White Rock HM 2.0

White Rock Half Marathon. 13.1 miles through the heart of Dallas. I'm not a runner but nature, but here I was, set to give it a try. Again,

I first ran the White Rock Half Marathon in December 2006. I had entered the race fairly late. I'd had a frustrating year in this, my second year as a triathlete--6 races, 4 in which I missed the podium by just one place--and a stressful time in my personal life. I'd never been a good runner but conventional wisdom stressed that improvements could be obtained by running slow and long. Slow I had mastered. Long?

I think I trained 4 to 6 weeks for that race. The Sunday before race day, I completed a run-walk of 10 miles. Yes, run-walk. At that time I used a heart-rate monitor so I could keep in a recommended "zone", and the recommended zone for long-and-slow was Zone 2. For me at that time, that would require not exceeding 155 beats-per-minute (bpm). I could not run a minute without rapidly exceeding that upper limit, so the only way to stay "in the zone" was to walk until the rate dropped and then pick up again.

This is not a recipe for speed. Consequently, on race day, surrounded by hordes of faster runners, I decided to ignore the monitor and just run. I managed to run four miles without stopping. Thereafter, I ran as far as I could, walked until I recovered, then ran again. I finished the race in 2 hours and 47 minutes, with an average heart rate of 181.

That's right. 181. So much for zones.

Fast forward. It's 2009 and I had a great time in the summer riding my bike, but due to persistent pain in my upper back, I found riding longer than 90 minutes too painful. So when temps dropped this October, I "chickened out" on riding by running more. Looking for some new challenges, I decided I would have another go at White Rock.

Again, I had six weeks to train. More experienced, faster, and wiser (!), I decided that after my runs reached 7 miles, I would switch to running on a track, which I presumed would be kinder to my body than running on asphalt. I did my first long track run the day after Thanksgiving. I ran nine miles in sets of 2 miles, then did a 1 1/2 mile jog to cool down. Mid-week following, I went to the track again to run 10 miles. I noticed discomfort in my left foot straight away. But as something always hurts starting out, I ignored it. I managed 9 miles but the discomfort never disappeared. And then later at home, I experienced very sharp pains in my big toe. This pattern continued, even after I shortened my runs, until I decided 10 days out not to run again until race day.

I can't say this problem didn't undermine my confidence. Right up till Thursday I considered not going, but after giving in and running two miles--with predictable results--I thought, "In for penny in for a pound." If it's going to the same whether I run 2 miles or 12, then make it count. But my dreams of running an average of 10 mins/mile had to be shoved to a back burner. I just hoped now to beat my previous time by a few minutes--and not cripple myself in the process.

Saturday I left for Dallas after lunch. I was better prepared than in 2006, when I'd gotten terribly lost. I know lept carefully prepared maps of downtown Dallas and step-by-step instructions for getting to my hotel. It all went nearly to plan, except for the inexplicable fact that the city of Dallas, which sees fit to mark every area with a sign--"West End District" or "Main Street District"and offer signed directions to the zoo, the theater, the museum--did not see fit to designate any marker showing the way to the Dallas Convention Center, where runners had to pick up their race packets. Luckily, I didn't get too far afield before doubling back and getting it right the second time.

I didn't linger at packet pick up and the Expo. I didn't need to buy any running0related item. I have enough shoes to outfit a small village, and have at least tried every gizmo invented. (See previous reference to heart-rate monitors. Add also GPS, orthotics, compression garments, various hydration and nutrition combinations...) However, the clever little marketers designed the darned pick-up so one could not exit without passing all the way through the Expo--e.g., they put the packet pick-up on one side of the arena and the t-shirt pick-up on the opposite side. Nothing for it but to dodge my way through a mass of small and large bodies, masses of advertising, and a red carpet that instantly gave me retinal burn. Grrrrrr!!! I managed to pick up my t-shirt, but when I looked for an exit, the only way was--you guessed it!--back through the Expo. (Strangely, in a room of people dedicated to running fast, most people walked incredibly slowly.)

At last! Back out into the cold, moist, foggy air of downtown Dallas. With the map imprinted on my brain, I had remarkably little trouble in returning to Stemmons (I-35E) and even less trouble finding the Renaissance Hotel. (Try missing a 30 storey building amidst the sea of drab, warehouse-like buildings of the World Market Area.) Then I managed to find self-serve (free) parking. And right on time! Check in started at 3 p.m. and it was 3:15. Presented my credentials and got my room key. Room 15--.

15th floor? Do tell! I usually stay at one storey Super 8 motels or other motor hotels run by a variety of nice people named Patel. But concierge? Room service? Three restaurants and a bar? A sauna and gym on the 30th floor? Morning newspaper delivered to your door? In short, anything and everything you could want? For a price??

Okay, I knew the price factor going in and felt suitably cautioned by my own experience. In 1996 I had stayed at the Park Place Hotel in Chicago--a member of the Hilton family--and first encountered a novel thing called a "mini bar". Wow! An entire little refrigerator stocked with little bottles of champagne, scotch, bourbon, cheese crackers. I popped the wee bottle of champagne, spread some cheese on crackers and contemplated my good fortune from one of the two queen-sized beds. (I had been upgraded at the last minute to a business suite.) I just had to brag to my sister who, as an employee of a NASA contractor traveled all over the world, so I phoned her up. It was then that I learned that the "mini bar" was not free. As instructed I re-examined the inner door of the small fridge and saw a price list. I had just consumed $12 worth of champagne and and crackers! (That would be about $40 in today's currency.) So, yeah, I knew that I would not be free to indulge in many of these available amenities. I wouldn't need much aside from dinner and breakfast, and where can one go where there is not a fast food joint on the next corner?

One can go to the Renaissance Hotel in Dallas, Texas. Not a Jack in the Box, Burger King, McDonald's, or even a Food Mart in sight. (In Chicago I'd eaten at the fast food places on the other side of State Street at every meal.) As I contemplated my situation, I felt frustrated with myself for not bringing along my own food, which I usually do, even when staying with the Patels. I examined the room service menu. The cheapest item on it was a cup of soup for $5. (A bowl cost $9.) A house salad cost $12, a burger $15, a steak $32, with all sides $8 each. Looking at the breakfast menu, I saw with astonishment that a bowl of any cereal cost $7!! And all items automatically carried a 25% gratuity. I could hear Jim's voice conferring upon me his common view of hotels: "They nickel and dime you for everything." I could not help but agree, even as I saw that wireless Internet was available for $13! (Hey, folks, it's free at McDonald's!!) After an hour's contemplation, I finally decided to order an in-room cheese pizza for $12, figuring I could at least get breakfast out of it by setting aside a few pieces in the fridge overnight. (Who hasn't eaten cold pizza for breakfast at some point?) Still, this rationalization did not make me feel much better and I succumbed to an interlude of homesickness that quickly morphed, as it usually does, to an exercise in existential malaise in which I questioned why I was here at this hotel, why I was here on earth, and why didn't I just pack it in and go hide in a cave somewhere?

Then the pizza arrived. The snappy older gentleman in a bow tie carried in a wonderful tray with a covered dish, a glass of chilled water, and a cloth napkin, and set it down with aplomb on the desk. He waited while I signed the ticket and left. After consuming one piece, my existential woes melted along with the cheese. After three pieces, I couldn't remember any troubles at all. And for the rest of the night, the remainder of that pizza called to me from the mini fridge. I ate two more pieces before bed time.

But pre-race fidgets made it difficult to pass the rest of the evening. Even with HBO, I could find nothing on TV that interested me. I stared at a book, but found myself halfway down the page and unable to remember what I'd read, forcing me to start over. I could not focus on anything. Even the boxing after dark on HBO presented a very disappointing set of matches. Finally, I hit lights out at 11 p.m., expecting to wake with my alarm at 5:50. I was only a mile away from the American Airlines Center, so who needed to get up early?

I woke before the alarm. Checked my watch. 2 a.m. Sigh... Back to sleep. Woke again. 3 a.m. Back to sleep. Woke at 4 a.m.--and this time, no back to sleep. Still, I lay there until at least 5, when I decided nothing for it but to get up and get ready. 1-2-3 and I was dressed; 3-4, breakfasted on 1 1/2 slices of pizza (sans cheese--didn't think that would sit well after a few miles running); 5-6, down to the lobby to request an extension of check-out from noon until 12:30 so I would have time to come back and shower before driving back to Hawkins. 7-8-9, wending down the darkened streets to the ever-busy Dallas freeway and hop-skip to Victory Avenue and the American Airlines Center. The parking lots were pretty empty, so I pulled into the first one, paid my $5, and parked. I carefully noted the lot (E--easy to remember, as my Wave for the race was E), as well as the first cross street to the American Airlines Center, and even the gate, entering it all into my cell phone.

It was after 6 a.m., when the race materials said the Center would open for races, but dozens milled about outside. Burgundy-coated men and women looked at us through the glass as if we were potentially hostile gangs of Jets and Sharks--Crips and Bloods to you younger folks. Yeah, tough gangsters in spandex and shorts! But then again, we did, as a whole, look pretty lean and hungry... Finally they opened the doors and we spilled inside. I wandered around, looking for...something. The baggage area? Directions to the corrals? But none were obvious inside, and I had no desire to go outside into the cold air until I absolutely had to. So I found a corner, pulled out a book, and tried to read.

I began with my back against a wall and legs outstretched, but before long I had to pull in my feet as the ever-growing crowd threatened to tread on them. A few minutes later I examined this crowd more closely. Something was up. These weren't the earlier knots of friends and co-workers meeting up to discuss post-race plans. There was organization here. There was... There was... Was there a line to the MEN'S bathroom?? I blinked and looked again. There was no mistaking it. A line of men stretched off to the left and faded in the distance.

This was not a good sign. If there was already a line for the Men's restroom, and it only just after 7 a.m., the situation for the Ladies' must be grave indeed. I pondered this. I did not have to go, but every racer does anyway, because even with port-a-potties out on the course, who wants to stop? When I finished my chapter, I looked at my watch. 7:20. I decided I'd better make a start. And sure enough, the line for the Ladies' stretched equally into infinity. I knew there were restrooms further back near the North Entrance where I'd arrived so I walked back there. Infinity again. I searched for an end and could not find it, so finding a place where the "line" broke down a bit, I just drifted in and no one complained. Luckily, it moved pretty fast and I was out by 7:35.

As we were supposed to be in the corral at 7:40, there was little time to pause. I sent off one last e-mail to Jim, then headed out into the cold. I'd already taken off my warm-up pants so I just wore my jacket. It wasn't too bad. Lemming-like, I followed the others up the street, even as the PA announced runners should head for the corrals. I found the baggage check, stuffed my warm-up jacket into the knapsack, then handed it over. Clad now only in my long-sleeve crew-neck top, shorts, calf compression sleeves, and shoes, I headed out to search for "E" Corral. It took a while. There were 20,000 people signed up for the marathon and half-marathon and we all started together. At last I saw a woman holding a big sign with a red "E" in front of a police barrier and there I entered.

We were a diverse group, we "slow-pokes". Some wore Christmas-themed outfits or wore Santa hats. Others carried signs and balloons. (How were they going to run holding a sign?) Every third person had a cell phone and was texting, talking, or taking photos. (BIG change from 2006. I don't remember any cell phones then, only Ipods. Plenty of those around now, too.) I felt a twinge of regret, wishing I could snap a pic and send it to Jim, but even as I considered this I knew he would still be in bed, fast asleep. More importantly, I did not want to be encumbered by anything. As I looked at my compadres, I sagely noticed an excess of gear: bulging Camel Baks, fanny packs, jackets and tights and sweatshirts. In 2006, a novice myself, I had worn too much stuff, if only in the form of a heavy long-sleeved shirt, a vest, and tights, and hoped I had learned my lesson this time with a more minimalist approach.

Looking at my watch it was nearly 8 a.m. Recalling the race packet, I remembered we would ALL go off at the same time, just from different corrals, so I was ready. I heard a gun and a cheer, and prepared to move forward. Actual time would not commence until we crossed the start line (thanks to a timing chip worn on the shoe), but I was ready to move into the space.

If, as Shakespeare observed, the "readiness is all", then I was all ready--and remained so. We did NOT all go off at the same time. (Someone lied!) Indeed, we did move up, but only as far as the next corral, where we waited. Another shout and the next wave left. Repeat. And repeat. Finally, at 8:15, we moved up in sight of the start line. A signal emerged with a burst of confetti and some sparklers, and with a shout from both runners and crowd, and we hobble-stepped forth towards the red line.

That is how the race began. With a hobble-step. But as soon as my foot crossed the line, I broke into a jog. The crowd of runners remained thick and it proved difficult to gain momentum--even more so as one could clearly see a good number of folks who planned not to run but walk the entire distance. I spent the entire first mile dodging and weaving, sprinting and stalling, trying not to run over someone or be run over in turn. I was disappointed but not surprised when we hit the first mile marker and saw my first mile had taken well over 11 minutes. I tried to look on the bright side: I was not out of breath and hadn't even broken a sweat. At least I could sustain such a pace.

We wound around corners, past restaurants and well-wishers. I briefly ran up on the sidewalk with some others, trying to avoid the slower masses. On one downhill section I picked up the pace and let out my stride, trying to gain a bit of space. I found some, but not much. Still, at around the third mile we turned into the Turtle Creek area and things settled down. I found myself running behind two girl friends holding a length conversation on jobs and relationships. It helped pass the time as I waited to find out where the plot led next. Alas, our paces diverged and I was doomed to forever wonder if the canceled engagement would indeed produce greater happiness.

Another mile on and we passed nice houses with their owners standing out holding signs. One lady really deserved a prize for her poster featuring a picture of Tiger Woods and captioned: "Run faster, ladies! Tiger is chasing you!" Another couple stood in bathrobes and slippers, dog on a leash, providing a deliberate contrast to our sweaty, heaving horde passing by. I wondered myself how crazy we all seemed to "ordinary" people, out here on a Sunday morning voluntarily punishing ourselves in such a way. I wondered also at the dollar amount represented solely by the footwear of the 20,000 runners, not to mention all the other assorted encumbrances. (A good pair of running shoes averages about $90, so round that to $100 and you're looking at $200,000 in footwear. Vietnam and China must be very proud.)

The fact that I was wondering anything at all testified to my ease at this pace. Could it really be this easy? Should I try and run faster? But I knew it wasn't about running fast for 6 miles, but about running at all for 13, so I wisely held back. And at 6 miles, as the marathoners peeled off to begin their long loop of White Rock Lake, the Halves--as opposed to the "Fulls" (race officials calling, "Fulls to the left, Halves to the right!")--turned into narrower streets, less wealthy houses but still plenty of friendly folks, and the mood grew more somber. People who'd earlier run with a spring in their step now walked. At one point, a trim fellow sat disconsolately on the ground, surrounded by police, with his compression-clad leg extended outwards, in obvious pain, his race over.

We passed by the Granada Theater, with its always-great band playing outside, providing a bright note--the light before the storm, so to speak--as we turned into Mile 8. The double-down had begun. One line of runners headed down a long stretch of road as another ran back up. We could see our fate on their faces. That was one long damn hill, coming right at the point where the energy ebbs but there is no turning back. Well, nothing for it but to enjoy the downhill and try, if possible, to pick up some pace. Friends called to each other in passing, offering encouragement. Behind me someone pointed out a tall power line in the distance and noted this marked the turning point. Then a flashing red light, a cone in the road, and we turned back up the hill.

It didn't feel too bad, though I did feel the difference. Steadily now runners peeled off the road to the sidewalk or the grass, stretching a calf or a quad--or barfing their Gatorade. It wasn't too long, though, before the road flattened out again, but then there was the sign marking the end of Mile 8.

8 miles? We'd only run 8 miles? Gee, that had been a slow mile. But quickly I told myself to look only forward. 8 miles down meant only 4 more to go, and once I reached 3 miles to go, it would be a piece of cake. How many times had I run 5K? Recognizing, of course, that on those many occasions my legs were considerably fresher than now, but never mind the details. And so the 9th mile dragged forever onward. And the 10th. But at LAST we turned a bridge and entered the Katy Trail. It would be flat and steady from now on. Good thing, too, because my knees and hips were starting to hurt.

Did I say my knees and hips were starting to hurt? Yeah, they were. The foot? Forget the foot! It had ached those first few miles but I no longer noticed it. It had faded into the background, drowned out by a cacophony of new aches and pains. But I was not going to walk! No way! I had already run 11 miles without walking--further than ever before--and I would not stop now. So I pushed onward, trying to keep a reasonable pace. Once again I dodged between walkers and slower runners, and was passed by a few people who'd earlier walked. Guess they'd gotten their second wind. But a minute later, I'd pass them again as they dropped back to a walk. (No judgment here. I've been there. More power to them. Just get to the finish line!)

12 miles in. Bystanders increased. They shouted out, "The finish line is just around the corner!" I picked it up as best I could, dodging and weaving. At long last I could see the arch. I looked for the cameraman, pumped my fist, and crossed the line. Five seconds later I stopped my chronometer and looked at the time: 2 hours 22 minutes and change. I couldn't do the math in my impaired state, but I knew it was faster than last time, and that's what mattered. I stumbled off to the side as the PA urged us to clear out for the other runners. As I saw my 'mates standing around in their heat blankets I looked for where to go next.

Where I went was nearly down on my knees. Just as I'd suspected, the minute I stopped moving forward, my legs seized up. This wasn't a monster cramp, but my calves were solid stone and I couldn't feel my thighs. I forced myself to stand up straight, all energy suddenly gone. (Do you remember the old ABC Wide World of Sports opening? "The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat"? They aren't always separate things, I see now.) I could see people with finishers medals, so I pushed through the nearly impenetrable, foil-wrapped mass in search of a volunteer. I found one and received my medal. Then another mass and a search for the proper size of finishers t-shirt. Am I done yet? No. I get my own foil wrapper. And then there's the finish photographer. Stand in line, put aside foil wrapper and try to smile, holding medal. Click, click! Grab stuff, stumble onwards.

It took my some time, but I did at last find the baggage claim area--things were so turned around from the early morning--and waited for my "dove gray, Keen, backpack" (I had to articulate that carefully, and it took a great deal of effort). Duly delivered, I dug out my warmups, put them on, found my car key... Someone reached for my foil wrapper I'd set aside. Unthinkingly, I grabbed it faster than a two year old grabs candy, mumbling "That's mine!" Instantly, I felt stupid as I no longer needed it, but then felt it represented one more thing I'd earned--hadn't I seen many veterans in the corral that morning keeping warm with wraps from other events?--and kept it in hand.

A few more steps and I had crossed over to Lot E. I walked like Frankenstein's Monster, but walk I did, retracing my steps to find my car. I clicked it, lights flashed, doors opened. I tossed in my "dove gray, Keen, backpack" onto the passenger seat and stumbled around to the driver's side. Yes, I did wonder how I could drive in such a state, but rationalized that once I got to the hotel and cleaned up I would be reborn. Only one last obstacle remained: getting out of the damned lot! The open avenues of the early morning had been replaced by barriers, one-way signs, and road closed signs. For the second time this day, I managed to "insert" myself into a line, but once onto the road, it didn't take five minutes before I was back on Stemmons and less than five before I was parked at my hotel. It was 11:05 a.m.

Posh guests were pushing their bags through the lobby as check-out time approached. I climbed into the first available elevator, all sweaty and dowzled, and pushed "15". A few more breaths and I emerged onto the burgundy and gold carpet of what I had dubbed the night before "a very expensive dormitory." (I was unused to the sounds of neighbors closing and opening doors, passing down the hall, or just talking in the next room.) I found my door, inserted the magnetic key, and entered the marble floored entry way. Closing the door behind me, I allowed myself a sight of relief. The fluffy white, embarrassingly thick duvet of the bed with it's red blanket looked oh-so-inviting. I tossed up my overnight bag and sat down next to it. I pulled out my clean clothes and laid them on the bed. But before I hit the shower, I hit the fridge. One more piece of pizza remained!! Ahh-ha-hah-hah! Smack, smack, gone! Ummmm!

Into the posh, marble floored bath with its nice Aveeno soaps--I had fallen in love with these very quickly, and not surprisingly, none remained in the suite once I vacated it--and into the cleansing water. I know cold water on aching muscles is the prescribed remedy, but I'd been chilled for so long I could not resist getting the water as hot as I could stand it. I soaped up several times and massaged my legs as best I could. Refreshed, I finished cleaning up and dressing. I felt almost human again! Now, as the clock approached noon, I felt a small pang of regret at having to leave my brief lap of luxury--especially now that I had earned it--but I also wanted to go home and see Jim, so I gathered up my goods and left the suite for now. But there's always next year, though I'll be certain to bring my own food next time! And my computer as well. Wireless internet would have been much cheaper than the pizza and required no gratuity.

This ended White Rock 2.0. Overall, it was as good as it could have been--better. Indeed, as I drove away on Stemmons, I wondered, "Could it have been too good? Could I ever top it next year?" We'll see if there's a 3.0 in my future. If Microsoft can come up with a new operating system every year, then why, then oh why, can't I? Let's go home, Toto!