fantastically sore quads from all the climbing. Two-days of foam roller still haven't been able to sort out the carnage!

Rave Run: Mary's Peak

Imagine a drippy Saturday morning in Oregon. The temp hovers at 50 °F. A forest with trees as big as 5 ft. in diameter. Spanish moss cascading from winter barren branches. Weak sunshine filtering through the clouds, brightening already vivid woody colors and deafening the sounds of our footfalls.

Footfalls? Running... After a home-made vanilla latte at Cafe Petro (more on this someday), Blair and I hopped into the Beeper for its first off-road experience and the 20-minute drive up Woods Creek Rd. to the base of the Northridge Trail. To local mountain bikers, the Northridge Trail is the holy grail, the nemesis, the scene of major whammies, and the source of their best stories. But on this fine morning, we saw no tire treads, barely any footfalls, and heard only the soft drumming of a misting on the branches and leaves far above our heads.

We started out on fire road 2005 heading towards Conner's Camp, passing through the closed gate, we encountered a single track off to our left. We followed this for a bit before it wound back around to the road. Figuring this was where we were supposed to be (running uphill), we turned left on the road again and continued along for a half mile. Something didn't seem right to me at this point (I thought we should be on single track). So, at a flagged tree, Blair and I turned into the woods along a game trail.. a narrow, sometimes non-existant scramble through underbrush, over downed trees, and across creek beds. We ran/climbed/scampered like this for a few minutes... I'm sure Blair was wondering where on Earth we were going. But, I was in charge of the show, the gal with the plan, and he said he was there to follow me. That's a lot of responsibility. Fortunately, I have a natural sense of where I am supposed to be, and before either of us had a chance to question if this was the right thing to do, we stumbled onto the Northridge Trail.

We again turned uphill... and ran for 45-minutes up the single track. It wasn't a "straight-up", but more of a gentle climb along the contours of the mountain. The air got wetter. We ran through pockets of warm air. Occasionally, we had to slow to climb over downed trees, navigate cascading tree roots, and twinkle-toe through rock gardens. And up, and up. For four miles. But it never seemed like too much and we didn't encounter anybody on the trail. At some points, I was running holding my breath as the trail came precipitously close to tossing us down the nearly sheer slopes.

The pace and the not super uphillness gave us a chance to talk. So, as we ran, Blair and I talked about the Beaver Freezer (OSU's annual fundraising triathlon), yoga, Haiti, cooking (he makes tapioca rice pudding by the gallon and I make chicken soup by the gallon), racing as a professional triathlete, and movies. Sometimes, we didn't talk at all, just breathed and ran.

At long last we reached the top of Mary's...at 4,097 feet, it is the highest point in Oregon’s Coast Range and the most prominent peak to the west of Corvallis. In the woods, we were shielded from the weather. At the top, out in the open, it was colder, rainier, and windier, and we were glad when the trail crossed the parking lot and dipped back into the woods. We had taken the short-cut to the top and planned to run down the East Ridge Trail, taking the Tie Trail back to Northridge. However, crossing the parking lot at the top proved difficult as the clouds shrouded one end from the other. We couldn't see more than 50 ft to where we were going, but after a minute or two running the perimeter, we picked up the trail again and started heading down... so we thought.

It was glorifyingly down hill, and we readjusted the hip flexors and quad muscles for the descent. At the junction with the Tie Trail, we encountered our first people of the day. I was focusing more on my footing, calling out my customary greeting to the hikers "Hi, how are you?!" One hiker called out, "Great, have a good rest of your run, Sunny". Which caused me to nearly fall off the trail. I came to a stop and recognized Mel and Eric, a couple from my cycling team, Pacific Power/Blue Sky. We exchanged a few words, not wanting to let the blood cool to much, Blair and I headed back down the trail quickly. A couple of strides in, he comments... "we've met six people total in 7 miles and you know two of them." What can I say? Most of the people I call friends are active. Stands to reason I would see them out on a cold raining day ascending the highest mountain in coastal range. ;-)

At this point, we thought the trail was all downhill. Wrong. Be prepared, you will run about a 3/4 miles more uphill to meet the junction with Northridge. That was the only part of the whole run that was grueling. After that, we bounded, ran, leaped our way down the switchbacks back to the car. The caffeine had long ago been replaced by adrenaline. We found the trail head that we should have used to avoid our bushwacking (turn right on the fire road from the other trail, proceed 9.2 ft). The real single-track came out 100 yds from the Beeper, and then end of our off-road rave run.

Epic.

Race Report: Cyclocross National Championships 2009

Racing!!! Cyclocross!!!

It has been an AWESOME season. Every course I do gets better and more funner (that's right — more!).

Aside: Some day I will have to explain to my high school AP Language teacher why I have added this non-standard comparative form of "more fun" to my lexicon. For now, it is to emphasize the fact that each race course provides more mirth or more enjoyment than regular fun. It's the ultimate fun.

Cyclocross Nationals was no exception. The eventual women's winner, Katie Compton, called it the most technically challenging course she has raced all year. And I agree with her. Though this is the first time I've ever "raced against" her.

Here's how it went: My starting position was 62 out of 100-and-something. That's 62nd on the line. Meaning, in a starting shoot that only accommodated about 7-8 riders across, I was in about row 8. That's a lot of peeps ahead of me, just at the start. But, at least I wasn't 100 and something... for all the good it did me.

A distant horn signaled the start of my race. I'm sure the women on the front clipped in and hammered the first straight away... my start was more like a gentle, building roll out. About 100 yds down the stretch, after crossing the eventual finish line, the course takes a sharp right, hops the curb, jumps up a short rise, takes another sharp right as it descends down a technical, rocky, muddy, icy slope. Can you say, "what!"? As soon as the leaders hit the curb, the whole field of stampeding women slowed, came to a stand-still, and eventual pile-up. I wouldn't have expected anything less. In fact, I planned on it (see following pic) and therefore kept to the outside. What I didn't plan on was the woman-in-front-of-the-woman-in-front-of-the-woman-in-front of me (got that?) crashing into the boards. I had to much momentum going up the hill, bumped the woman's wheel in front of mine as I was back-pedaling, and dropped my chain. Doh. My bad. I bent over double, to rearrange my chain, hoping noone would nip my butt with their handlebars (it was probably to high in the air for this). And as I straightened up and jumped on my rig, I was in dead-last.

The Women's start: No, not crowded at all!

Do-over. The best part about my rookie move? I got to attack the course, have fun, take the best lines, and pick off people one by one...

The course was still monstrously slick from the combo of mud, wet rocks, icy ground, and snow. And with all the hairpin turns, the off-camber climbs and descents, it was a bike handlers dream. I was thanking my stars the whole race that I routinely practice riding muddy singletrack.

So, around and around I went, eventually catching up to women I knew from racing locally, some of the Sunnyside Sports riders, a few River City Bikes team members, my nemesis, among others. The weirdest and coolest part was that each time I took a lap, the course kept changing a bit and the best line would move to different points in turns and straightaways as 100+ riders tore it up. There was one particularly nasty section that came right after a 20-stair climb (which I took two-at-a-time, of course). At the top, I had to mount fast (minds out of the gutter), before barreling down a small off camber, icy slope. Just after the slope, the course angled upward (again off camber) jumped over a lip and swung through a velodrome-style 180-degree turn. Under the wheels was nothing but close-cropped icy, grass, slick as a BICed bald man's head!

This particular spot on the course (nicknamed "cowbell alley" by me as it was the part of the course that competitors lined 3-5 people deep ringing sonorous cowbells) has three (3!) memorable moments of mine from the race.

Memorable Moment #1: The pre-race pre-ride. The course opened for general riding at 9:00, before the collegiate men's race. But, the sun had only come up an hour earlier and had not yet thawed out the frozen course. My plan was to gingerly proceed around the course, testing lines and turns and riding difficult sections twice, generally getting the lay of the land. Then, I would go back and attack these parts at race pace, warming up in the process. As I approached cowbell alley, my wheels gave way and I gently slipped down the slope on my side, almost in slow-motion. Thankfully the course delineation had been removed by race organizers as so many cyclists in previous races had taken just such a spill and gotten tangled in it (the most gruesome one was a guy who had hit one of the wooden posts, getting a ginormous splinter of wood in his shin in the process). I was unhurt, but I got up and rode it again with more speed, successfully climbing over the lip. And then just past the lip, I almost came to a dead stop. For there on the course was a frozen blood puddle, presumably from the raucous "Clydesdale Cyclocross Championship of the Universe" the night before.

Memorable Moment #2 The Save and The Save II. I approached this section with less ginger and more pepper during the race than I did on that first lap in practice. It just seemed easier to ride fast. But, a successful speedy negotiation also involved balance, the right line, no obstacles on the course (ahem, other competitors), and cojones. On the first two laps, I clipped in fast and took the slope at speed. I had a narrow miss with another rider on the second lap, but we both held our lines well. Then lap three, I was starting to feel the course, maneuvering well up the through the field and getting more aggressive with the terrain. I took the steps two at a time, right into a pack of three other women. My remount was really fast in order to stay ahead, but I slightly missed the foot plant on the pedal, and my right foot went in front of the chain ring (in between the frame and the crank arm... ouch!) instead of clipping in. I pedaled through and kept trying to clip-in while pedaling on this section... well, I pushed so hard to clip in on the right foot, that I pushed the bike hard underneath me just as I was coming over the lip on the off-camber stuff. I would have gone down super hard had my weight no been lifting up on the bike at that moment, and I was able to swing the front wheel around to line up with the rear.... that near-miss-great-save got a huge "whoa---yeah!" cheer from the crowd on this corner. And I had to breath through my heart attack. That was The Save I. The Save II was a little less dramatic, but no less heart-attack inducing. Real quick, on the last lap, I almost ran over another racer when she crashed on the corner right in front of me. I hate running over other people. I managed to avoid her and keep myself upright (multi-tasking).

Memorable Moment #3: The money hand-up. For some reason guys love to try to get racers to take their hands off the handle bars at the most treacherous and technically difficult part of the course. It used to be for beer hand-ups. But ever since these were banned in open competition, spectators have taken to holding out dollar bills. I'm no stranger to this spectator-sport. Early in the season at Barton Park Cross Crusade #8, I expertly plucked a Washington that was positioned in the mouth of a beer bottle lemon-wedge-Corona-style without spilling the beer or face-planting in the mud (see pic).

$1-smile at Barton Park Cross.

But, I was still a bit surprised to see fists-o-cash being thrust out on the Nationals course. I had no intention of trying for the money on this section... until I saw Fuzz-guy (enthusiastic spectator and oft- times racer who wears a sniper suit in costumed races) holding up a twenty.... even I - safe Suzy - would crash for a $20. I reached out, bobbled, grappled for the bill, got it, shoved it down my decolletage, and managed to stay upright through this entire exchange. It only takes a little monetary motivation... I'ld be an easy pole dancer.

Heading into the velodrome turn after coming over the lip.

In the end, I achieved my two modest goals for the race, finish in the top half (I was 48th) and not get lapped. I had an inkling how close I was to get lapped, as I could here the cheers for Compton as I neared the second to last of my promised laps. The chip-timing tells the story; my fourth lap was by far my fastest as I raced to outrace the leader on her last lap. Turns out I had a minute+ cushion, but you can never tell on the twists and turns of a cyclocross course.

So, major props to friends and fans that yelled themselves hoarse, worked their wrist muscles to fatigue with the cowbell, and stood around (drinking beer) for three days in the cold to cheer on all the Pacific Power Blue Sky riders. I had three teammates travel to Bend with me even though they weren't racing. And I had four teammates who raced and placed well in their respective categories.

Also, props to Mathowie for the race pictures. I couldn't help including some pictures he took of the "super" fans:

Race report : Pychocross #2, cyclocross on half-marathon legs:

This is the continued account of the two-in-one-day-of-racing. I'm going to keep it short. The focus of the day was the half-marathon. The cyclocross race... cool down?

On a very Oregonian afternoon (clouds, damp, rain, mud), I brushed the cobwebs out of my sore running legs and mounted my 'cross bike for it's last race before Cyclocross Nationals. Ideally, this would have been a tune-up race. It would prove to be more of a skills challenge then I bargained for.

For one, my nemesis materialized at the starting line. Later she would explain that she is working to qualify for the Pro Elite Women's race at Nationals... deservedly and totally understandable. But that meant that this race would hurt. Alot.

I had some trouble getting my core temp up, and I had long since lost feeling in my toes and nose before the stat of the race. My start was lackluster, and my quads groaned into action. Within seconds I was on off-cambor rocky terrain that gave way to cakey mud. More quad groaning. Then a minute and a half into the race, I encountered the eight pack... I saw it, and I couldn't decide whether to shoulder or carry the bike. An eight pack. Eight. Barriers. Huh. Going over them as smoothly as possible, I realized that we had to negotiate this obstacle an extra time as the finish line was just up ahead. Yeah, I was right. This was going to hurt.

Hitting the 8-pack at the start.

A quick concrete section and then I encountered a single, high wooden barrier. After jumping back on the bike (looking down) and taking two pedal strokes to clip in, I plowed right into a sand volleyball pit. Cruelly, the course crossed the pit on one side, flipped a bitch and proceeded across the other side. I took the wrong line, the wrong turn radius, and the wrong simultaneously two-footed bike-straddling dead-stop that caused me to dismount for a third time in less than four minutes on the course. Oh, but that's not all.

I rounded about on a mud/dirt road, only five seconds behind my nemesis. We entered rocky single-track, with hidden logs and sticks beneath the leaf-cover. The course dropped into a dry creek bed and looked as if it would continue straight. Instead, I came to a complete stop, almost endo-ing over the handle bars as I realized my nemesis had made a 180 up a left-hand muddy run-up. Dude... I scrambled up the slope in traffic (two other women passed me here). And immediately entered single-track that wound, whipped, and ripped through the back lot of trees and briar bushes.

I passes one woman on the single-track as she negotiated a dropped chain. Then, I was caught by complete surprise by a submerged dip that buried the front wheel. It was only by the strength of my arms that I managed to plow through the giant puddle and up the chain-breaker hill that followed.

More single track, more turns, one more barrier, some stairs, a couple of 180s... and it was time to do the whole course over again. I worked my way up into 2nd, but I kept losing five sconds here and 3 seconds there to my nemesis. It was on the fourth lap that she exited my field of vision and I was left to consider just how badly I wanted to make chase. I wanted to, but I took a vote among various body parts, and both my legs voted "no" and that was the end of that.

I managed to make the barriers look easy, but everything else in the race was a trial. And I mocked myself by dismounting just before the finish, humbly tripping and stumbling over the line carrying my embattled bike.

In all fairness, yes, I did race a half-marathon that morning... but, Nemesis, you still would have wiped the floor with me. Such was your mastery of the treacherous course and your late season fitness. Props.

Cheers! USAC Cyclcross Nationals race report coming soon!

Race, Race, and more racing!

It's still going on. The crazy continues. But, I think I finally hit my limit a few week-ends ago. Here was my brilliant idea... Half marathon in the morning. Bike racing in the afternoon. Hmmm.

Well, the half marathon went like this:

Who's brilliant idea was it to eat mexican food the night before a big race? Now, I don't have a nervous stomach, but occasionally there are problems (I am an athlete after all , and one of our favorite conversations is bowel movements :-). And there were problems this fine morning. But, I had no time to dwell. I swallowed some loperamide with my oatmeal and coffee and packed the car. Running bag, cycling bag, lunch, and bike. This could be awesome.

I was running the EWEB Run to Stay Warm, a half marathon almost entirely contained on the bike paths bordering the Willamette River and flat-flat-flat, at least to my Colorado/Missouri way of thinking.

My plan: run 6:52/mile, possibly speeding up to 6:45 per mile at mile 9 if I felt absolutely fantastic. This was my public goal. Private goal was to win and set a PR. Who says I don't set 'em high?

I started out at my 6:52 pace with friend, running buddy, and pace-king Gerhard. And for the first mile, we hit this pace perfectly (I think; there were no "official" mile markers on the course). And strangely I was aware that I was the first woman. Hmmm.... but that would change.

About 1.5 miles into the race, still very much in the pack, and still very much running my pace, three women swarmed around me. One, I actually recognized as a really good local marathoner and another as a major competitor that I had come up against in my other forays into the Eugene running scene. Oh-boy. This could be good. I felt great, and after all, I was in a race. I looked over at Gerhard, gave him a little half-smile and a shrug and settled in with the three women.

Me and the other women in a pack... Gerhard's in the blue shirt off to the right.

It went like this through mile 4, when I actually watched the marathoner's arms relax and her pace began to slow. It was at this moment that the competitor put on a surge, and the third woman took off with her (I had already surmised that they were running together). For a split second (more like 10 seconds), I hesitated and let them slip away. I shook myself out of my stupor, adjusted my pace (sort of, they slowed almost instantly after their surge), and stayed about 15-20 seconds behind them.

It was about this time that I caught up to "The Beeper". He was wearing a NYC marathon shirt and looked smooth, so I knew he was legit. But he was wearing a heart-rate monitor that must have been set with a max heart rate that he was exceeding. Because, every 10 seconds or so, it reminded us all with a strange bird-like chirp. At first I thought I was being stalked by a bird and kept looking into the trees along the course. At one point I spotted him trying to correct it, to no avail. For a bit, I was making it my mission to try and drop him. But he was exactly my pace, and its incessant but regular chirping was keeping me in focus.

Waving at the camera... (that's the Beeper next to me).

Around 45 minutes, I could feel my energy ebbing. I downed half a Clif shot (with caffeine, yeah!) and a few gulps of water. Ten minutes later, I was back in action. And around an hour, I surged and passed the two women in front of me. I was feeling great, and I knew that my move had worked because I heard one woman whisper to the other behind me a soft "go ahead". I willed myself not to look back, but from the footsteps, I knew I had cracked one. I made a second surge about three minutes later, and then I was alone with the beeper (he came with me... doh!). I had about three miles to go at that point (I guessed from the creek path mile markers). This whole time, I had picked up the pace to about 6:35/mile... and I kept pushing it through the next two. On the last mile, I could feel the heaviness creep in, my form start to give way, and my feet start to hit the pavement a little harder. But, I fixed my smile and muscled my way to the win. Egads.... I won! I won! I won! And it was a new personal best at 1:27:54.

Coming in for the finish, Baby!

Of course, after the finish, I felt great. And in my stubborn runner's brain, I secretly thought, I could have broken 1:27. I could have. Next time. I had a cyclocross race to get to.

To be continued....