Joseph Vinciquerra | May 4th, 2010
They say a picture is a worth a thousand words…
While I’ve stopped recording my thoughts here on The Daily Grind Blog, I am happy to direct you to my new blog – a photo journal – located at: 196bpm.tumblr.com
I hope you’ll stop by and visit.
Posted in Life | 2 Comments »
Joseph Vinciquerra | April 21st, 2010
This is the last song
My eyes are open wonder to this
As you hold the secrets
I count the minutes off so perfectly
On July 27, 2009 I wrote a post on The Daily Grind entitled: “A Return” where I announced an ambitious plan to go from a broken ankle to running the Boston marathon in April 2010. And while I would normally do a long, detailed race report on how the race went this past Monday… I’m not. Instead, I’ll only say this: Boston went perfect. From Hopkinton through the busy streets of Boston, I’ve never run a better marathon in my life. With each mile along the way forever etched in my memory as one of my all time greatest athletic accomplishments. My first Boston.
Anything is possible.
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing this blog over the years. But what is amazing to me, is that it has been FIVE years. I read back through some of my old posts, and I barely recognize the voice behind the text anymore. I laugh, at times, at how nervous I was as a newbie triathlete trying to break onto the local scene. But I also tip my hat, to that dedicated year of Ironman where my training was taking upwards of 20 hours per week (while I was working full-time, getting an MBA on the side, and about to start a family). I smile as I read my posts written just before, and just after Jonas was born. And I cry as I re-read my farewell to Ginger – my longtime running partner, who never once stood me up at the trailhead.
Five years is a long time, and yet it represents only a small fraction of the number of years I’ve been training and competing in endurance sports of one form or another. I started when I was a much younger boy, and if there’s one bittersweet facet to the idea of keeping a diary, or a blog, it’s the reminder of the recorded acceptance of the passage of time. Things change too. Like how blogs were so commonplace and fresh in 2005, and how Facebook and Twitter have now taken over the social media outlets. But it’s here, after my first Boston, that I felt it most appropriate to formally end my episodes here on The Daily Grind.
Everything you need is already inside.
The draw to endurance sport has long been a complicated and involved relationship between me and myself. I was never naturally gifted enough to make a living from it, yet despite all my other “real-life” obligations, I have never been able to live without it. The fatigue from a long ride. The strain from a hard run. The satisfaction from finishing a race faster than so-and-so. The necessary disappointment in knowing you could have done better. These feelings represent only a small minority of the sport-centric emotions that have become entirely intertwined in my day-to-day life for the past 16 years. I know I’m not unique here… I know that virtually everyone else I rub shoulder-to-shoulder with on the start line feels more or less the same way. Some people acknowledge it, some people don’t. Some people bury it, and some people write about it. There are, of course, those who “get it” and those who don’t. For all of my readers, commenters, lurkers, fans, and friends… Thank you so much for getting it. And thank you so much for all you’ve said, done, written, texted, tweeted, and relayed in one digital way or another over the past five years.
Nothing changes.
I hope you’ll follow me on Facebook, or Twitter, or both. I hope too that whatever the next wave of social media evolves to will keep us together. And I hope, of course, to see you out there. Out on the roads, or in the water. At the races, the pasta dinners, the celebration parties, or the simple intersections. As I type this, a small voice in the back of my head is talking over my narrative, informing me that a new set of bike wheels are waiting to be built in the basement. That the training clothes need to be washed, and that plans for the weekend long ride need to be made. Boston is done, and this blog has served it’s purpose. And for each and every one of you, as always…
Thanks for reading.
Posted in Reports | 3 Comments »
Joseph Vinciquerra | March 28th, 2010
So I tread the only road
The only road I know
Nowhere to go, but home
Nowhere to go
It’s still hard for me to grasp how quickly life moves on by now that Jonas is in our lives. Time is seldom measured anymore by days, weeks, or months – but milestones – like, first steps, first words and first, well, firsts. And while the Boston marathon will not be Jonas’ first time seeing his dad race a marathon, it will be one of the most memorable for me, particularly since he’ll be there with us. The first marathon, in fact, that he witnessed – was the race in which I qualified for Boston. So, by association, it’s hard for me to take two steps out the door for any training session without thinking about him and the time that’s elapsed from that marathon (his first) to Boston.
On the subject of time flying by, it’s been some time since my last update on my preparations for the race. I can say this: it’s been a long, hard, winter. Here in Upstate, NY we’ve had a relatively dry winter, but the winds and rains have made for some of the hardest training I’ve ever endured. And just as we all thought we were out of the proverbial woods, Mother Nature hammered us with week after week of heavy snow and arctic temperatures just as the birds were starting to notify us of the impending Spring. During this time, training continued, but about five weeks ago I started to feel an old familiar twinge sneak up on me. A type of twinge that no runner ever wants to feel in any part of the body. This twinge, of course, is the start of injury.
In 2007 I raced Ironman USA in Lake Placid, NY and had a stellar athletic season. Building off a strong base of fitness, I immediately transitioned to marathon training only a short time after the Ironman with an aim of qualifying for Boston at the local marathon. This endeavor was a disaster. About a month before the goal marathon, I started to develop Achilles Tendonitis (as most runners do sooner or later in their careers) and like the stubborn individual that I often am, I tried training through it. It started as an annoyance, but quickly transformed into a full-blown injury that prevented me from executing my key workouts and long runs. Still I fought, right up to the marathon, and paid the penalty. The race had been a challenge right from the beginning. I didn’t feel good at the start. My pacing was too fast to begin with. And before the halfway point, I had started to crumble at the pain in my tendon. I finished the race, but only because of the same stubborn quality that prevented me from backing off and training smarter in the weeks prior.
Five weeks ago, as soon as I started to feel the tightness in the same Achilles Tendon, I started backing off the mileage. I iced, I compressed, I massaged… I did everything we runners are supposed to. I took an entire week off from running, including missing my first scheduled 20–miler (the keystone to any good marathon plan). The tendon started to heal, but I was losing fitness. However, my friends, this is what experience yields: patience. Patience in knowing that time off is better than pushing through. I sought therapy using Active Release Technique to manipulate the soft-tissue and help relieve the strain on the tendon while loosening up the kinetic chain in my right leg. The results were entirely positive, and the training resumed two weeks ago which, at the time, was exactly five weeks to race day.
Reset.
I missed my first 20–miler, and had to do a total replan of my training schedule to take me from five-weeks-to-go to race day. The first draft of this replan had me doing long runs on each Saturday starting with 16 miles, then progressing to 18, then 20 before tapering for two weeks with a long run of 12 miles one week before racing. I wasn’t thrilled with this because (a) it only provided one 20 mile run before the race, and (b) it was a linear progression of volume before racing. My best results have come from alternating long-short-long weeks before racing. But I there I was, five weeks out, freshly healed (well… at least 90% healed) and looking at trying to salvage the pinnacle of my Boston training.
I took my various sheets of scrap paper, splattered with the graffiti of my own penmanship, and organized them into “Mary Training Replan – Rev. 1” and started my week of training. The week unfolded as planned, with tempo workouts and speed workouts challenging but doable. My tendon was doing better and my fitness was coming back fast. As Saturday approached – the weekend I was supposed to do a 16–miler – the sun was consistently out and temperatures were flirting with the mid-60s. On the morning of my long-run, I started out my front door with a plan to do 4 loops of 4 miles. At mile 8, I would pick up Liz and Jonas – her on her mountain bike and he in his bike trailer – who would join me for my final 8. Only two miles later, I mentioned to Liz between breaths: “I think I’m going to try and do 20 today” which she, of course, encouraged me to try. And just like that, about an hour and a half later, we finished mile 20 together just like the pre-Jonas days, with her riding beside me as I cranked out the final meters. The only difference this time, of course, was that Jonas was experiencing his first “long run” from the comfort of his shaded bike trailer.
As soon as the run was over, “Mary Training Replan – Rev. 2” was written. This past weekend (which would be the weekend after my 20–miler with Liz and Jonas, in case this is getting confusing) would have a fast half-marathon for training, and next weekend we’ll do another 20–miler before tapering for 15 days. The forecast looks promising for another family outing too, which will be a great way to end this very, very challenging build-up to Boston 2010.
—-
Perhaps, on a deeper level, I’ve learned more about myself during this build-up to Boston than in my preparations for other races in recent memory. Of course the draw to endurance sport is the ability to execute a simple control of outcome: train, race. Input equals output. Work hard, race well. In it’s most basic form, we (athletes) control how well we perform on race day, simply by doing the hard work ahead of time, and then executing on race day. And only weakness within ourselves limits what we can do against the clock. Of course there are exceptions, like bad days, mechanical issues, etc., but for all intents and purposes, it is entirely in our control. When something disrupts that, however - say, an injury – and we’re no longer able to control the training, life can unravel pretty fast. At least, that’s what I would have thought in years past. In reality, life goes on just as it did. Things may get compromised in one way or another, but the past five weeks have proven to me that by simply loosening our grip, things get righted again.
—-
Yesterday I ran, and I ran hard. A half-marathon in training is presently what I consider to be a relatively short run. With one hard week left before tapering, I wanted to test myself. I ran an old, familiar loop. The roads I train on look remarkably the same as they did in 2007. And as they did in 2005. The feeling that washed over me while I ramped up to a high tempo pace yesterday felt the same as it always has. Since my first, real, long run in 1997. They say we’re never more sure of ourselves than when we’re pushing ourselves in training, and that the world never makes as much sense as it should than when we’re looking at it through the sweat in our eyes. After all these years, I know they’re right.
Thanks for reading.
Posted in Training | 1 Comment »
Joseph Vinciquerra | February 10th, 2010
“Let’s plunge ourselves into the roar of time, the whirl of accident; may pain and pleasure, success and failure, shift as they will – it’s only action that can make a man.”
(Goethe, Faust)
While I generally try to stay away from profanities in my writings, there is simply no other way to portray the mounting challenges encountered during this stage of training other than describing it as “The Hard Shit.” Certainly, there is a certain majestic aspect to qualifying for the Boston Marathon, and by extension, the training that takes place through the winter in preparation for the big event in April. For five years, in fact, this promised majesty is what kept me focused on running a fast enough qualifying marathon so that I too could be permitted into the Boston club. And while I’ve had my fair share of setbacks over the past twelve months, training has so far been going very, very well.
But sooner or later, even the strongest begin to show weakness. As I’ve begun to ramp up the running volume over the past six weeks – 12, then 14, then 16, and most recently, 18-mile long runs buried within proportionately growing weekly totals – the weight of training for a solid marathon performance during the typical northeast off-season has become increasingly noticeable. I’ve done the work in sub-zero temperatures, and I’ve done the work in blowing snow and pouring rain mixed into the same forecast. There has been no such thing as a “straight” run – no workouts where I simply “do” a certain number of miles. Every one of my long runs, for example, has either finished with 5k at race pace, or has been comprised of multiple segments at faster-than-marathon pace. The routes I’ve chosen to run have substantial hills by design, and like Boston, the downhills hurt just as much as the uphills. Through all of this, it’s been cold, dark, and hard.
This past weekend I came the closest to crying “uncle” that I have in a long, long time. On schedule was an 18-mile long run that had substantial “ups and downs” to mimic the Boston course. High temperatures for the day would barely see twenty degrees, and the wind would be omnipresent. I planned a route that would put me back at my house at the halfway point, so that I could stash a water bottle and bit of fuel in the front seat of my car (I didn’t dare put it inside the house – knowing full well that a stop inside would result in an all-too-easy bail-out). My usual bunch of training partners, on this particular weekend, had gone missing. The sun that promised by all other indications to come out in the early afternoon never did. Instead, as I opened the front door to start this training session, only the blustery wind, grey landscape, and barren roads greeted me.
“This,” I said, as I took those first couple of strides, “…is the hard shit.”
Miles one through eight went fairly well. I didn’t have my usual snap, but it had been a tough week of workouts and the start of a head cold had already begun to make its presence known the night before. With ten weeks to go, however, skipping the long run was not something I saw as an acceptable option. At mile 9, I made my way back to my house and my car to pick up fluid and fuel. A Clif bar and a quick half-bottle of chilled water was all that I took in before tossing both back in my car and heading out toward mile 10. With every step away from my house, the run only got harder.
The local traffic was picking up. Most people were driving to and from the grocery store to pick up food for the Superbowl parties they no doubt were preparing for. I thought about big comfy chairs, delicious snacks, and luscious drinks all in front of a big screen television in a cozy, warm, room. None of that was now. Now, was all about fighting the wind that was only increasing in magnitude and decreasing in temperature. And the worst of the hills were coming. Every mile began to wear on me – and while I was holding my target pace, it was getting harder and harder to do so. My otherwise nimble frame felt like a ton of bricks, and my legs were not unlike giant, rigid cranes. Half-mile segments were feeling more like two-mile pieces. If you’ve ever run a marathon, you know full well what those last couple of miles can feel like. This run was no different. I had 18 on the schedule, and on this particular day, after going out and putting in the effort to do the hard shit, I didn’t have the capacity for one step more than 18 miles in my legs. For the first time in a long time, I ended the run at my driveway, without a single ounce of “push” left in me.
Days later now, and I’m just coming back around. The tickle of a head cold turned into full-blown one (pardon the pun) as I expected it would, but the extra rest afforded by this planned recovery week has gone a long way toward resetting my system. This week’s runs are easy and relatively short. My “long run” this week, for example, is only 12 miles, which is a welcome break. But the hardest workouts still lay ahead.
This is the reality of Boston. Qualifying is hard. Training for it is hard. Damn hard. But honestly, if it were entirely in my power to change things, I wouldn’t have it any other way. These challenges grow people; these challenges galvanize. When I hear people nonchalantly chatter about “doing Boston someday” I smile knowingly, thinking about doing the hard shit. And what it takes. Some will find it within them, but most won’t.
Thanks for reading.
Posted in Training | 1 Comment »
Joseph Vinciquerra | January 28th, 2010
Right now, it’s the time of year I like to refer to as “the dead of winter.” February, the month I perennially suffer through as I feel furthest from Fall, and furthest from Spring, is set to begin in only a few days time. The days may be growing longer, but the trees are completely leafless, and the skies are a cold, vacant lot. It is here that I find myself twelve weeks from the first major athletic goal I’ve had in a long time, the Boston marathon. And like I have so many times before, with races of various disciplines and distance, I continue my preparation for the event with nearly singular focus.
Once every third week I execute a workout that consists of a mile and a half warm-up followed by ‘x’ number of repeats up a 400 meter-long hill. When I’m running up the hill, I’m going virtually as fast as I can while trying to maintain a strong, focused form. At the top, I revert to a jog, do an easy lap around the hilltop of around another 200 meters, then continue back down the hill to do it again. Up. Down. Repeat. And while there may be plenty of appropriate hills near me to do this workout, I’ve always chosen to do this particular session in a cemetery.
On the surface, I suppose I could attest my selection of this locale to the fact that no cars are ever on these cemetery roads, making for a nice, uninterrupted area to train in a very specific way. I further submit that the hill I run is “just right” for the purposes I seek. Not too steep, not too short. But I’ll be honest, there’s more to it than that. There’s a certain peace I find there. A solitude paradoxically represented by countless headstones – each aligned toward the roads I run. Toward me as I run.
Today, the northeast was being inundated by a cold weather storm front. While it has been relatively mild as of late, with dry roads and grass showing, a strong system moved in and brought with it gusting winds and snow squalls. In an effort to “beat the weather” I got an early start to the workout, but a fair-weather run was not to be. Just one mile into my warm-up – on my way to the cemetery – the snow started. It was blinding – literally, white-out conditions. I accelerated, ramping up my pace to get into the gates of the graveyard fast so that I could be removed from the traffic along the main thoroughfare. Pat, pat, pat, pat, my footstrikes were marking fresh tracks in the new snow, striding down the hill, taking the left-hand sweeper into the cemetery, and making my way to “my” hill. Even under the freshly fallen snow, I could make out the seam in the pavement that marks the “start” of my interval. Almost by instinct, I pressed the lap button on my monitor and began the first interval. Climbing the long, snaking hill up, up, and up through the twisting tunnel of trees. At the mid-way point, the pitch steepens, and as I made it there a flock of blackbirds ballooned aloft before quickly settling back in their perches. Perhaps they recognized me? Up ahead, I saw the other seam in the pavement that marks the “finish” of my interval, and again pressed the lap button.
Lap 1.
To run a hill at full steam causes the body – and mind – to do some strange things. Most of the time, I end up thinking not about training, or racing, or the purpose of the workout… but about the company I keep in this graveyard. Those headstones. Always there, always quiet. Each and every one of them, a marker. A reminder, in fact, of someone’s life. I would have never known any of these people - not growing up in this area, there’s no chance of relatives or friends of family, yet I feel as though they look on me as I repeat this routine. What must they think? Down the hill, striding carefully as the the snow was starting to glaze over, I made my way back to the bottom in order to start the next interval. The quiet little buzz of my lap button sounds like a cannon in this place, and I’m going back up the hill. And now, with the exertion, life starts to creep in. All of those “big picture” theories and hypotheses. The turbulence of the day, the week, the year. As much as these running efforts physically hurt, there’s a catharsis attained that makes me feel like I’m on autopilot. Like a ship listing in the tide. Things begin to “un-complicate” – to straighten out, and to align.
Lap 2.
Time distorts. The minute-and-a-half or so that it takes to run full-steam up this hill can feel like an eternity, yet the whole session seems to tick by so quickly. Every time I come around the hilltop, my tracks from the last interval are virtually covered up. Almost erased. The wind and the snow are everywhere, completely inescapable. Yet the headstones that line both sides of the road remain clear and all seem locked in their dull gaze toward me. I remember doing this workout many years ago – in the same place – wondering if I would ever make it to the Boston marathon. And while I thought today about the possibilities of where I may be five years from now, I’m certain I thought the same five years ago when I first started running here.
Lap 6.
The snow let up, and the wind died down. My legs started to ache during the last interval, the figurative planks began to creak. I made one more loop around the hilltop before descending the hill for the last time of the day. The sun was still out, but very low on the horizon as I began the long, two mile cool-down jog back home. At the same time, the bright winter moon was clear in the sky, and a new chill was rushing through the air. Out of the cemetery, the roads were clear of snow. Traffic had picked up as rush hour approached, and the smooth, bouncy stride that I began the workout with today was degenerating as I began to fully feel the effect of the hill intervals. The weather was downright atrocious today, befitting the physical effort, I suppose, of marathon preparation in the dead of winter. But as I made my way home, I couldn’t help but think (as I often do), if I could speak to just one of them – just one of “the watchers” as I like to call them – I would ask them what it is that they see when they’re watching me.
Thanks for reading.
Posted in Life | 3 Comments »
