My idol Scott Jurek and me

So I've finally got a running idol. His name is Scott Jurek and he's an ultrarunner.

For those of you in the dark, an ultrarunner is anyone who runs distances farther than a marathon. Fifty, 60, 100, 150 miles at a stretch, these men and women take extreme sports to the extreme. They run races like the Badwater, a 135-mile race that starts in Death Valley, CA (200+ feet below sea level) and ends at the Portals of Mount Whitney (8,000+ feet above sea level) in July (average temperature, 115 degrees). Or the Western States, a 100-mile run that takes place on trails in California's Sierra Nevada mountains. That ultra starts at the base of the Squaw Valley ski resort and ends in Auburn, CA. Runners climb a cumulative total of 18,000 feet and descend a total of 23,000 feet on mountain trails before they reach the finish.

But what makes Scott Jurek cooler than most is not that he's won those races multiple times, which he has (he won Western States seven consecutive times and Badwater two times). No, I admire two other qualities that Jurek possesses that go beyond his unbelievable endurance - his tenacity and his sportmanship.

Granted, I've never met the man and probably never will (though it'd be really cool - Hey, Scott - can I call you Scott? - we're about the same age. Wanna go out for a drink sometime?), so this is all based on accounts I've read, including Born to Run by Christopher McDougall and an article by Steve Friedman in the April 2010 issue of Runner's World.

First, his tenacity: By all accounts, Jurek was never the fastest guy growing up. Yes, he was fast, just not as fast as his teammates, who used to call him "The Jerker" because of his slow speed. As he moved beyond high school and college, though, Jurek realized, while he wasn't necessarily speedy, he could keep a good pace for a really long time. That tortoise and the hare wisdom certainly applies here; Jurek still holds the course record for the Western States with his 9:20 pace over 100 miles. I can run a 9:20 pace. Hell, I can run a 6:30 pace, but not for 100 miles. That's insanely awesome.

Second, and perhaps more important, Jurek's sportsmanship is above reproach. It seems "Jerker" only applies to Jurek's running style. The man is most certainly not a jerk. Quite the opposite, in fact. According to every article I've read about Jurek, at the end of every race, whether he wins or loses, Scott Jurek waits to cheer on every single finisher, no matter how long that might take. Think about that - every single finisher. That's a hell of long time, especially in an ultramarathon, which might take a couple of days to finish. Are you kidding me? I don't care how fast or famous you are, that kind of regard for his fellow athletes makes Scott Jurek top-notch in my book.

So there you have it, Scott Jurek, my running idol. I thought about him today as I ran - a 17.5-mile loop where I averaged 8:40 miles. I was burned out at the end, though, nothing left in the tank. That run made me think about the feats of endurance that Scott Jurek completes on a regular basis. And when I was done, I just wanted to go inside, ingest about a gallon of fluid and take a nap. I couldn't even imagine staying out there for who knows how many hours waiting for my fellow competitors to finish. I admire Scott Jurek for his athleticism. But I admire him more because he is a good representative of the sport.

Run on, Scott Jurek. Run on.

Happy running.

Slow and Steady

We made it. Better yet, we made it together.

As I previewed a couple of weeks ago, this weekend, Sean, my college buddy, and I completed the ING half-marathon in Atlanta, GA. For me, it was my 10th (or 11th, or 12th - I've lost track) race of that distance. For Sean, it was his first. Granted, he finished a full Ironman a year or so ago, but he admitted to me at the starting line that he'd never signed up for just a run before.

I'll admit the race was a different experience for me for two reasons. First, for all the races I've run, I've never run one with a partner before. I'm used to sticking in the headphones, cranking the tunes and going. On Sunday? No headphones. It was just me and Sean and 16,000 other runners.

Second, I'd never run a race at that pace before. While I'm not as fast as I used to be, I can still average an eight-minute mile or so for 13 miles. Sean, on the other hand, cannot. The cancer he had more than 10 years ago left him with poor circulation in his legs. He explained that when he exercises, the blood in his legs starts to pool and his heart starts to pump harder to push that blood through his body. If he's not careful, his heart rate can spike to an unsafe rate. He takes beta blockers about an hour before he works out which helps to regulate his heart rate, but the medicine only works to an extent. Sean wears a heart rate monitor, and I found myself constantly asking him how his heart was doing as we ran. If the pace was too fast, we'd have to walk for a bit. Once his heart slowed below 120 or so, we started to jog.

At first I thought the slower pace (about an 11:30-mile average) would be a problem for me. I wasn't used to it. I hadn't prepared for it. And I worried about Sean. Would I just arbitrarily start going too fast? Would Sean, being the competitive person he is, try to work too hard to keep up?

Turns out, those worries were for naught. In fact, I found the pace to be liberating, even exhilarating. See, the thing is, it turns out people who run 11:30 miles are way more fun than people who run eight-minute miles. At the faster pace, it's all business. No one talks. No one smiles. It's just running, running, running for 13 miles.

At 11:30 there's a lot of chit-chat. There's a lot of camaraderie. At an 11:30 pace, there's time to slap fives with the kids who line the road. There's time to say a genuine "thank you" to the volunteers who hand out Gatorade and water. There's time to actually enjoy the scenery (including the really hot woman we ran behind for some time - thighs so tight you could bounce quarters off of them) and appreciate the spectacle of 16,000 people bobbing along a street at the same time.

Along the way, I met people and actually had conversations with them, like the group of barefoot runners who talked about remodeling their Web site (the address of which escapes me at the moment) and the guy who saw my 1993 Ball State Bike-a-Thon T-shirt. "You from Muncie?" he asked in a race in the middle of Atlanta, GA. He'd run the Muncie Endurathon, which, according to him at least, is the longest running half-Ironman in the country.

We cheered at each mile marker as we neared the finish line. Or, well, I cheered. The people around me weren't quite as rousing at that point, but I think they appreciated my enthusiasm. And when we reached the finish line, Sean and I crossed it together. Sean said he was pleased with his time (about two and a half hours). Me? I was pleased with the time I had, too - not clock time, mind you, but a great time just the same.

In the end, that race made me realize something pretty important about life. It made me realize how valuable it can be to slow down from time to time, to appreciate the little things, to not constantly worry so much about what's around the next corner. That race reminded me that it's not the finish line that's the most important part of the experience; it's the journey to get to there that matters.

And it made me remember how important it is to have good friends. I'm glad I ran that race with Sean. I think he was glad, too.

I can't wait to do it again.

Happy running.

The agony of da feet

It's a good thing my wife hates feet. She always has, which is helpful because if she married me based on the current quality of my dogs, she'd be running for the hills as we speak.

Bottom line: While running may be good for a lot of things, it isn't good for the tootsies.

I don't mean to be too graphic here, but I can't avoid it; my feet are disgusting. At present, I have the following ailments: three black toenails, several big calluses on the tips of my toes, some thick calluses on my heels and a Band-Aid covering a blister on my Achilles heel. Don't get me wrong, my feet feel just fine, they just look gross.

I'm not alone. According to an October 2009 New York Times article, "Most runners end up losing a toenail from time to time. It is called onychoptosis, which means 'falling nail' in Greek, and is typically caused by injury or stress to the nail." Additonally, an article in the January issue of Runner's World indicated black toenails are a badge of honor. "Congratulations!" the article states. "These bruised nails are tiny trophies conferred upon you for roughing it out." In a strange way, then, I should be proud of my damaged feet.

Still, I'm glad the problems are confined to my feet and not, say, my forehead. At least I can keep my toes covered. Then again, summer's coming soon, which means flip-flop weather.

Sorry, honey.

The Undead Soul of my Soles

It is with a heavy heart that I lay to rest my Asics GT-2140s, a pair of shoes that lasted many miles and traveled with me over countless trails, potholes and...

I'm not dead.

Excuse me? Who said that?

Me. Down here.

Oh, hey shoes. Sorry about that.

What's this about me being dead?

Well, I mean, I just meant to say that, well, you're not really dead but you're...well...

Just say it. I've been replaced.

Well...yeah. Sorry.

No you're not.

Sure I am. Well, a little.

No you're not. You're not sorry at all. You were always planning to get rid of me. I knew it when you got those barefoot running shoes at Christmas. Sure they were lighter and cleaner. But I just chalked it up to a phase. You know, some passing fancy. But now...now you've got this new pair. And BROOKS of all things. BROOKS!

I said I was sorry.

Well sorry isn't gonna cut it, mister. I mean, c'mon, we went through so much together. We ran a MARATHON together.

Yeah, that was my first marathon...good times...good times...But look, it's over. I'm sorry. It isn't you, it's me...No, I lied. It really is you.

Really? What's wrong with me?

Honestly? You stink. Literally. You really stink. And you have holes in the toes.

Yeah, well, you're bald, so what's that got to do with anything?

Touché. But anyway, it's just different. We've just grown apart. That's all. Nothing more. We just have different goals in life.

Oh, I see how you are...just use me until I'm worn out. Just use me until I'm no good for anyone or anything, and what do you do? You just find another pair and keep on going your merry way.

Well, yeah...you're shoes, after all. That's sort of how this works. And you're not good for nothing. That's why you're in the garage. Come spring time, I'll use you when I mow the lawn.

MOW THE LAWN!! IS THAT ALL I'M GOOD FOR TO YOU? MOWING THE LAWN!?

Well...yes.

Oh...well...I guess the lawn's all right. I mean...it'll get me outdoors...

See? That's the spirit.

Promise me you'll say hi from time to time?

Promise.

All right then. Sounds fair.

Glad we got that settled.

Just remember I'm not dead.

I'll remember.

Happy running.

Confirming/conforming my suspicions

Editor's note: This was written in advance. Some a lot of editing was necessary.

I met my nemesis today at the gym. You remember my nemesis, the pompous, egomaniacal jerk nice guy with the Boston Marathon jacket I complained wrote about who occasionally makes a point to show me up runs on the treadmill next to me. His name is Mephistopheles Paul and, as I suspected, he drowns kittens in remote ponds seems pretty nice.

Turns out he stole the Boston Marathon jacket ran the Boston Marathon last year. He told me he cheated ran it in three hours and 16 minutes. He said he's planning to club a baby seal run the Indianapolis Mini Marathon this May.

He told me he was a high school dropout Ball State grad and he was a former ex-con pole vaulter.

I told him I hated him and all he stood for it was nice to meet him and I'd see him around.

I knew I was right about him all along.

ATL, here I come

I'm getting excited. In a little more than a month I'll be heading to Atlanta to run the ING Half-Marathon with one of my best friends from college. What makes it even cooler is my other best friend from college will be joining us.

But what makes this cooler still is that, had it not been for some great doctors, my friend's unbelievable spirit and a pro athlete with an inspirational story to tell, this event could have never happened.

That's because just 13 years ago, my friend nearly died.

Sean, my fraternity pledge brother, my cycling partner, my roommate, my bud, was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1997. I remember the date well because it was the same year I got married. Sean was supposed to be one of my groomsmen. He'd already gone through a few rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, but he was bound and determined to make it to my wedding.

He made it through three pictures.

On our wedding day, the photographer came to Sean and Doug's apartment. (Doug is the other friend who will be joining us in Atlanta. We all roomed together in an off-campus house our senior year in college, and, once my wife and I got married, Sean and Doug still roomed together in the same apartment complex where I lived.) The photographer wanted to get candid shots of us guys getting ready. Once we were all suited up, we stood in a row outside of Doug and Sean's place. There were three shots. In the first, Sean was smiling widely. In the second, his smile had faded. By picture three, the smile was gone.

Sean never made it to the wedding. His sickness made it impossible for him to attend. I know it devastated him.

I have never seen someone so sick in my life. As Sean would often tell us, his doctors needed to treat the cancer agressively, to the point where they nearly killed him. That was by design, he said. The treatment was geared to kill the cancer, and in order to do that they had to nearly kill the patient. It was a tenuous line between life and death that Sean walked for several months.

But a few key elements kept Sean pushing forward. One was his amazing family. Sean's parents dropped everything to come and take care of their only child. That type of unwavering love must have been a beacon for Sean. Another was Sean's health before he got sick. To put it mildly, Sean was an athletic maniac. He had been a member of the Ball State cycling team and his mile splits in runs put mine to shame.

The other element was Lance Armstrong. Yes, THE Lance Armstrong. You're probably familiar with Lance's story, how he battled testicular cancer and came back to win an unprecedented sever Tours de France. Well, Sean had the same cancer, and as a cyclist, he had followed Lance's story as it had unfolded, this just a year or so before Sean was diagnosed. That story gave Sean hope. In fact, Sean ended up having some of the same doctors as Lance from the IU Med Center.

Sean wrote Lance once, when Sean was in the midst of his illness, and Lance took the time to write back. Lance sent a photo, and on the photo he had written, "Sean, Believe in yourself. Believe in your doctors. Believe in the treatment." It wasn't until after Lance's book It's Not About the Bike came out that those words would make more sense. In the book, Lance talks about how he wasn't a particularly religious man, so he found the things that he could count on—namely, himself, his doctors and his treatment. Those words made a difference for Sean, and they did for me, too. To this day, I still wear my Livestrong bracelet proudly. I don't care what people say about Lance Armstrong, about his personal life, his place in history; all I know is that when my friend Sean needed a lifeline, Lance Armstrong was there.

Which brings us to next month and the ING Half-Marathon. Yes, Sean recovered from his cancer but not fully. He still experiences difficulty with his legs and feet. He can't run or ride nearly as fast as he once did. He even told me I could run off by myself down in Atlanta; he didn't want to hold me back.

Are you kidding me? We're running that whole race together, and we're going to have a great time. We're going to soak in the scenery and enjoy the whole experience of it all. We're going to relive college memories and make some new ones along the way.

And it's gonna be awesome.

Happy running.

IT's a pain in the band

When I ran my first (and so far only) marathon this past November, I felt great for more than 15 miles. And by great, I mean really great. I knocked out the first 13.1 in way less than two hours and I thought, with a pace like that, I'd be well on my way to breaking the four-hour goal I'd arbitrarily set for myself. In fact, part of me thought a finishing time of a little over three and a half hours was even an outside possibility.

My hip, though, felt otherwise. Just past Mile 15 I started to feel something—a dull throb that started on the outside of my left hip. That ache quickly became a sharp pain, and no matter how great I felt in the rest of my body (my lungs, my feet) that pain wasn't going away. Pretty soon it was all I could think about. I didn't want to stop, but by Mile 18 I had no choice.

I tried to stretch, but nothing worked. Nothing I did really addressed the root of the problem. I tried to do the few hip exercises I knew, but they didn't get to the source of the pain. Whatever ailed me seemed to be deeper than my muscles. I pressed on, determined to finish this race I'd trained so long for, but as I watched the four-hour pacesetters, then the 4:15 group pass by, I knew a good time wasn't in the cards. I limped over the finish line in just under four and a half hours.

After the marathon, I came home and showered, and while my hip still hurt a bit, it wasn't debilitating like it was during the race. In fact, a couple of days later I ran on it again—just for a few miles—and I felt fine. And that was frustrating. How could a 38-year-old in good physical shape with no other ailments suddenly start experiencing these problems? And how could these symptoms go away as quickly as they started?

I researched a bit, and while I've not completely diagnosed the problem, I had a theory. Last week, I tested it out.

On Wednesday I ran a 12-miler on some great country roads by my house. I love runs like that, out in the middle of nowhere. As I usually do for safety, I started my run facing traffic, but after about six miles, I felt the beginnings of that same hip pain. Rather than stop, though, I simply switched to the other side of the road so I was running with traffic (thankfully the roads I run are not heavily traveled). What was interesting was that, instead of intensifying, the pain in my hip abated. After a few more miles, it was gone. All from simply switching to the other side of the street.

Funny thing about roads that I've since learned, especially roads out in the country: They have a high "crown" to them, a high spot in the center to allow water to run off to the sides when it rains. Run long enough on one side of those roads—say, facing traffic with your left leg lower than your right—and eventually you're going to feel some pain.

Turns out, I'm not the first to discover this. An article from the Running Times discusses how the iliotibial (IT) band, which starts in the pelvis and runs along outside of the leg, can be aggravated by just such an activity as running along the side of road. When I switched to the other side, I was able to alleviate the problem by taking that constant pressure off my left hip.

Now I'm not sure if this is the medically correct answer to my problem. All I know is that when I switched sides of the road, the pain went away. I was able to run 12 miles pain free. It's definitely something I'm going to keep tabs on in the future.

(Oh, and to keep you up on my calf, luckily it was a small(ish) pop. It still hurts a bit, but I'm going to try running on it this evening at the gym. Wish me luck.)

Happy running.