THE BLUR'S THE THING

Needed some photos for a trail-running story I wrote and some friends were kind enough to let me shoot them, as it were. (Thanks Carol Beebe, Polly Favinger--fresh off the Boston Marathon, Glenn Gervais, Paul Ricci, Scott Young, and John Clark.) Headed to Whatcom Falls Park, a place I haven't been for a while. Even though I've lived here almost 20 years, I'm still amazed at how beautiful it is.

Friends were very patient as I had them run back and forth, back and forth about a hundred times. And then look what I end up shooting, I bet they're thinking, a bunch of blurry shots and their backs. Oh, but it's so much more than that. Only John Clark was a temperamental diva about the whole thing but I kinda expected that from him.

Speaking of Clark, we rode the Donut Ride Saturday morning, a B'ham institution since the mid-'80s. Up to Ferndale, where a macho hill-climb battle ensued then on to Birch Bay, where John and I peeled off and headed to Lynden and points north. Rode that road along the border where the Minutemen were on patrol: a beautiful sunny day and they're sitting on their arses in their stuffy cars, on the lookout for Canadian geese sneaking into Sumas.

Riding through Ferndale, John broke a spoke on his back wheel. His second broken spoke on (two different sets of wheels) in about six months. His wast 10 miles were qwite the wobble. Nooksack River was very high (rain and snowmelt in the mountains) and near the Lummi Reservation, we had to pedal through about 4 inches of the Red River which was covering Ferndale Road.

Seventy-one miles in all. A great ride.

TOUR OF WALLA WALLA

As I found out this past weekend, there's a point in a criterium bike race when you know you've fallen off the pack. It's when the volunteers start letting people cross the street during the ever-widening gulf of both time and space that's opened up between you and everyone else. You know you've really fallen off when the people crossing don't even have to run. They glance up, see that they've got plenty of time and just kinda saunter, enjoying a leisurely walk.

Such was my fate Sunday morning in the Southeast Washington town of Walla Walla. But it was the only bummer in what was a truly great experience: my first real bike racing event, wherein I had to use my license and pin my numbers on my back and bike in specified ways and otherwise follow the rules and whims of bike racing official types.

It was an omnium, meaning it was three races: a time trial and road race on Saturday, followed by the (dreaded) crit on Sunday. I've done plenty of triathlons before but never a straight time trial. This was 7 (or 7.5? I'm not really sure) miles, all-out, as fast as you can, each rider leaving at 30-second intervals. No time for real thought, no worries about strategy. Just go! My only thought, I guess, was that I didn't want to be passed by wave upon wave of riders, all of whom started after me.

I was lucky because about a half-mile into it, I'd gained quite a bit on the guy who started before me and passed him not long after. It was a huge confidence boost. (Says a lot about me doesn't it, that my self-image improves at the shortcomings of others.) It was slightly uphill on the way out and at the turnaround point, the guy who started a minute ahead of me looked to be within reach. Being slightly downhill, the way back was much faster (up to 34 mph for me) but I couldn't quite make up the distance. He finished just a few seconds ahead of me, but I was pleased with my ride: 18: 49, 1:31 behind the winner; good for 12th out of 45 Category 5 riders.

Three-and-a-half hours later was the road race, definitely one of the most intense (and fun) sporting experiences I've ever had. The focus and concentration required--rows and rows of riders three abreast, riding within inches of each other front to back--was unlike anything I've known. An Ironman Triathlon, a 50K, etc., you just kind of get in a mode and try to hang on. Your mind can wander, it can spiral into how much you hate/love the activity, how you're never going to do anything like this again, etc. Not so on this road race. I could barely look down at my bike computer for fear of missing something and being dropped. The one time I tried drinking from my bottle, there was mass slowing of the pack and in grabbing my brakes I dropped the bottle. (Luckily, it shot off to the side of the road so nobody ran over it. But I had nothing to drink for most of the race.) My race was only 38 miles, about 2 hours. I can't imagine keeping up this level of focus for 95 miles the way the Pros, Cat 1 and 2 riders had to.

In my race, most of the 45 or so riders rode en masse for about the first 25 miles. Then the pace picked way up, a longish hill broke up the pack and with about 10 miles to go, a group of eight got ahead of the amorphous blob of riders that I was in. We got the paceline going a few times, which was cool--luckily I had some experience doing this with the Fanatik team--but never could reel in the lead pack.

The road race ended with a 3K climb, which feels really good after you've been hammering for close to two hours. But I fancy myself kind of a climber guy so I figured this could maybe be to my advantage. Or reveal my pathetically inflated idea of my skills. Turns out, it went OK. I finished second among guys in my group, 10th overall. (The race was won by a 21-year-old. Just thought I'd throw that in.) Really cool was that after the first two events I'd moved up to 9th overall. Top 10, baby!

Then came the next morning's criterium. Before the race, almost nothing appealed to me about a criterium. Way too dangerous--riders bunched together riding way too fast, in and out of tight corners--the chance of crashing onto pavement is way too high, the constant sprinting to catch back up seems pointlessly painful. Ugh. Did I mention too that it was drizzling, thus making the city streets super slick?

My race was 25 minutes plus a lap; after about 10 or 12 minutes, I was ready for it to be over. I couldn't hang on to anyone's wheel. Partly because I was scared, partly because I was tired as hell from the previous day's two races, but also criteriums don't seem to play to whatever strengths I might have as a cyclist. I rode the last 10 minutes by myself (great workout) and am pretty sure that anyone who was behind me got pulled from the course for being too far behind; I was the last guy to finish. Woo hoo! (It reminded of the one year I was the last runner to finish Ski to Sea.)

I haven't seen the results but I venture to say that after my criterium, I was no longer in 9th place. (PS: Results came in--I only dropped two spots! I finished 11th overall.)

But the Tour of Walla Walla was blast. A great event and now, I'm officially a bike racer. I can shave my legs with knowing pride.

The Racing Begins

Heading to Walla Walla tomowwo. Weawy, I am. The Tour of Walla Walla stage bike race (www.allegrocyclery.com/stages.html), my first one. Should be a gas, gas, gas. Time Trial (TT for those fancy pants types scoring at home) and Road Race on Saturday; criterium or crit or circuit race or please-don't-let-me-crash race on Sunday.

TT is 7 miles, road race is 38 with a 2-mile climb to the finish (like a mountain stage finish in the TdF--cool, or what?), crit is downtown Walla Walla, a place I've never been. Walla Walla is wine country from what I understand, but since I don't drink, it's all lost on me. A pity.

Above is a pic from Orcas Island where Baker and I camped last weekend. There'll be a story about our trip in next Thursday's Seattle Times (www.seattletimes.com). Here he's looking for Sawm (short for "Saw him"), a river otter who'd been popping his head up through the waters of Cascade Lake.

More on the Chuckanut 50K

It was wet. It was cold. It was wet and cold. Muddy too. Miles and miles of the Lost Lake Trail were nothing but a long gooey trough of slop and standing water, more fit for pigs than runners. Even hard-packed Cleator Road was gushy, like trying to run through butterscotch pudding.

It was an odd day. Throughout the race, I didn't see a single runner I knew. Not sure if it's because a relatively smaller number of B'ham folks did the race this year or because it's become more popular with the Seattle-Vancouver crowd. (Because of injury, the group of 10 I regularly train with was reduced to four.)

Ran with an iPod this year. Which I think kept me going through some pretty demoralizing conditions. Think it might've also gotten on my nerves a few times. All right, shut up, Metallica, I get it. Your Sandman guy is scary. Enter night, exit light. Oooohhhh. Whatever. (Perhaps my bad; I had "Enter Sandman" three times on my playlist.)

Tried something else new this year. Grew a little facial hair doodad to give me a badass mien. A combination mustache-and-soul patch affair that made me look dashing and manly, like Johnny Depp. (Methought.) To my wife however, and as confirmed by race day photos, I looked more like some sloppy middle-aged schlub who’d dribbled soup down his chin.

What do you think of the pink hat?

Photo by Glenn Tachiyama (http://www.pbase.com/gtach/chuck07), who took a ton of great shots. As did Rick Hill (http://www.gbrc.net/c50k_photos.php).

HERE'S WHAT I WROTE FOR THE CASCADIA WEEKLY (3/28)

Mud Run
By Mike McQuaide

The morning of this year’s Chuckanut 50K seemed perfect for running. Temps high 40s, a gentle drizzle not likely to last, no wind. I’d trained hard this year and as we 273 runners headed down the Interurban Trail after the start, I felt confident I could deliver one of those breakthrough performances. The kind that make folks who care about this sort of thing shake their heads in wowed disbelief.

Yea, that didn’t last.

Out on the course four hours later, I was a cold, soaked miserable mess whose legs were cramping up with alarming tenacity. Creativity too. My hamstrings. My quads. My calves. (No surprises there.) My socks. My shoelaces. My leg hair. (?!?). The Muscle Cramp Monster had dug in its claws and wasn’t letting go.

But at least there were still 12 miles to go!

***
This year’s 50K will be remembered as the Mud Year. Turns out, the drizzle didn’t last; it became a downpour. One that didn’t let up for, oh, seven, eight days.

Miles and miles of the Lost Lake Trail were nothing but a long gooey trough of slop and standing water, more fit for pigs than runners. Even hard-packed Cleator Road was gushy, like trying to run through butterscotch pudding.

A charming complement was the wind. At the top of the seemingly vertical mile known as the Chinscraper, it whipped and howled, all the while lowering our core body temperatures to about 47.3 F. Or so.

At least we runners were running (kinda) which, theoretically, should’ve kept us warm. The aid station volunteers had no such luxury. They stood basically in one spot all day, wrapped tight in Gore-tex, while handing out energy foods, drinks and encouragement. Bless them.

***
This year in training, I’d taken a more aggressive approach. I ran with an iPod to psyche myself up, and even grew a little facial hair doodad to give me a kind-of badass mien. A combination mustache-and-soul patch affair that made me look dashing and manly, like Johnny Depp. (Methought.) To my wife however, and as confirmed by race day photos, I looked more like some sloppy middle-aged schlub who’d dribbled soup down his chin.

But I finished the race. Set a personal record too. (Albeit by a three minutes.) Best of all, I crossed the finish line with my son, always a thrill.

Right after the race, though, I vowed never to run the Chuckanut 50K again. It was too hard. Too painful. I was done.

Except that … that night, when the Muscle Cramp Monster had long gone and I was basking in a low-grade glow of having run my best time ever—I mean, wow, imagine what my time would’ve been if it hadn’t been so muddy!—I got to telling my wife how, if I ever did this race again, say next year or whenever, I’d train differently.

More speedwork on the track. More repeats up the Chinscraper. More Metallica on the iPod.

“Less facial hair,” she chimed in.

Yea, that too.

It's Been A While ...

Haven't posted in like a month. Sorry. (To both of you.)

Chuckanut 50K was Saturday. In pouring rain all day. After it'd rained for much of the week leading up to it. I know it seems redundant to complain about the rain out here in Northwest Washington, but this was extreme. At about mile 20, our friend John Schick's feet got stuck in the mud as he was running downhill. He lost his balance and somehow ended up in a bush of stinging nettles. Dang, I wish I'd seen that.

Though I've still not finished within an hour of John Clark (I was an hour and 44 seconds back, the closest yet), I did get to finish with Baker, which is always a thrill. (See above.)

Speaking of Bake, he's been busy: his first chess tournament three weeks ago. A win, a draw, three losses but a great deal of fun. Two weeks ago it was the Seattle Bike Expo where he got to take a little bike tutorial with trials rider Ryan Leech. (Also at the expo, Mr. Clark and I heard former U.S. Postal rider Frankie Andreau speak; we also bought pink T-Mobile bike caps.)

Finally, a picture of a woolly tree. A product of all that northwest rain.