Epilogue

Joseph Vinciquerra | December 31st, 2008

Everyone forever remembers their first love. For me, in sport, it was cycling.

I was fourteen years old when I first threw my leg over a “real” bike – it was a mountain bike, complete with fat tires, multiple gears, shifters, brake levers and a mighty stout frame. The sport of “mountain biking” was still in it’s infancy, and my world was young and complicated. Just beyond my driveway was a steep, twisting road that jutted up from the earth just after taking a hard left at the end of the street. On my strongest days, I’d be able to ride all the way up the hill without dismounting and having to push my bike on foot. Eventually, it became easy enough to do every day, and with time, I continued down the backside of the hill and into the woods. Onto the trails. And far, far away.

At the beginning of this blog, I’d been competing in short-course duathlons “for fun” and looking to find myself in a new sport. Intrigued by the training requirements, the complexity of multisport planning, and the thrill of a new challenge, I was magnetically drawn to pursue the sport of triathlon nearly four years ago. And so on May 21, 2005, after coming home from a brisk training ride in my new home in Upstate, New York, I started this journal called “The Daily Grind” with a simple entry reading: “This is how it all starts.” For this time, The Daily Grind existed as a reference to the repetitive and demanding training schedule for top-tier triathlon training and racing. Every day consisted of swimming, running, cycling or weight-lifting - often occurring in combinations of two or more - mixed in with the increasing demands of work, family, and (a diminishing) social life. The trajectory of which I’ve detailed on this blog highlighted one person’s growth from cyclist to Ironman triathlete, to Boston marathoner, to born-again bike racer… Proving that anything is indeed possible.

In early November of this year, I stepped out into my garage, slid my water bottles into their cages on my newly built road bike, and ratcheted my shoes down to a medium tightness. The sky was grey and there was a chill in the air. As I stepped into my pedals - first with my right foot and then with my left - I heard that familiar metallic ticking of my cassette freewheeling behind me as I started off for a ride into the hills. It was another day on the bike, but with no agenda. No events were left to train for in 2008, and only the barren landscape of the off-season lay in the distance. Friends and training partners were away or otherwise occupied during this particular afternoon, and like I was fourteen again, I just had myself and my thoughts.

To love cycling is to embrace the relationship between physical discomfort and emotional serenity. Cycling, in every way, is different than riding a bike; it’s different than “doing” the bike-split of a triathlon. It’s about extending your pain threshold, and re-wiring the way you think. It’s about channeling every memory or thought that has ever haunted you, and converting it to relentless and unwavering forward motion. It’s a damn hard sport. And a love affair with competitive riding is not for the easily heart-broken. Because even the best athletes “lose” five times more than they “win.” But what we cyclists all know in our hearts – what the outsiders of the sport do not – is that winning doesn’t happen on race day. It happens when no one is watching. Out in the hills, in the quiet, just beneath the rain clouds.

As I rode into the Western hillside back in November and conquered the climbs I’d trained on so many times before during Ironman and every other triathlon preparation phase over the past four years, I tested myself by clicking down a few gears and throttling the bike like I was in the winning break of a Tour stage. The roads were quiet around me, as was the rest of the world. All I heard was the thumping of my working heart, and the heaving of my heavy lungs. And as the road twisted over to the left and kicked up toward the sky, I felt my muscles ache and my stomach turn from the effort I was putting forth. And for what? Why? Simply, perhaps, because I could. Nary a soul stood alongside that roadside, yet the world was watching me in my mind’s eye.

When it hurts, our lives simplify. Perhaps in part due to the cocktail of hormones and neural agents that result from these types of physiological efforts; maybe because nature always wins out over nurture. Whatever the case may be, life’s complexities – our stresses, our sadnesses, our regrets – all just boil away into the ether.

Jonas, my nearly 10–month old son, got his first bike for Christmas this year. Though excited by virtually everything these days, both Liz and I caught a special, newfound glint in his eyes as he stood above his machine for the first time in his life.

Late that day – out on the roads – I found myself at the top of the ridge with the only option remaining being that of taking the long descent. The clock was running short and the grey Fall skies had started to bubble, dribbling their cold, unforgiving droplets upon me. As I rolled, I took my jacket from my rear center pocket – where I always stash a shell after October, neatly folded, just waiting to be pulled and worn – as I allowed my machine to coast down the shallow grade pointing north. No hands on the bars, jacket flapping in the breeze, I reached around and pulled the two halves tight across my chest, zipping the garment to my chin, and settling back into the drops before resuming my honed cadence. The pitter-patter of the raindrops now more noticeable as I accelerated, I descended back down to earth. As I navigated the descent, I thought about the work I’d done, the hard pace I pushed, the mental abyss I set out to explore yet again. With acid swelling my legs and sweat stinging my eyes, I realized that for this day, it was time to go home.

This, my friends, is the start of a new year - and the end of a significant chapter. On my way back home this past November, with my hands on the hoods and the rain on my back, I clearly saw my next step would be a return to road racing on the bike in 2009; from there, a blizzard of all the other things that may loom in the distance appeared before me as I pedaled home: an entry into the world of ultra-marathoning, a one-day toeing of the line in Kona, edgy new adventures in aplinism, the cold, harsh sting of a cyclocross season or two… The list goes on. My first Ironman and all that went into it over the past four years was like a great feast. And after stepping away from the table – even if only for a brief while – I’ve already begun to build up a ferocious new appetite.

Thanks for reading, and for the endless support over the years. Rest assured, I’ll see you out there.

Posted in Life | 3 Comments »

Race Report: MHR Marathon

Joseph Vinciquerra | October 14th, 2008

Another head aches, another heart breaks…
I am so much older than I can take.
And my affection, well it comes and goes…
I need direction to perfection.

This past weekend marked the 26^th anniversary of the Mohawk Hudson River Marathon, and my fourth consecutive year running it. It’s not necessarily a marathon that belongs on your list of “must do” races, but it is a relatively flat and fast course, with beautiful scenery, a great local crowd, and all the makings for a tale of victory for one young man trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

In the Fall of 2005 I ran the MHR marathon for the first time – my first marathon in fact. The concept of running 26.2 miles was foreign and a bit bizarre to be honest, coming from a road cycling background. But after doing the training and crossing the line in 3:45:00, I was a changed athlete. For days afterwards, my quads and hamstrings screamed as I tried hobbling down the steps, and sleeping was almost impossible due to the throbbing pain in my leg muscles. If you’ve never given your all in a marathon, you can’t understand this.

The following year I ran the marathon again, this time with a renewed sense of know-how in terms of training, and a strong aerobic base from competing in a number of half-Ironman distance triathlon races throughout the season. Toeing the line in 2006, I gave my all for a 3:14:17 finish - making my goal of going sub-3:15, but missing qualifying for Boston by three minutes and eighteen seconds. I wasn’t bitter. I wasn’t upset. After all, I wasn’t trying to qualify, just trying to PR… And I did. But the proximity to that elusive 3:10:59 was enough to haunt me for the next two years.

In 2007, I competed in both half-Ironman and full-Ironman distance triathlon events before shifting all of my training focus onto the marathon where my goal was to qualify for Boston or bust. As you probably know, I busted. Going into the race last year with a damaged Achilles tendon (from training) was mistake number one. Mistake number two came at about mile 20 when my tendon, and myself, totally blew up. This, friends, is what they refer to as “gasoline on the fire.”

Unlike my usual race reports, I’m not going to bore you with the mile-by-mile recount of how the race unfolded. No, not this time. Instead, I’m going to tell you about Mile 20 of this year’s race. Mile 20 is unique for a number of reasons, first and foremost, because as they say: “The halfway point of a marathon is at Mile 20.” While it’s true Mile 20 marks the 10k-to-go spot along the course, it’s usually the place where athletes begin to falter. To hit the proverbial wall, if you will. Mile 20 on the MHR course is made even more difficult by the fact that it’s the only major section of the course that’s on an open-to-traffic stretch of virtual highway. True. While most of the course is on isolated bike paths and side streets, just beyond Mile 19, the course dumps athletes out onto Route 32 where multiple lanes of traffic surround you. Over your left shoulder is the loud and exhaust-filled highway, while over your right shoulder is two-way traffic on a major city thoroughfare. The only thing remotely indicating that you’re racing, is the long line of orange traffic cones partitioning the race course from the rest of this asphalt jungle. And the course is entirely straight through this section – no turns, no jogs, no bends – just orange cones highlighting the path through the motorized landscape as far as the eye can see. It’s not until Mile 22, in fact, that runners make their way back onto the familiar serenity of the bike path, which leads all the way through to the finish.

But Mile 20 brings with it more demons for me. Last year, it was right here that I first acknowledged to myself that I’d have to stop running before the finish - something I’ve never done in a marathon, not even at Ironman. To walk, for me, is to admit to myself that perhaps I was wrong… Perhaps I couldn’t run as fast as I thought I could. Along this barren stretch of loneliness, my thoughts were written as this from my 2007 race report:

Between mile 20 and mile 21 I did my best to shorten my stride and to keep my foot strike centered on my heel and not the flat of my foot in order to reduce the load on my tendon… But this immediately started making the cramping in my quads worse. And though I’ve been down this stretch of the course so many times prior, my heart flutters and saddens now as I think back to race day and the vivid memory of realizing I was about to finally be beaten by this injury and let slip my goal of qualifying for Boston this year

Leading into Mile 20 this year, I began to feel that familiar buildup of lactic acid pour through every muscle fiber in my legs. I could feel my quads tightening with every footstrike, and my hamstrings vibrating like guitar strings every time the course descended in grade. I came out onto the open road, and I hit my lap button indicating Mile 20. This is where it ended for me last year, but this is where it would all begin for Boston today. My goal was to make it to Mile 20 at 2:21:07, and as I looked down at my split, I saw that I was one minute faster than target. I knew by this that I could let my pace slip to as slow as 8 minutes per mile, and still make it to Boston. I lifted my head and looked ahead at the long line of cones. Runners in front of me were falling off pace – I wasn’t accelerating, they were dropping. One. Two. Three. I checked them off. Up the road and on the left, I saw my number one fan and heard her cheering me on. Last year at this point, I was devastated to tell Liz that I blew up; it turns out, I didn’t have to - she later told me she could see from a mile away the effect in my stride. This year was different. I powered on, giving a slight wave and capturing my son’s blue eyes in my photographic memory. At Mile 21 I clocked a 7:30 mile, giving myself even more buffer. I passed the point on the course where I fully surrendered last year. The place where I slowed from a 7:00 min/mi pace to a walk and then finally a crouch, all the while feeling the tears well up as I stood there in agony, trying to comprehend the weakness I was feeling in my body. Certainly, there was no obstruction on the course this year, but I swear to you I shattered through something at Mile 22 that put even more fire power in my legs.

At Mile 25 my good friend Brent was there on the sidelines, cheering me on. He began running alongside, offering inspiration in his words. But ironically, it was merely his presence that gave me all I needed. Brent and I have known each other longer than I’ve known my wife; in what was probably only 800 meters of running together, I recalled an explosion of images documenting every time he and I hit the gym together in college, all the nights I drowned us in noise as I rode my rollers in our confined little dorm room. I thought of all those spring days of returning to our apartment from training, soaked to the core in freezing rain and using all the hot water. Wentz popped into my head too – wishing it was the three of us again, and that he was here to see this too. I’ve never run an easier mile than from 25.2 to 26.2 at this year’s MHR Marathon.

As it always is, the finish was a blur. I came across the line, hit the stop button on my monitor, and took a seat while the volunteers helped take my timing chip off while presenting me my fourth finishing medal for this race. My legs started shaking, and I was covered in goosebumps. The sunlight came rushing back into my vision, and it’s showering warmth never felt better.

Overall Time: 3:07:01

Average Pace: 7:09 min/mile

I took another seven minutes off my PR. And I finally qualified for Boston. At the finish line, I was joined by my sister-in-law Sarah who had been visiting from California. Liz and Jonas were there, and the four us celebrated before I had to sit down again and let my body begin to recover from the effort. Brent came by too, and just then Adrienne called, making the group complete! Jonas was smiling and giggling, and the leaves around us were a brilliant shade of gold. One by one, more of my friends and training partners began to come down the finishing chute. As I doused myself with cold water and tried to rehydrate, Jonas and I cheered the others on. The smell of post-race goodies, like donuts and coffee, was in the air, and the sound of cowbells and whistles filled our ears. This was a typical autumn marathon, though this year, so entirely new and complete with family, friends, and one hell of a finishing time.

Thanks for reading.

Posted in Reports | 5 Comments »

The Red Line

Joseph Vinciquerra | October 10th, 2008

Logic would suggest that as our surroundings become more chaotic, that perhaps we ourselves would adopt some of that entropy and match pace. Instead, in these crazy days of struggling stock markets, global conflicts, changing leadership, and general forward-looking uncertainty, I find solace in slowing down relative to my surroundings and focusing only on those small things that I alone control. Like running.

Long-distance running is perhaps one of the most straight-forward and instinctual branches of modern endurance athletics. The mechanics are simple: one foot launches the the body forward before the other catches us and repeats this two-step cycle. It’s true, running is simple. Running far is a bit harder. And certainly, running far, fast, is perhaps the greatest challenge.

On Sunday I will attempt for the fourth time to qualify for the Boston Marathon (for the non-runners reading, one accomplishes this by running a marathon, fast). And while this coming weekend’s race could be viewed merely as just another race, in reality, it’s served such a greater purpose than that for me this year… The marathon on Sunday has been the carrot at the end of the stick - the motivation for getting up early in the morning and doing my run-training as religiously as some people exercise their faith. In the recent weeks it’s been pitch-black and near-freezing when my daily alarm has roused me from the depths of my much-needed sleep. But I think of the marathon, and I taste the bitter flavor of having so narrowly missed qualifying before, and I begin the day. On these mornings, I find myself tip-toeing through the house, carefully choosing my steps to avoid the creaky boards. Ginger shadows me, knowing she’s going to get some good pets if she’s quiet too. In a fog, I make my way through the kitchen to get a wake-up shot of orange juice – just to get a few calories in the system – and then continue heading toward the door to lace up my trainers. With a firm grasp, I then work our lazy and slightly oversized front door open, ensuring no unnecessary noise is made in the process, and take my first conscience breath of the day.

The door opens and the lifeless world presents itself to me. For the briefest of moments, I wonder quietly to myself what all the fuss was about yesterday. And like a dam slowly cracking, the world’s chaos begins to flood in as I dreamingly recollect the evening news from the day before… Acting quickly, I hit ‘play’ on my iPod. I hit ‘start’ on my stopwatch. I wake up fully, and I begin: left foot toe-off… Feel the weightlessness – you could be floating… Right foot-strike… Heel-to-toe roll, but do it quickly to minimize ground contact… Right foot toe-off… Float. Strike. Roll. Toe-off. Float. Strike. Roll. Toe-off.

Run.

Some days it’s an easy run, and I lose myself for miles and miles and miles. Drowning out the slowly awakening life of the world around me. Other days it’s the narrowly focused training, hitting minute per mile targets within seconds of accuracy and repeatability. Either way, the effect is the same: I have this little piece of the day where everything that matters is completely in my control. And come race day, perhaps the greatest challenge in running the “perfect” race is finding the means to summon up all the right emotions and thoughts necessary to find that easy, essential place I’ve found every morning for the past 5 months in training. And then to hold onto it for 26.2 miles. But make no mistake about it – running far, fast, is not about “finding a happy place” and living in that euphoria for 26.2 miles, rather, it’s about knowing the pain that comes with the challenge, accepting it, and having the strength to drown out everything else.

The devil, as they say, is in the details. Or in the case of the marathon, in those final miles. Every year, it’s those final miles that worry me. Mile 20 is always a heart-breaker, but two years ago I didn’t really start to feel the clutch until mile 23. Wherever the red line is - and ask anyone, they’ll tell you it’s at a different place for every race, and varies for every athlete – but it’s there, just beyond the red line, that the imbalance usually happens. Suddenly, the running is seemingly no longer in your control. Suddenly, the running is like nothing you’ve experienced since the last time you crossed the red line. It’s the chaos that affects the world and our daily lives that seeps in… And you’re no longer floating, you’re free-falling. But this is it precisely. It’s here, right here, just beyond that red line that the race happens. Everything else in the marathon is a prelude to this singular moment. This is when – if you’ve done everything right – you go into overdrive, and you throttle the body for all it has. The final miles - regardless of how fast you may be truly running – seem to take an eternity to tick by, but you’re in control. You try turning the legs over faster, and there seems to be some sort of communication delay between your mind and you body, but you manage to do it, and you stick to your splits. 23. Your arms and neck, your back and core begin screaming – and you’ve never felt this in training because like most marathoners, you’ve not pushed this far, this fast in the recent weeks. 24. If you were a boat, the motors would be steaming up and reeking of spent oil and gasoline. The hull would be creaking and the frames would be rattling apart. 25. Every bit of life around you has ceased to exist. All the sounds are drowned by the heaving of your lungs and the pumping of your veins. To think of what the body is doing right now to sustain this effort is utterly incomprehensible. But it is right here and right now - whether you run a six hour marathon or a two and a half – that you understand why you do it. 26. The finishing chute is just up ahead, spectators are lining the sides of the roads, ringing cowbells and waving signs. Pretty soon you’ll see the timing clocks, and you’ll know whether you’ve made your goal for the day. The world’s chaos? They’ve been put on hold, if only for the briefest of moments.

26.2

You cross the line, and the engine slows to a rough idle. The bolts are loose, but everything held together. The world around you: the sounds, the smells, the pain… All come rushing in.

Thanks for reading.

Posted in Life | 3 Comments »

Nearing the End

Joseph Vinciquerra | October 6th, 2008

For those of you out there who continue to check for updates on The Daily Grind, find none, and then write me to make sure I’m still alive and kicking, let me just tell you how appreciative I am for your interest!

Rest assured, I’m here. And training continues just as certainly as the sun rises each day. Writing in my blog, however, has slowed down considerably due simply to all the other wonderful things in life that tend to occupy my time. Things like watching my son learn to sit up by himself – something that seems so elementary and hard-wired, yet during the learning process, reveals itself to be one of the million things that we adults lose all appreciation for until we see the development unfold before us.

Training is a lot like that too. As an athlete participating in endurance sports for almost 15 years now, it’s important to think back to those early, developmental years and recognize just how far we’ve come. I remember when riding my bike for more than 10 miles without stopping for a rest was a major milestone. Really! Indeed, there was a time when I was out on my road bike, and I would have to stop and catch my breath at the tops of the hills. No coasting to recover, just a dead stop at the side of the road to let the pulse come down before resuming the ride. And soon 10 became 100 miles, and 100 miles became 100 miles fast. And when that was done, running was something new…

I remember running 10k for the first. Not “a 10K” but just 10k out on the roads for fun. How hard could 6 miles be? Well, at mile 4 I knew just how hard it was. But like cycling, 10k turned out to be the very start of my lust for endurance running, until I ran my first marathon in October of 2005. Three years, four marathons, countless running, cycling and triathlon races, and an Ironman later… And here I am, just under a week before I toe the line again for the 26.2 mile challenge of qualifying for Boston.

Three hours and ten minutes. That’s my qualifying time for Boston. If you break it down, that winds up being roughly 7 minute miles for 26.2 miles. Last year I ran 6:50’s for almost 20 miles before my Achilles Tendon decided to pull the ripcord for me. This year, I’m being more conservative, and instead of targeting a sub-3:00 finish, I’ll be on pace for a 3:05. Enough of  buffer, hopefully, in case the wheels start coming off in the last 10k (as they often do) and just conservative enough that if I end up with a boost of energy, maybe I can get close to 3:00. People who don’t run marathons never (and I would argue, cannot) understand just how abruptly one can “hit the wall” while out on the course – that period that comes after running mile after mile after mile at goal pace, when suddenly the body just rejects the impulse from your brain, and you find yourself slogging along like you’ve never run a mile at your goal pace before in your life. And from experience, I can tell you that the pain in the heart when this happens is far beyond the pain in the legs… You try achingly to turn the legs over, like you have been for several hours already, but they just don’t go. The sand, proverbially speaking, slips faster and faster from your hands as you try desperately to hold it together. I call this “the clutch.”

Perhaps it’s the clutch that keeps me coming back year after year, trying for Boston. When I ask myself what it is about Boston that makes me want to qualify so badly, the answer surprisingly has nothing to do with the race in April. Instead, it’s the feeling I had in 2006 at mile 23 when I knew I’d have to run a 20–minute 5k in order to qualify… coming up 3 minutes short when all was said and done. It’s the feeling I had at mile 20 last year when the pain from my right ankle and lower calf became so excruciating, that my once-fluid 6 minute and 50 second pace per mile finally crumbled to a nine minute mile, making the last 10k of the marathon feel as lonely as a deserted planet. The feeling of the clutch – of time slipping away and being left completely helpless against the moving hands – that makes me do it all over again. To beat time.

The training numbers look good. I’ve done three runs over 20 miles, each at progressively faster times, and with each passing weekend I’ve felt stronger and stronger. My tempo runs and speedwork pieces all suggest a good race is going to happen this coming weekend… But as you all know by now, anything can happen on race day. And my taper has been anything but textbook - with a head cold throughout last week, and a tight and sore (get this!) right ankle one week out, the final days that lay ahead have become the most important days of my entire training program. Ensuring 100% health, flexibility and strength, while keeping mentally focused and strong going into the weekend. The rest should be easy, right?

Thanks for reading.

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Thirty

Joseph Vinciquerra | September 14th, 2008

If there’s one word that describes me, it’s “determined” – and not to our surprise, Jonas has proven himself to be a chip right off the old block. The narrowing eyes, the sharpened eyebrows… the forehead. He’s 100% determined, and wears the same expression his dad does during competition. There’ll come a day, I know, where he’ll wear the same expression while kicking towards the line.

In about a month, I’ll be running the local marathon for my fifth attempt at qualifying for Boston. My PR is three minutes over BQ, and though I was on track last year, I missed it on account of an injured Achilles tendon. This year, everything is going well, however, with no injuries and plenty of speed that has me on track for a sub-3:10 performance.

A few weeks after the marathon this year, I’ll be turning thirty. And though not the center of my focus, I occasionally think about the vast number of goals I’ve set for myself as I’ve approached my third decade of life. While most of those “before-30” goals have been achieved, like everyone I suppose, I’ve come up short while reaching for a few. Athletically speaking, Boston is one of those big goals… And this will be my last shot at nailing it before the big three-oh.

Most of this summer has been spent focusing solely on the run. Unlike the years past, I’ve incorporated a pretty aggressive plan for getting the volume up while building speed week after week. Rather than a steady build to a single 23–miler, for instance, I’ve worked myself in an alternating pattern of volume and speed. Specifically, my Sunday long-run schedule has looked like this: 16, 18, 20, 12, 23, 12, 20 and will conclude with 12, 8 and then the race. You’ll notice the three runs at or over 20. During the week, my focus sessions have revolved around 800–repeats, power-hill repeats, and blocks of running at 15k pace. My other weekly speedwork is done in the fashion of long, progressive tempo; starting at marathon pace and building to 15k pace before dropping back down to an easy pace.

Another big change this year has been the continued two-a-week sessions with weights for the core, back and upper body. I feel like this has really helped increase my endurance on the long runs, and will come in handy on race day during those last 10 clicks that always seem to wear so much on the form.

It’s been an interesting year, to say the least, with respect to sport. Having had the opportunity to take a step back from Ironman and triathlon in general, I’m looking forward to doing a good marathon in October, followed by a very new off-season. For those that know me from way back when, you may be excited to hear that I’ll be focusing on pure road cycling next spring and throughout the majority of summer. Which means, of course, lots of bike work during the off-season. My aim is to do some really strong racing on the road through around about the mid-point of the summer, at which point I suspect running will begin to dominate my training, as I work towards my goal of running my first ultramarathon in September.

So for all those loyal fans who’ve followed along on The Daily Grind for so long and have heard me ramble about my days as a pure cyclist, you can imagine how excited I am to go back to my roots and to put the hammer down again out on the road, dicing it up throughout the New England race scene. And while running will be for Boston in April (assuming success in in BQ’ing this year) and cross-training thereafter, I’ll look forward to tilting the balance mid-season next year as I begin to focus on “going long” in my first ultra. Like I said, a very new off-season.

Thanks for reading.

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