So this weekend was a bit hectic, to say the least. I drove over to PH to hang out with my brother and family to help him get his house ready for their new arrival. CONGRATS GUYS! On the agenda: scraping, painting, patching, mending, cutting, plastering, sanding, vacuuming, and of course, eating and drinking.
The weekend was great. We put in some serious hours. By the time Dad and I finished the upstairs, it was around quittin' time on Saturday evening. We ate dinner, and mumbled through some conversation before everyone plodded off to bed. Scotty and I passed the evening with some male bonding time (watching The Evil Dead), and drinking a few brews.
When I awoke bright and early Sunday morning, little Carys was staring at me from the hallway, calling, "Hoon! Hoooon!" That's her nickname for her uncle. After breakfast we got back to work, and Scotty planted the bug of going for a ride if the weather broke. It had snowed, rained, sleeted and even hailed a bit, all in the past 36 hours. April in Michigan, I guess. I didn't let on to Scotty that I wanted nothing to do with a "Winter" ride, but I was keeping my fingers crossed that the weather would continue to be lousy, mostly because I knew, whether it was raining or shining, that 30 MPH wind wasn't going anywhere.
As I sanded down Scotty's fireplace patch job in the living room, I noticed a Mumma robin hanging out in the front yard. She was standing there, lookin' all pregnant, just staring into the window. Sleet was pelting her, snow was blowing around her, and the wind was whipping leaves past her face. I swear she looked at me and shook her head, as if to say one of two things:
1. Really? It's fricken APRIL! Enough already!!
or
2. Get your candy-@ss out here. It's ain't that bad!!
Regardless of what she was trying to tell me, the weather broke, our window of opportunity had opened, and despite my half-hearted protests, we geared up, and hit the steeds. We got outside and the weather was beautiful... well, beautiful except for that damnable W-SW wind that clocked in at a cool 25-30 MPH. Nice.
We pedaled out to the Southbound turn, and my heart sank; the wind hit us both square in the nose. Scotty, his usual stoic self, took the lead for the first short leg of our trip. As my legs began to heat up, I noticed that I was feeling pretty good. I zipped ahead of Scotty and took a respectable turn at the front, pulling us through the wind, allowing Scotty to take a quick breather in my slipstream.
Turn after turn, we battled the angry winds. It was such a strong crosswind at times, that we were almost riding side-by-each, in order to find the pocket which afforded us the much-needed rest. At one point, the wind gusted so fiercely, that it blew Scotty sideways, nearly causing him to crash into me. If it weren't for his ninja-like speed and reflexes, coupled with his superior cycling abilities, we might have ended up a heap of twisted metal and tangled body parts on the side of the road.
When we finally arrived in St. Clair, the legs still felt pretty strong. We pushed, according to Scotty's expertise, a respectable 17-18 MPH into a pretty nasty headwind. "Great teamwork," he said to me at one point. This was quite a compliment, since I'm used to Scotty pulling about 65-70% of the time, and me giving him a rest the other 30-35% of the time, though most days he never really needed it.
"Looks like we'll be fighting a crosswind on the way back again," he said.
"I dunno, brother... seems that the winds of fate have shifted!" We set out for our return trip.
We settled into a comfortable rhythm, our feet stamping out a rapid pace on the pedals. Scott noted that we were pushing around 26-27 MPH. I grinned, pleased with the efforts that my wickets were churning out today...with the help of a hefty tailwind, of course.
Mile after mile ticked off, until at last, we were near our cool-down zone.
"Race ya to the white LeBaron," Scotty taunted.
Foolishly, I took the bait. I clicked twice and stood on the pedals to rev up my RPMs. Scott, I noticed, settled quietly into my slipstream. I settled into the saddle now, realizing, almost immediately, my mistake. The car was over 200 yards away at the start of our little race, and I had already spent the majority of my energy.
I could hear Scotty downshift, and begin to move past me. I stood on the pedals, pushing down and yanking up as furiously as my legs would allow. But to no avail. He breezed past me, settling back into his saddle, passing the makeshift finish line five to six bike lengths in front of me. He looked back and grinned. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Shame we didn't have the Speedos with us. I bet we hit around 36 or 37 on that last sprint!"
I grumbled an inaudible, "Thanks." Thankful, at least, that he didn't whip out the Contador pistols as he flew past me.
But I was grinning, in spite of myself. I couldn't help but bask in the cold Port Huron sunshine, my legs and lungs burning, my face flush from the cold. What a great ride today. And then, as if on cue, the snow began to fly. Mother Nature had closed our riding window, but Scotty and I seized the opportunity and filled it with another great memory.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Desert Run
So it turns out this blog thing is a bit tricky. I started it about three months ago and have added a whopping ZERO posts since.
I'd like to take a moment to thank my friend Megan A., whose blog has recently reignited my blogging fire - at least for one post. Thanks, Megan!
This past January, I decided that I would take a long weekend and head down to Phoenix to run in the Rock 'n' Roll Marathon. My parents, - T & A, as we lovingly refer to them - winter in Lake Havasu, just three hours from Phoenix, so it seemed like a convenient way to check state number five (Iowa - Quad Cities, Michigan - Grand Rapids, Mass - Boston, Nevada - Lovell Canyon) in my fifty-state quest.
For this marathon, I was hoping to finish in 3:30, an 8:00 minute pace, but if I was slower than that, no worries. My training leading up to the January race was limited, including only one 18-mile run, and very few speed workouts, the littlest I had EVER trained before a marathon. I wasn't sure just what to expect, so the 3:30 goal was tentative at best.
With that in mind, T & A set out for our traditional pre-course scope session. Mom was significantly less nervous this time as compared to my previous marathon in Nevada. For further explanation, click here to see Lovell Canyon's elevation map. To my (and my mother's) relief, Phoenix was advertised as pancake-flat, and flat it was! Click for map.
During our scouting session, we nailed down three spots where T & A could see and cheer me on: mile three, mile 12, and mile 16. Seeing them three times would provide a much-needed lift out of the steamy desert doldrums. As luck would have it, Uncle Bob and Jim would also make a celebrity appearance at Mile 3!
After our scouting run, we grabbed some lunch at the hotel restaurant where I had the pleasure of overhearing a distinctly East-Coast accent (Boston?) at a table near us. In typical UP runner-guy fashion, I poked into her conversation and asked her about her origins and her race aspirations.
She replied that yes indeed she was from the Boston area, and that for this, her first marathon, she would attempt to earn her way back there, with a qualifying time under 3:30. I wished her the best, offered a few amateur tips (don't skip a water station, use your fuel, bank some time, and above all, TRUST THE TRAINING), and gulped the last of my icy cold Sunup Amber local brew.
The remainder of the evening was quiet. I lounged in the pool, ate some pasta, drank a beer or two (Hey! Carbs are carbs, liquid or otherwise), and watched the Pack wallup their NFC competition (Damn Pack). Bed was early and sleep came fast.
Race morning was delightful! I caught a shuttle (with none other than "East Coast," as I affectionately called her), and arrived at the starting line with an hour or so to spare. The morning was chilly, but the music and hot cocoa kept the blood and body warm. The Arizona sunrise proved breathtaking, and soon, I toed the starting line.
The first few miles flew by, as I looked anxiously to the side of the road. Soon enough, T & A with Uncle Bob and Jim came into view. Dad snapped a few pics, Uncle Bob shouted words of encouragement. I smiled, hammed it up on my air guitar, and trotted on. Nine more miles 'til I'd see another familiar face.
As the miles clicked past, and the shirt came off, I couldn't help but notice the odd looks I was getting from the runners and the local fan base. It was around 45 degrees at the gun, 35 degrees warmer than GR, so I thought it only fitting to run shirtless through the Phoenix streets. My Yooper blood did allow me to hook up with a fellow runner from, of all places, Grand Rapids. Jon now lives in OK, and his buddy Jake, a marine and first-timer was from the Chicago area. Running with these guys helped to pass miles 5-12 in good company and good spirits. Before I knew it, I saw T & A again, this time with a Gu for my efforts.
Soon after the half-way point, Jake started to fade. The adrenaline of race-day, combined with a lack of training had him cramping and hurting pretty early in the race. I remember feeling pretty bad for Jake. He had a long road ahead of him, especially if he was hurting by the halfway point. Jon was obliged to stay with his buddy, so I bid them farewell, and plodded on, happy for the company they provided.
Shortly after, I hooked up with Katie, a Denver native, who had run a marathon in Moscow, Boston, and several other impressive stops. Her comfortable pace matched mine. We trotted along at 7:45s and 7:50s for another six or seven miles (T & A provided their final words of encouragement, and my final Gu at mile 16).
Around mile 19, Katie began to fade. I proceeded to tell her some terrible jokes, grab an extra cup of water to splash on her, and distract her with all sorts of meaningless banter. Before she knew it, the wall was past her, and, grateful for my terrible jokes, she pushed on.
Miles 21 and 22 came and went. A realization dawned on me, one that I shared with Katie. I had only 4 miles to go 'til the finish, and I hadn't stopped once; not for water, or stretching, or even my typical goofy picture poses. This was working out to be a milestone race for me after all! No sooner had I thought this, than the runner gods reared their ugly heads, intent on punishing me for my hubris. What started as a harmless twinge in my right quad muscle rapidly developed into a vice-like spasm tearing through my body's second largest muscle; the other quickly joined its counterpart. It was Katie's turn to carry my huge hockey butt for awhile; poor thing!
She successfully helped me through miles 23 and 24 until the finish line became a faint but attainable glimmer in my mind's eye. Her debt repaid, she motored on ahead, intent to burn up all the fuel remaining in her tank. I was left to finish the remaining one mile, 385 yards on my own, just the way I liked it. 1.2 miles, thousands of fans, and three rock bands now separated me from the end of my journey. I smiled.
Feeling a little spark in my step, I began turning over my stride a bit faster. The end was in sight, the crowd was cheering, the music was blaring, and I was floating on air. With just over half a mile remaining, I glanced at my watch - 3:21:30. Huh... quite a bit ahead of schedule. Feeling the sun peak through the otherwise overcast Phoenix sky, I smiled, took a deep breath, and lengthened into racing stride.
My legs responded, as they have so many times in the past (Thank you, legs. Thank you hockey butt. Thank you, feet), and the pavement whizzed past. I rounded the final bend, looked up at SunDevil stadium, and almost made a wrong turn, heading into the stadium! Doh! I made a WIDE right turn to correct my course, and dashed across the finish line, teeth gritted, arms pumping, and eyes smiling. BEEP! I looked down: 3:25:00.
Now all that was left was to collect my cactus medal, get a pic snapped, and find T & A. Turns out that didn't take long. Mom was standing at the corner of the finisher's chute and Dad was wandering around the parking lot in case she missed me. A stinky, sweaty hug for both capped my Desert Run.
State 5: Arizona - Phoenix, Rock 'n' Roll
David Vermullen #2637
I'd like to take a moment to thank my friend Megan A., whose blog has recently reignited my blogging fire - at least for one post. Thanks, Megan!
This past January, I decided that I would take a long weekend and head down to Phoenix to run in the Rock 'n' Roll Marathon. My parents, - T & A, as we lovingly refer to them - winter in Lake Havasu, just three hours from Phoenix, so it seemed like a convenient way to check state number five (Iowa - Quad Cities, Michigan - Grand Rapids, Mass - Boston, Nevada - Lovell Canyon) in my fifty-state quest.For this marathon, I was hoping to finish in 3:30, an 8:00 minute pace, but if I was slower than that, no worries. My training leading up to the January race was limited, including only one 18-mile run, and very few speed workouts, the littlest I had EVER trained before a marathon. I wasn't sure just what to expect, so the 3:30 goal was tentative at best.
With that in mind, T & A set out for our traditional pre-course scope session. Mom was significantly less nervous this time as compared to my previous marathon in Nevada. For further explanation, click here to see Lovell Canyon's elevation map. To my (and my mother's) relief, Phoenix was advertised as pancake-flat, and flat it was! Click for map.
During our scouting session, we nailed down three spots where T & A could see and cheer me on: mile three, mile 12, and mile 16. Seeing them three times would provide a much-needed lift out of the steamy desert doldrums. As luck would have it, Uncle Bob and Jim would also make a celebrity appearance at Mile 3!
After our scouting run, we grabbed some lunch at the hotel restaurant where I had the pleasure of overhearing a distinctly East-Coast accent (Boston?) at a table near us. In typical UP runner-guy fashion, I poked into her conversation and asked her about her origins and her race aspirations.
She replied that yes indeed she was from the Boston area, and that for this, her first marathon, she would attempt to earn her way back there, with a qualifying time under 3:30. I wished her the best, offered a few amateur tips (don't skip a water station, use your fuel, bank some time, and above all, TRUST THE TRAINING), and gulped the last of my icy cold Sunup Amber local brew.
The remainder of the evening was quiet. I lounged in the pool, ate some pasta, drank a beer or two (Hey! Carbs are carbs, liquid or otherwise), and watched the Pack wallup their NFC competition (Damn Pack). Bed was early and sleep came fast.
Race morning was delightful! I caught a shuttle (with none other than "East Coast," as I affectionately called her), and arrived at the starting line with an hour or so to spare. The morning was chilly, but the music and hot cocoa kept the blood and body warm. The Arizona sunrise proved breathtaking, and soon, I toed the starting line.
The first few miles flew by, as I looked anxiously to the side of the road. Soon enough, T & A with Uncle Bob and Jim came into view. Dad snapped a few pics, Uncle Bob shouted words of encouragement. I smiled, hammed it up on my air guitar, and trotted on. Nine more miles 'til I'd see another familiar face.
As the miles clicked past, and the shirt came off, I couldn't help but notice the odd looks I was getting from the runners and the local fan base. It was around 45 degrees at the gun, 35 degrees warmer than GR, so I thought it only fitting to run shirtless through the Phoenix streets. My Yooper blood did allow me to hook up with a fellow runner from, of all places, Grand Rapids. Jon now lives in OK, and his buddy Jake, a marine and first-timer was from the Chicago area. Running with these guys helped to pass miles 5-12 in good company and good spirits. Before I knew it, I saw T & A again, this time with a Gu for my efforts.
Soon after the half-way point, Jake started to fade. The adrenaline of race-day, combined with a lack of training had him cramping and hurting pretty early in the race. I remember feeling pretty bad for Jake. He had a long road ahead of him, especially if he was hurting by the halfway point. Jon was obliged to stay with his buddy, so I bid them farewell, and plodded on, happy for the company they provided.
Shortly after, I hooked up with Katie, a Denver native, who had run a marathon in Moscow, Boston, and several other impressive stops. Her comfortable pace matched mine. We trotted along at 7:45s and 7:50s for another six or seven miles (T & A provided their final words of encouragement, and my final Gu at mile 16).
Around mile 19, Katie began to fade. I proceeded to tell her some terrible jokes, grab an extra cup of water to splash on her, and distract her with all sorts of meaningless banter. Before she knew it, the wall was past her, and, grateful for my terrible jokes, she pushed on.
Miles 21 and 22 came and went. A realization dawned on me, one that I shared with Katie. I had only 4 miles to go 'til the finish, and I hadn't stopped once; not for water, or stretching, or even my typical goofy picture poses. This was working out to be a milestone race for me after all! No sooner had I thought this, than the runner gods reared their ugly heads, intent on punishing me for my hubris. What started as a harmless twinge in my right quad muscle rapidly developed into a vice-like spasm tearing through my body's second largest muscle; the other quickly joined its counterpart. It was Katie's turn to carry my huge hockey butt for awhile; poor thing!
She successfully helped me through miles 23 and 24 until the finish line became a faint but attainable glimmer in my mind's eye. Her debt repaid, she motored on ahead, intent to burn up all the fuel remaining in her tank. I was left to finish the remaining one mile, 385 yards on my own, just the way I liked it. 1.2 miles, thousands of fans, and three rock bands now separated me from the end of my journey. I smiled.
Feeling a little spark in my step, I began turning over my stride a bit faster. The end was in sight, the crowd was cheering, the music was blaring, and I was floating on air. With just over half a mile remaining, I glanced at my watch - 3:21:30. Huh... quite a bit ahead of schedule. Feeling the sun peak through the otherwise overcast Phoenix sky, I smiled, took a deep breath, and lengthened into racing stride.
My legs responded, as they have so many times in the past (Thank you, legs. Thank you hockey butt. Thank you, feet), and the pavement whizzed past. I rounded the final bend, looked up at SunDevil stadium, and almost made a wrong turn, heading into the stadium! Doh! I made a WIDE right turn to correct my course, and dashed across the finish line, teeth gritted, arms pumping, and eyes smiling. BEEP! I looked down: 3:25:00.
Now all that was left was to collect my cactus medal, get a pic snapped, and find T & A. Turns out that didn't take long. Mom was standing at the corner of the finisher's chute and Dad was wandering around the parking lot in case she missed me. A stinky, sweaty hug for both capped my Desert Run.
State 5: Arizona - Phoenix, Rock 'n' Roll
David Vermullen #2637
Grand Rapids, MIAge: 31 Gender: M
| Distance | MAR |
| Clock Time | 3:25:29 |
| Chip Time | 3:25:00 |
| Overall Place | 456 / 5117 |
| Gender Place | 390 / 2906 |
| Division Place | 64 / 464 |
| Age Grade | 60.9% |
| Pace | 7:50 |
| Agegrade | 60.9 |
| Placeagegrade | 1027 |
| Ttlrace | 5117 |
| Ttldiv | 463 |
| Ttlsex | 2906 |
| 10K | 48:35 |
| Half | 1:41:51 |
| 20 Mile | 2:36:36 |
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