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Here are pictures from last Sunday's Spirit of St. Louis Marathon and Half Marathon

The last two races I've run were 20Ks--the Snowball last Sunday and the Frostbite yesterday. You can look at the time chart below and see that I was almost eight minutes faster last Sunday. I'm somewhat surprised because yesterday was much colder (about 15 degrees at the start of the race) and I usually run much better in cold weather. But the course yesterday in Forest Park is hilly, whereas the course last Sunday was completely flat. Still, I don't think the difference in terrain would make that much of a difference. I think instead I've hit a runner's slump. Or it could be that I worked too much on speed last week, and my leg's were just worn out. What else would explain dropping from 10:30/mile to 11:19/mile? You'll even notice that the better time from the Frostbite 20K last week was slower than my half marathon time on December 18, which I ran at 10:13 mile. Next week's 25K should be telling. Hopefully, I'll do better, but maybe I shouldn't train so hard throughout the coming week.

Keep checking for the times!

In A Trail Runner's Blog: The Best iPod Playlist for Running an Ultra Marathon, Scott Dunlap lists six strategies for creating an iPod playlist for ultra marathons. They range from including songs that govern pace to avoiding echoplex during the final miles. I already have playlists for various distance runs. I'll now have to create one for the 50K Chubb Trail Run which I plan to run this coming spring.

I've written before about how I'd like to have Bluetooth capability on my iPod so I could record thoughts and lines for poems while running. Scott's entry has made me think about poems I could put on my iPod, poems I could listen to for mental stamina when the road or trail gets tough. One poem I'd add is "Run," by Keli Stafford, which appeared in the 9.2 (Winter 2005) issue of The 2River View. I'd add "Birth Dues," by Robinson Jeffers, only for the first line: "Joy is a trick in the air." If I knew I'd be running trails, I'd add "The Road Not Taken," by Frost, for the line "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- / I took the one less travelled by, / And that has made all the difference." That's three poems, and as I'm a slow runner, maybe they'd last for half a mile. I guess for an ultra marathon I'd need hundreds!

I'll work on a playlist of songs, instead.

This weekend was the only two days with back to back series races: yesterday the 12K Frostbite, today the half-marathon Snowball. Beginning January 2 and and ending in early February, the series alternate weekends.

The weather yesterday for the 12K Frostbite yesterday was perfect. Sunny. Low to mid 30s. The Frostbite races are in Forest Park, a beautiful city park with minor hills. One hill, though not steep, is especially long, and we had to run it two times. The first time, at the three mile mark, wasn't too difficult. The second time, at the 5 mile mark, wasn't overly bad, though I did slow a bit running up. This is the second year I've run the Frostbite Series. Last year I had to walk some during the second ascent. So I was satisfied this year with running all the way.

I started running in Buffalo, New York, the city with the bad winter rap. Though long, however, and snowy, and brutally cold, the winters are wonderful. They sure don't keep runners inside on treadmills. Snow, sleet, ice, artic winds screaming off Lake Erie--regardless of the weather, you'd see runners on the road, training for a spring marathon or running in races such as Penguin and Polar Bear. So the artic weather this morning in St. Louis wasn't bad at all for the Snowball half marathon. The race course is in the water works flood plain along the Missouri River, where a steady north wind made the low teen weather feel like sub zero. I was dressed in loose layers, so I rarely was cold. Only when running directly into the wind did my face get cold.

I reached the half way turn-around in 1:04:04, where I thought maybe a time below 2:10:00 was possible. That time remained a strong possibility until I reached the last water station, where the water was frozen. I had walked through the earlier stations--it's hard for me to drink while running, I choke--so the lack of water and rest at the last station I suppose broke a successful routine, and I slowed considerably over the last mile and a half. I'm still happy with my final time.

Both the Snowball and the Frostbite series go on holiday hiatus for the next two weeks, starting anew January 2 with the Frostbite 10 mile race.

Yesterday was the Pere Marquette Endurance Trail Run. The first five miles went fairly well. Though sections of the trail were terribly muddy, and the two hills, Goat and Hickory, were steep enough and long enough to keep me a minute or so under my usual race pace, I was at the point almost twenty minutes faster than last year.

But the trail from the 5.5 to the 7 mile marker, the long stretch up and over Ravine Hill and around the slosh pit of Elephant Rock, drove home Pere Marquette's moniker: the toughest race in the Midwest. But I wasn't a wimp, though I almost ended up crawling Ravine Hill, and I didn't whimper. The race, after all, forbids wimps and whiners. And even though Ravine Hill slowed me considerably, I still finished the run this year 17 minutes faster than last year. So yesterday was a personal best.

I'm not sure which is easier to run in: snow or mud. But last year I slipped in snow running down Goat Hill to the finish line. This year I slid in the mud but never fell. Last year I had trouble running down a steep hill stepped with railroad ties. This year I made my way down them, not quickly, but slowly. Last year I had to walk at times through the hollows, but this year I ran them. Last year I struggled and slipped up Ravine Hill. This year I struggled up Ravine Hill. Overall, I did much better this year than last.

Running through woods, over hills, through hollows and ravines, around rocks; your foot slipping along a washout, on snow or wet leaves, in mud; your shoes getting soaked; all of that is much different than running on roads and sidewalks, next to cars, against traffic. Running in the wild is primitive; running on city streets, even in city parks, is civilized. Robert Bly says there's a poetry that appeals to the primitive brain. Trail running is that kind of poetry.

I haven't mentioned the Illinois Valley Relay race that the Meramec Maniacs ran last Saturday. That's five of us to the right, waiting for our sixth team member to finish her first leg in the 60s mile of hills and chutes and camel backs that started and ended in Winchester, Illinois. We ran the early miles of the race in rain and wind, but the middle and latter miles in the sun and wind. I don't know how it's possible, but it seemed the wind was in our face no matter the direction we were running. I like to say hills exist to run over, but it's simply unfair when the wind is like an arm pushing you downhill as you struggle up.

This is the second year the Meramec Maniacs have run the Illinois Valley Relay. Last year we would have come in last place--we are, after all, as you can see, we're much older than the average relay team--had it not been for our handicap, which placed us in front of a couple of other teams. This year we again finished third from last, in a total time of 10 hours, 5 minutes, 50 seconds, for an average of 9:37 a mile. That's actually a pretty good time for a bunch of older runners. Not one of us was unable to finish our legs, and we all finished without a heart attack.

The IVR is a great race, at a great time of year, with a beautiful course through the west central Illinois countryside. Lots of vistas; fields of corn, soybeans, and winter wheat; and blazing autumn woods. The maniacs will be there again next year.

Last year I ran the De Soto 5K Fall Festival race and took third place in my age group. I ran the race again Saturday, over four minutes faster than last year, but didn't bring home the hardware, finishing fourth. Though I was disappointed I didn't place --other runners I think are learning the race is a good one for picking up a trophy--I was very happy with my time. Improving by four minutes is as good as winning a trophy.

The De Soto 5K capped a busy three Saturday stretch of races. The first Saturday I ran the St. Louis Firefighters 10K, the next Saturday I ran the Run for the Hills 5k, and last Saturday I ran the De Soto 5K. I'm now a year back into serious running, and my times are starting to return to my Buffalo running days. I keep planning a trip there to run a race with some of my first running friends.

The Sunday after the Run for the Hills 5K I ran the Lewis and Clark Half Marathon in St. Charles. The route started at the Family Arena, then meandered through historic St. Charles to the Katy Trail, where we ran along the Missouri River past the arena, and finally up the Page Bridge Hill to the highway back to finish line inside the arena. The long steep Page Bridge Hill was at the 12-mile mark. As you can see in the picture to the right, I stopped momentarily to walk a few steps, but as soon as I realized the photographer was there, I ran the rest of the way up the hill. Can you believe a photographer would pick such a place to take pictures? But at the final stretch leading up to the finish line I was at full sprint.

My goal was to be ready for a marathon this fall. But I don't think that's possible. 18 miles would be comfortable. The other eight miles would be hell. So rather than being miserable, I'll continue my methodical training, adding distance, gaining a few seconds here and there, and aim for a warm weather marathon somewhere this winter.

Odd how at times a song lifts you over hurdles. I was running yesterday, with the mini iPod shuffling songs. I'm just now back into marathon training, the longer runs are still difficult, so at mile 8 I was running out of gas and thinking this is for the birds. Then Jackson Browne's "Before the Deluge" started playing. I'm not religious, but some gospel music is special. Its beat and message are uplifting, often without any overt persuasion in its spirituality. It can change the moment. "Before the Deluge" has that beat and message, and as the song played my fatigue became less noticeable and the hills were less difficult. Then the song's refrain:

Let the music keep our spirits high,
Let the buildings keep our children dry.
Let creation reveal its secrets by and by
When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky.

Those are beautiful lines, ones I wish I had written, and hearing them at that particular moment yesterday while running on a remarkably early autumn-like summer day in St. Louis, at a moment when I was ready to give up, ready to stop and walk the rest of the way to the gym--well, I was back into a runner's high, not running fast by any means, but still running and having fun.

Here's a similar kind of commentary by Jimmy Guterman.

The last time I saw the Olympic torch was eight years ago when it was passing through Buffalo on its cross country trip to Atlanta. That was the summer Olympics of the knapsack bomb, but the torch as it came into Buffalo's Niagara Square was a beautiful site. An early summer evening with a cool breeze blowing off Lake Erie. The next morning was even more beautiful. Lone runners bearing the torch through the country side of Western New York, I think on its way toward Rochester and Syracuse, roughly following the Erie Canal.

For the 2004 Athens Olympics, St. Louis is one of four cities in the United States that the torch will pass through. Yesterday the torch was in Los Angeles. Early this morning the torch flew aboard Zeus to here, starting its route through St. Louis at the Arch, then winding through the suburbs toward Washington University and Forest Park, where the Olympics were held a hundred years ago. I saw the torch as it ran through Clayton, directly in front of St. Louis Bread Company and directly across the street from Starbucks. The crowd was less than a hundred, but we all cheered and waved our flags while drinking the new C2 Coke.

It's funny how we'll wait to see something when the actual sight is much shorter than the wait. We'll wait at a curb to see a hearse pass bearing someone famous; we'll wait at a corner to see a torch pass. What makes the wait worth the sight is not the sight of a torch passing but the contemplation of what the sight means, what it signifies. The torch is the vehicle of what we hope will be a good game, of the myth that we willing accept: that the world can set aside arms for sport. It's an idea worth celebrating.

I don't live far from Forest Park. The torch must be there now. I can't see the fireworks, too many trees, but I can hear the cracks and pops and booms.