Archive for July, 2010

Hangin’ With The Slayer

Posted: July 21, 2010 in Marathon, Triathlon

Last summer while driving down GA 400 — one of the busiest highways in metro Atlanta — a flashing traffic sign caught my eye along the side of the road. The black and orange sign was promoting the first annual GA 400 Century bike ride.  At the time, I didn’t even know what a “century” was. I have since learned that it’s just a short little 100-mile bike ride. This particular century is staged to help raise funds and awareness for the Georgia Transplant Foundation.

Since getting back into cycling a few months ago, I targeted the 2nd annual GA 400 Century as my first big ride. Although my longest ride prior to the Century was a short little 29-mile jaunt through the hilly roads of my town, I figured I would go for it. What did I have to lose? Other than my ability to walk for a few days, that is. For $40,  I could have signed up for a variety of rides ranging from 8 miles to 61 miles to 100 miles. I decided to get my money’s worth… and then some.

In the days leading up to the race, I chatted with a few local riders on to get a feel for what to expect. From what I could gather, this was not going to be an easy little ride. There were some serious hills I would need to be ready for. Eh, big deal, I figured. I agreed to meet up with two guys who did the race last year — they go by the names “Coldfire” and “Phat” online. That’s all I knew about them.

As it turns out, Phat was riding to honor his father, who was at the top of the organ donor list a few months ago waiting for a lung when he passed. Needless to say, Phat was on a mission to honor his dad as only he knew how — FLAT OUT. Lucky me…

We meet up at the front of the group a few minutes before the start. There appears to be more than 500 riders in the group, but Phat was easy to spot. His bright yellow cycling jersey had the words “BE AN ORGAN DONOR” written on the back in red letters.

Don't mess with The Slayer!

Before the ride, I boldly proclaimed that I would be able to “hang” with them on the road and wanted to join them at the front. Clearly, I didn’t quite know what I was signing up for. Phat, it turns out, has a sinister go-for-broke-take-no-prisoners attitude when he saddles up. As an escort of police motorcycles led us all down the highway at the start, there were Phat and Coldfire out front hammering away on the pedals.

They were driving the train down a road also known as “Hospitality Highway.” However, there was nothing hospitable in Phat’s riding style. He wanted to punish people who dared to get on his wheel. I later learn that Phat also likes to call himself the ‘Slayer.” This can’t be happening, I thought This is really going to hurt! Phat’s powerful pedaling was not new to Coldfire, it appeared. He was hammering away right along with him.

Quickly, the dynamic duo had sped off down the road, opening a large gap between me and all the other riders, including Coldfire’s brother, who had no intentions of punishing himself alongside his brother and his brother’s  keeper — SLAYER!  If only I had been so smart. Instead, I shift up a couple gears, leaving Coldfire’s brother behind and join them near the front of the pack. For better or worse, I’m now committed.

On the flat roads and downhills, I “hang” with them without much of a problem. However, on each significant uphill section, they quickly leave me behind. They are riding much more expensive bikes than mine, are more efficient at shifting, have faster wheels and have ridden more than 29 miles at one time on hundreds of occasions, it seems. Add all of that together, and I might as well have been on a tricycle. This was going to be hard work!

As a personal challenge, I dig hard each time that they open a gap and have to hammer as hard as I can to catch up. This earns me some “serious street cred,” Phat proclaims. However, on more than one occasion, they have to slow down slightly and allow me to rejoin them. Turns out, these guys are “hospitable” after all. Phat’s kindness doesn’t last long though.

As we were cruising along side-by-side (there’s no drafting allowed in triathlons), we get swallowed up by a large peloton. This clearly annoys Phat. “That’s like cheating,” he says. “That doesn’t impress me. Let’s blow these guys up,” he laughs.

“Oh no,” I thought, this isn’t going to be pretty. Just like me when I run, this guy doesn’t like being passed on the bike. When the group all comes back together a few miles up the road, Phat decides to take the lead. Coldfire and I settle in behind him (The guy is a horse on wheels! Drafting off of him is the ONLY way we stand a chance.) For the next 5 miles or so, Phat drives the peloton into submission. Coldfire and I (well, ok, mostly me) hang on for dear life. When we finally slow down, we realize two things:  1.) We’re lost 2.) the peloton has been DESTROYED. This makes Phat a happy camper. Me… not so much. At this point, there’s only about 50 more miles to go.

Slowly but surely, I finally lose my battle to “hang” with them. They go off into the distance as I settle into a more comfortable pace. I ride with this guy for awhile.

At mile 80, I hit Mountain Park. Holy crap! There’s one major hill after another. It was like the Slayer himself had taken the form of asphalt and had come back to haunt me. I had heard stories of riders having to unclip and do the “walk of shame” up some of the Mountain Park hills. I was determined not to let it happen to me. I’m happy to say I succeeded.

When I finally reached the finish line after about 5 hours and 40 minutes, I spot Phat and Coldfire running laps around the parking lot. Before the ride began, I had agreed to run a few miles with them after we were done. What kind of an IDIOT am I? After a few minutes, I managed to slip on my running shoes and stumbled through a couple miles with them. Truth be told, I was afraid of what Slayer might do to me if I failed to hold up my end of the bargain.

I’ve run two marathons, several half marathons and done an Olympic-distance triathlon, but this day goes down as the single hardest workout I have experienced so far.

Oddly, I can’t wait to do it again. Bring it on Slayer! You don’t scare me. (Shhh… don’t tell him I said that.)


Seen in Lake Tahoe

Posted: July 21, 2010 in Uncategorized

If I was born in Lake Tahoe in 1897, this is what it might say.

Peachtree Road Race

Posted: July 15, 2010 in Marathon
Tags: ,

Seven years ago when I moved to Atlanta, the only thing I knew about roads named Peachtree was that there were a LOT of them. However, in the past two years I have come to learn that there is only ONE Peachtree Road Race.

If you are a runner, there are 10Ks and then there is “The Peachtree”. Safe to say it’s the grand daddy of all 10Ks. With 55,000 “runners” participating every year on the 4th of July, it has evolved into the world’s largest 10k race since the first 100 runners made that fateful journey down Atlanta’s main drag in 1970. For perspective, there are only 35,000 runners in the NYC Marathon.

I first did “The Peachtree” in 2009. After running a few qualifying 10Ks in hopes of getting a spot in one of the early waves, I missed the sign-up period (which seems to close almost as soon as the race itself ends). I actually had to borrow a number from a friend, whose son wasn’t able to run it. (Shh… they frown upon such rule breakers.)

I wasn’t going to make that same mistake this year. After posting a PR of 41:12 in a local 10k, I got myself a coveted spot in the first wave of the day. I could actually see the elite runners for a few seconds at the start before they left all of us wanna-bes in the dust.

In the days leading up to the race, I had set a somewhat realistic (I thought) goal of breaking 41 minutes. However, being the nut case that I am, I decided to go for a 20-mile bike ride the day before. With my legs still a tad sore from the ride, I approached the starting line with serious doubts of even coming close to my goal.

Little did I know, but the chain of events that were about to unfold at the starting line would play a big part in my race result. When I run, I use the RunMeter app on my iPhone. Because of this, I have to hit the start button and then tuck the phone into my Spibelt on my lower back (it usually rests in the exact spot where all the moms in their late 30s and early 40s are now looking to have their “tramp stamp” tattoos removed from.)

I have performed this push-start-tuck-zip-run maneuver hundreds of times before. However, on this occasion, with thousands of people bearing down on me, I somehow missed the expandable pocket on my belt. This is instant disaster.

There it was, my phone, dangling precariously from the end of my earphone cord. I frantically try to pull it up as I keep running. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. The phone, hanging on for dear life, suddenly lost its flimsy grasp on the end of the earphone jack and went careening to the asphalt, its plastic case exploding into two sections as it crashed down. Less than 10 yards off the start line, there I was frantically darting back into the fury of feet headed my way. I somehow manage to snatch the phone off the street without getting kneed in the noggin. I sense a few kneecaps passing inches from my nasal cavity but none make contact. Victory is mine! Or so I thought.

My phone’s life has been saved, but unfortunately the crash stopped the app’s timer. I didn’t realize this until I passed the 1 Mile mark and didn’t get a pace update in my ear. At least my tunes were working. I learned that nothing can stop Vince Neil from belting out “Wild Side”. Who needs a watch when you can have old school Motley Crue as your pace setter.

Now running without any knowledge of my pace, I simply try to run with the others in my group. At about Mile 3, my bike ride from the day before starts to catch up with me and I feel myself slowing down a little. I immediately realize that my goal of breaking 41 mins is highly unlikely. With this in mind, I start high-fiving kids along the route, and doing other wild and crazy things like running to the far side of the street to get water even though I know it is adding precious seconds to my time.

When I finally make that left turn and head down towards Piedmont Park I’m anxious to see what the clock says at the finish line. I’m prepared for 43 or maybe even 44 up there. Then, off in the distance, there it is… my ticking beacon of hope, teasing me with its first two digits — 41. As the clock ticks, the last two digits count up — :04, :05, 06. That CAN’T be right, I think. I hit overdrive and sprint across the line at 41:17.

Because it took me 10 seconds to cross the actual start line, my official time comes in at 41:07 – a new PR. Sweet. I’m disappointed that I didn’t break 41 minutes, but considering my starting line mishap and the fact that I ran on tired legs, I considered it a major victory.

Next year, I will run with a watch. Lesson learned!