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288 pages, Paperback
First published August 2, 2016
Daren told me that the Jamaican track team so frequently ate restaurants out of their entire rice and apple juice supplies that he had started calling them in advance to be sure they were sufficiently stocked.
I know that I'm within striking distance of the leader, but it's becoming harder and harder to ignore the sensations of my feet slapping pavement, my legs wobbling like a toddler's, and my lower back tightening.
I try a Paula Radcliffe strategy, one I've read the English world record holder uses when she starts to suffer. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 ... in unison with every other foot strike, I count from 1 to 100, trying to think of nothing besides the number I'm on.
Mile 22: My feet are so tender, I actually look down to check that my racing flats are intact.
Before the race, my brother described a picture he'd seen of Sammy Wanjiru - the late Kenyan marathoner and Olympic gold medalist - and every so often, I try to relax my hands as he did, making my fingers into an upside down "A-okay" symbol, to remind myself that I'm fine, and that this is fun.
From here forward, I'll rely on Coach Bevan's trick of counting down the miles, knowing that I've already covered more ground than what lies ahead.
I have a "full" sensation in my legs, which Jon Warren, another Rice coach and a great runner in his day, had warned me about. I didn't understand what that meant until earlier this week, when I felt like I should use a pin to prick my legs, which are puffy and restless from the reduced mileage.
Just before I left, one volunteer told me about the time that Paavo showed up for a meet to find out he was being paid only two-thirds of his promised $1,000 appearance fee - in response, he only ran 1,000 meters of the 1,500-meter race in which he was entered.
Ten days of trotting around Scandinavia with my older brother left me feeling like a brand-new traveler. When Matt arrived, I was feeling like a fish out of water. My energy and patience levels had dwindled after ten months of bouncing from one stranger's home to another, and I was chronically sleep-deprived from time zone changes, packed itineraries, and a full training load, all while trying to be a considerate and sociable guest. I was grateful to my many exceptional hosts, but traveling for another two months seemed daunting.
My first thought was to travel to Mount Hiei, located northeast of Kyoto, to visit the mysterious Marathon Monks. I imagined tracking them down in their mountainous hideaway and gleaning wisdom from the monks in training and the few still living who have completed the seven-year endurance challenge - only 46 men in the last 130 years. The kaihôgyô was the most reverent embodiment of movement I'd come across, and I couldn't wait to witness it in person.
Tokyo also offered an unexpected rival to the treacle bread I savored in Ireland: the delicate, croissant-like hokkaido milk bread we bought at Suse's favorite bakery.
Though far from a running treasure like the Tan in Melbourne or Cornwall Park in Auckland, the Yoyogi loop became my favorite route in Tokyo. It required a couple of train exchanges to reach, but in a city so congested and developed, the park offered a rare connection to nature and a soft, uninterrupted circuit.
My directional skills as shaky as ever, I also wrote out directions to tuck in my sports bra as a backup; there were eighteen turns in total, and I didn't want to risk an unplanned separation from my guide.
Alongside Callie, a champion kicker and one of my role models, I finally started seeing glimpses of my speed, which had gone untapped throughout my trip thus far. The value of a training partner who's also a close friend can't be overstated.
During his most competitive years, Snell biked around town and ran to and from his full-time job, refusing to own a vehicle until he retired from running.
Throughout the second day, as his parents and I rushed from stage to stage, worrying about beating him to each one and nailing the setups, my appreciation for the simplicity of running grew. The only equipment involved is a pair of shoes, maybe a watch, but even those aren't necessary, as my Ethiopian friends taught me. Of course, there's always the possibility of injuries, but flat tires and leaking kayaks are nonfactors, as are flawed transition plans and unreliable crew members.
The mid-February weather meant potentially brutal heat, necessitating thorough hydration and nutrition plans and sacks full of energy bars, sports drinks, and portable snacks like bananas and bagels. (One competitor even dared to stuff a burrito in his spandex shorts.)
Very loosely, the Speight's Coast to Coast Multisport Race is a cross between an ultra-marathon and a triathlon (a kayak through fierce rapids replacing the swim), with a short night's sleep in a tent, only an occasional spectator or course marshal, and a huge array of stunning landscapes.
It was the perfect place to let my legs - used to running slower at altitude - catch up to my lungs.
Amid the colorful disarray - boxy homes, clusters of skyscrapers, wide roads, streetside market stalls, as many half-finished as finished buildings.
As the locals tend to do, we stayed in the forest, hidden from the road I'd been following before I met them, and silently grinded our way up the mountain.
Aside from the altitude and running style, I had a couple of other adjustments to make - to the dirty stray dogs that roamed the area in packs, and to the curious neighborhood kids who greeted me in one of three ways: "Moneymoneymoney," "Ferengi! Ferengi!" or "CHINA!" (Light-colored skin bears an association with money in Ethiopia, and also with the industrial plants that Chinese companies are building in Sululta and elsewhere.) A couple of the bolder kids occasionally threw pebbles in my direction, but mostly they just ran next to me for a few steps or poked me curiously.
Her dad, a school principal, spoke great English, she told me, but her mom knew only a few words. I assured her that charades was my second language.
Of the many perks I missed from my college running days, free shoes were high on the list.
A more extreme case from across the world was Emil Zatopek, the "Czech locomotive." Rather than following convention, he logged miles in the snow with his wife on his back, wore heavy combat boots for trainers, ran in place in a bathtub full of pillows, and tested his limits with workouts like 50x400 meters, once in the morning and once in the evening, for two weeks straight.
It had been resurfaced since that groundbreaking feat, as cinder and clay gave way to faster surfaces like asphalt and then Mondo, but the allure remained, and I got chills as I envisioned Bannister's - and the crowd's - uproarious reaction to McWhirter's announcement.