Read it. Run it: Wascally Wabbit III Trail Race

The race: Wascally Wabbit III

Location: French Village, Nova Scotia

When: Early May

Distances: 11. 7, 23.4, 50 and 80 km

Why do it: Because you enjoy feeling like a kid and running through puddles and mud

Swag: Great draw prizes from Salomon, and handsome looking race shirts

Bernie Doucet on his way to second place in the 50-miler.

This time it was personal.

I’d been psyched out and suckered and as I tore down the uneven fire road heading toward the turn into the woods, the animal that lives inside me emerged – and that’s never a good thing.

I was on a search and destroy mission. The target of my fury was none other than Frank.

You remember Frank: I believe the last time he made an appearance in this blog was in a post about a trail run. He and a couple of other runners got lost in the Bluff Trail and subsequently ran into an amorous bear, which had its way with them.

Now Frank is ordinarily a great guy. We run together a fair amount and help push each other through workouts. But obviously when it comes to competition, something evil in Frank emerges.

The evil Frank Atherton

It all started at the third annual Wascally Wabbit Trail Race this past Saturday.

The Wascally Wabbit marks the first of the five race Maritime Trail Running Series that Jodi Isenor and Karine Comeau organize, along with Shawn McCardle on Prince Edward Island.

I was expecting more of the sheer brutality of last year’s Cuddly Coyote, with its long climbs and descents, but the Wabbit seemed fairly tame in comparison. The course consisted of rolling fire road leading to a “P” shaped loop of double-track.

Most of the usual suspects – and then some – showed up. Seventy-two people (up 56 from last year!) from three different provinces started the race at 7 a.m. in French Village. The latter’s name is a misnomer as there’s not even a scattering of homes in the hills there up above the Peggy’s Cove Road.

The race’s tone was set early on when Jodi told runners to not even bother trying to skip the puddles and mud. That was a signal for Mark Campbell to jump into a puddle, soaking Bernie Doucet next to him.

Yup. Not your typical road race, that’s for sure.

Next the assembled crowed broke into a heartfelt rendition of Happy Birthday as they serenaded Jodi’s father, Dwight, who on his 61st birthday would run the 11.7 km distance in a time of 1:45:35 for his longest run ever.

And with that, the race got underway.

On the trail

In advance, I’d decided this would be a training run for my marathon and wanted to hold the pace down. Within the first kilometre, Frank pulled up beside me and as we rolled over the fire road toward the first large climb, we chatted easily.

Even before the race, Frank kept telling me he was only going to do the 11.7 km distance; the Bluenose Half Marathon was coming up next weekend, and he wasn’t even certain if he’d last the course. And as we ran together, Frank further sniveled that he’d only do the one loop and then call it quits for the day.

So I let him go and stuck to my pace.

A sharp right turn immediately took us into a long, muddy climb where everyone switched to a quick walk. After the first initial ascent, we rolled through silent, tree-lined double-track lined with trees and often with a moss footing beneath. You could have easily mistaken the setting for the West Coast.

Without a doubt, the toughest hill was the “short cut,” a small but steep climb. For the most part, though, the Wabbit made for a fast run: a couple of long climbs, a couple of great descents, some rock sections and the scenic fire road out and back.

It was on the latter heading back that I saw Frank setting out on his second lap. My eyes bulged in disbelief. I’d been had!

Frank saw the look on my face and a shroud of fear descended upon him. Later, runners would say how “strong” he looked and how he tore up the course…because terror throbbed through his veins.

At the half-way mark, I stripped off my Salomon back pack, shoved a gel into my maw, and unleashed the inner animal. On the dirt road back toward the double-track I overtook three runners, none of them Frank, now my sworn enemy for life – well, at least for the next 11.7 km.

I lunged into the double track like a hyena on amphetamines and set off in pursuit of my prey.

I’d never felt better.

It all came to nothing. As I raged through the forest, a sudden stabbing pain in my left foot caught me short. I had a stone in my shoe. I ran a bit further and then stopped to unlace my shoe and dump out the stone, knowing Frank had eluded my wrath.

Nonetheless, I pushed on. But when I hit the dirt road, I knew it was all over. Frank was no where in sight. He’d faked me out. And had a good run to boot.

When I left, the 50 km and 50-miler runners were still on the course, smiles on their faces as they ran yet another lap of a course gentle enough to entice you in for another lap and rough enough to spit you out on the other end.

I guess that’s why it’s called the Wascally Wabbit.

Results: http://trailbugracing.blogspot.ca/search?updated-min=2013-01-01T00:00:00-04:00&updated-max=2014-01-01T00:00:00-04:00&max-results=6

In which I become lost in the woods

The situation began to look dire as dusk took hold. Julian, Eric and I – the Three Stooges – were deep in the woods and didn’t really have the best grip on our precise location. More worrisome still was the fact that we kept running further down trails without knowing whether they’d lead us out of the lonely forested hills above St. Margaret’s Bay.

Julian kept repeating that he wished he’d brought his phone; he could have pulled up Google maps. None of us had phones. We didn’t have any food, not even gels. We had enough clothing to keep us warm if we kept moving, but not if we had to settle in for the night. We didn’t have flashlights, lighters, nothing. We had dick.

In short, we were classic idiots, the kind who bumble into the woods on a happy-go-lucky jaunt and then die of hypothermia overnight.

“It’s not looking good,” I said.

“Keep your positive vibes together,” Eric replied.

“I’m being very positive,” I said. “But…but, “WE’RE GOING TO DIE!”

“Pull yourself together, man,” Julian sneered.

“Yes,” I said, quietly blubbering. “I will.”

I sobbed a little bit. Not so the others could hear it of course. And then in a very quiet voice said: “Newspapers love this kind of story.”

It began as a typical Thursday night trail run. That’s the night the Tantallon Trail Bugs gather to run in the steep hills lining the Peggy’s Cove and St. Margaret’s Bay Roads. The hills are home to such classic trail Canadian East Coast race courses as the Wascally Wabbit and the Cuddly Coyote.

Thursday morning, Jodi Isenor, founder (with Karine Comeau) of the Trail Bugs, emailed me and mentioned neither he nor Karine would be at the run. I wanted to know who would show and lead the run then, as I’m not overly familiar with the trails.

Well, as it turned out, almost no one appeared. A number of people were tapering for a 24-hour race on the weekend. One of our group was getting knee surgery done. Not certain what happened to everyone else, but at 6:10 only Julian, Eric and I were good to go.

Jodi had emailed me a map. That’s like giving a hammer to a dog. It’s useless. I’m a terrible map-reader. If I set out in one direction, almost assuredly the proper route is in the exact opposite direction.

We got off to a good start – in the first 500 metres. We ran up the road, turned to the left and almost immediately ran into someone’s driveway.

“Okay, this can’t be right,” one of the more astute (which isn’t saying much) among us observed.

We found our way to the logging road and then ran a bit further, at which point I spied a trail in the woods to our left. We quickly cut down that. Too bad no one looked at the map. The turn we should have taken was to the right further along.

We plummeted down a rolling piece of single-track and ended up at the rails to trails, probably about 500 metres down from where we began.

That’s okay, I said. “Follow me.”

We ran up the trail and linked onto the Grouse Grind, which is where we should have finished. No problem. We’d run everything in reverse.

We began to climb. And climb. And climb.

We’d turn a corner and the ascent continued. “Oh, come on,” Eric exclaimed at one point. It was his first time on the trail.

We paused at the top to take in the magnificent view over Halifax and then began running.

At first the trail seemed familiar, but soon it turned into a muddy double-track lined with trees. The endless mud that the ATVs had churned up started getting to us. We’re not talking about a few puddles; but rather shoe-sucking swamps of dark goo across the width of the trail. So when we saw a second double-track veering off, we took it.

By this time we were about four kilometres from the rail to trails and starting to get deeper into the woods. We ran another kilometre along this progressively rougher track of trail before it just vanished.

“Well, it must lead to a logging road,” Julian argued. “It’s been logged and they sure didn’t haul them out on the trail we just ran.”

No-o-o. Maybe not. But at that point it was fairly evident that we had to back-track, which we did. With about 45 minutes of light left, we pondered the map and then plunged deeper into the woods, reaching another trail junction. I argued in favour of one way. We went the other.

Coyotes feasting on my scrawny body; crows pecking my dead, open eyes out; lynx nibbling my extremities: these were the thoughts that crossed my mind as we ran down the woods-lined trails.

I could see Jodi on subsequent trail runs pointing out: “This is where Sub-three is buried. Nice guy, great blogger, but not much of a navigator.”

Ordinarily, such a run would have been extremely blissful. But as the light drained from the sky, it was becoming stressful. Even if we survived the night, we’d never live down the story of the search-and-rescue operation. We had to find our way out.

Finally, we hit the stand of dead pines. I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to see a stand of dead trees in my life. The pines are a landmark on the map. I knew how to get us out of the silent, deadly woods.

“Ha ha ha,” I cried. “We’re going to live. Live! Do you hear me? We’re going to live!”

Julian circled his finger around his temple in the universal symbol of “nut-bar,” while Eric silently rolled his eyes.

“No,” I hysterically laughed. “You don’t understand. Coffee! Beer! Bed! Costco!”

I tried to sum up all the reasons for life in my short outburst.

“Er, family and friends,” I lamely added.

“And dogs.”

Julian and Eric looked at me.

“Okay, okay! And my cat, Everest too,” I muttered.

Satisfied, they shook their heads and we continued out to the logging road and then down to our cars.

Julian and Eric kept talking about the “adventure” we’d just had. What “fun” it was.

“OMG!,” I exclaimed (which, really I don’t have to exclaim, because the exclamation mark signifies that, but this particular point is doubly important, so I have both), “Have you not read Into the Wild?

“Buddy goes to Alaska and dies in a trailer. A trailer! And we didn’t even have one of those!”

Next time you see a guy trail running and he’s got a 50 pound backpack with all kinds of survival gear, extra clothing, water filtration system, portable gas stove, tent and more? That’s me.

Marathon monster: Adidas Boost

The shoe: Adidas Boost

Load up your feet with some Adidas energy capsules and go

The official description: “You put a lot of energy into your run and…the Energy Boost gives some of it back.”

Thousands of “energy capsules are melted together into one midsole that will change your run forever,” says Adidas.

Just in case you’re not convinced, the shoe company adds: “This is only the start of the running revolution.”

We say: Energy capsules, is that code for something? Is this shoe on amphetamines? Is that why it feels so freakin’ fast?

Well, hardly. But the fact of the matter is the Boost is a welcome anomaly in a time of minimalist and minimalist transition shoes. The Boost dares to be a cushioned shoe and furthermore not only does it very well, but pretty much locks up the whole category.

Here’s the deal: Adidas has obviously developed some kind of proprietary, high-tech cushioning material; the lower third of the shoe has some sort of rubberized compound that’s almost like Styrofoam. Press your thumb into it and you can feel some give, but it retains its mix of spring and sponginess.

That’s the boost. That’s what appears to so neatly absorb the impact of your foot strike while rebounding enough to add a little sprightliness to your step.

The Boost is a neutral, cushioned shoe designed for mid-foot landing. It actually has a hard plastic platform exactly at the shoe’s mid-point, which Adidas refers to as its “Torsion system,” and says allows the front and rear of the shoe to move independently.

Compared to some of the more minimalist shoes I’ve recently run in, I don’t really notice any extra freedom in the movement. What I do find is the Boost seems to cradle the feet comfortably and that the forefoot is relatively stiff but responsive, while the shoe itself doesn’t offer a whole lot of flex.

While the Boost “energy capsules underlay the entire sole, a thin, but tough rubber traction  surface Adidas calls “Adiwear” covers the major “strike” areas of the shoe. Functionally, this is very smart. It prevents the Boost compound from breaking down and also provides superior traction in most conditions.

Traction and more

One of the things I love best about the Boost – and love is not too strong a word – is its compression-like fit. That is a piece of superior design that, in my opinion, the company should be trumpeting more.

The shoe fits so snugly that Adidas actually recommends you move up half a size. I was skeptical, but the material acts like a compression sock and wraps your foot snugly. At the same time, the material breathes nicely; I never noticed my feet overheating or otherwise becoming uncomfortable.

The original Boost (Adidas has since added several new colours) is extremely subdued in black and silver while the Boost compound is white. A very subtle (almost unnoticeable) yellow stripe separates the latter from the shoe’s upper.

With so many vibrant colours currently dominating the shoe market, the understated touch is welcome.

Okay, you say, but how does it feel? What’s it like to run in?

Let’s put it this way: I’ve run in a lot of great shoes this year, but none that I’d want to use for my long runs or marathons.

The Boost is different. It’s cushioned without going overboard. When I hit the hills, I typically run on my forefoot and with the Boost could feel a natural toe-off as I climbed.

The shoe is very forgiving, not only for long runs, but for medium-long to long runs done at a faster pace. I’m able to run the distance with intensity and not feel beat up after.

And while the Boost is cushy, it’s not sloppy.

Everything about the shoe suggests a lot of thought was put into reinventing what our current idea is of a cushioned shoe in order to capture the category.

At 9.5 ounces, the Boost is actually one of the heaviest shoes I currently own. I can’t tell the difference though. On the road, it feels light, stable and nimble, and, to date, has gone the distance without any discomfort.

The bottom line: The Adidas Boost is my new long run and marathon shoe. It provides the support and cushion I want over the distance without numbing my contact with the ground.

Energy capsules? Yes, please.

In which I run with the small fry

Little people take races super seriously.

Don’t take my word for it. Running with kids today, I saw the full gamut of emotion, or as the Wide World of Sports used to put it: The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat.

However, I didn’t see any of the winners today. I didn’t share in their victories. The victories I saw were of a much different kind: quiet, personal, but very large and important to the individuals experiencing them.

I was the sweeper today for the seven races in the first of the Youth Running Series cross-country runs. That meant that at Storm the Park, as the event at Point Pleasant Park is known, my task today was to run behind the slowest runner and make sure everyone got back to the start line safely.

Storm the Park attracts roughly 700 kids ranging in age from five to 17. A large group of devoted volunteers make the race happen, as does Halifax marathoner Leah Jabbour, who is the series’ race director and who before every heat led the kids through warm-ups and generally got them pumped to run.

I ran two loops of the 1.5 kilometre course once and covered the distance an additional six times, dogging the footsteps of the Tykes, Mosquitoes, Peewees, Bantams and Youth. Without a doubt, the toughest race to pace was the Youth. The kids flew off the start, completely catching me unaware. I had to sprint for 300 metres and kept thinking if the pace stayed consistent, I was in serious danger of getting dropped.

As the race progressed over the three kilometres, one young girl, the youngest in the race as it turned out, started falling behind within about 500 metres. She slowed, but she never wavered. I talked her through the race, giving advice on when to pace herself, when to push, and continuously prompting her with the oft-heard words at races: “Good job” and “You’re running strong.”

At one point I told her: “Focus on the guy ahead of you and imagine a rope linking you and he’s pulling you along.”

For the first time, she acknowledged me and nodded and her pace stepped up.

She ran strong and like a champion. She never stopped trying and, in fact, at the end of the race hit the final hill hard and gave it everything she had running through the finish chute.

That kid is already a very tough-minded runner and she’s going to hand down some real defeats to competitors in the years to come.

No matter how fast or the slow the kids ran, it was a privilege and experience to run with them.

Some made me laugh. One seven-year-old girl just slayed me. “My heart is beating like a maniac,” she declared at one point, slowing to take a walk break. She kept up a constant stream of happy chatter until she rounded the final corner and then she flew down the hill and into the finish.

Another young lad alternated between walking and running. He must have been around eight years old. For these kids, 1.5 km is a long distance, like a half-marathon or marathon to most of us. As we got near the finish, he kept repeating: “My Dad is going to be proud of me; I’m going to make my Dad proud.”

“You’re going to be proud of yourself too,” I told him.

Not everyone was so graceful. I ran behind more than a couple of crying kids. One small boy had completely dissolved in tears while his mother tried to coax him along. Two-thirds of the way through, one of the volunteers said, “You’re doing great! Can you run a little?”

The boy deliberately took six steps past her and then turned around, crouched low and with every fibre in his body let out a long, sustained piercing scream. He took two more steps, sat down in the path and did the same again. It was incredibly primal.

On one of the other races, I ran with a pair of girls. They’d run full tilt for 100 metres and then break into a walk and contentedly chat away.  One of them kept dramatically announcing to me: “My arm is falling off!”

The last pair of kids I ran with were two boys. They struggled the entire way. We’d jog for a bit and then we’d walk. They never gave up. I could see running was very hard work for them, but they kept going.

When we hit the finish chute one of the boys and I finished in a mock race. He beat me, of course. I high-fived him and got treated to his beaming face. He’d covered the distance and was glowing with happiness, a reminder that champions aren’t always the first ones across the line.

To Boston, with love, Halifax

Boston, who loves ya?

Halifax, your sister city, that’s who.

It was readily apparent this evening as more than 1000 runners gathered in Point Pleasant Park in Halifax’s South End to pay tribute to those who lost their lives in the Boston bombings, and to the injured, to the Boston Marathon runners and spectators, and to the very spirit of those who inhabit the East Coast city.

The runners in the Annapolis Valley also held a tribute run this evening.

Boston and Halifax have a history, a connection. After the Halifax Explosion of 1917, Boston  helped with relief efforts. In return, as a gesture of appreciation, Halifax sends a Christmas tree every year to Boston.

Richard Riley, the American Consulate-General for Atlantic Canada. mentioned this long-time alliance in his opening remarks. He also spoke of the dead and injured from the terrorist blasts and then thanked Halifax for its support, not only from the run, but from many phone calls he received while the crisis was ongoing.

Thanks to the support, Riley said, we were all “Boston strong. Halifax strong. Nova Scotia strong.”

In the calm but chilly April air, the assembled runners applauded before setting off on their hilly five kilometre run.  Marie-Claude Gregoire, who organized the race with Michelle Kempton, asked the crowd to maintain silence for the first kilometre as a sign of respect and contemplation for those the explosion affected.

At first the gathering seemed almost festive, with runners from virtually every club in the city showing up, several hundred wearing Boston marathon shirts and jackets. But as the crowd set out from the lower parking lot along the outer loop of the park, a somber silence descended.

The beginning of the run was an eerie recreation of the start of the Boston Marathon. Heading down the first hill, a long streaming line of runners filled the park path, a bobbing, shuffling flow of colour. The sound of shoes scuffling the crushed stone path filled the air. No one spoke.

For two and a half kilometres, people ran, jogged and walked. The faster runners weaved in and out among the others, but no one said anything. Fast, slow – it didn’t matter. The crowd ran as one. Our movement united us as we rolled over the park’s hills.

At the turn-around point, people started to chat and many picked up the pace, enjoying the freedom, the choice to run hard if they wanted.

In the end, it didn’t matter who came first, who came last. It didn’t matter who was fast and who was slow. Everyone arrived at the same destination.

We all ended up where we’d begun, a metaphor for life if I ever knew of one.

We began the run, contemplating Boston, its victims, its sorrows. We ended the run, affirming friendships, hugging each other, celebrating our ability to run, to love, to live.

We are all strong.

Boston and beyond: the spirit of the marathon

It’s not easy to break a runner.

Runners are tough. They have spirit. They are determined. They run in the face of adversity. Runners are used to pain.

But the pain inflicted at the Boston Marathon on April 15, 2013 was something else altogether.

Who targets a celebration of mental and physical strength and endurance? Who plants bombs among unsuspecting crowds, crowds made up of men, women and children?

Who is it who fills a pressure cooker full of nails and ball bearings with the deliberate intention to maim and kill?

Sometimes I think monsters walk among us.

The entire incident had an eerie feeling of 9/11 to it. A beautiful, crisp day with the sun beaming down. And then two bombs one after another and then mayhem and panic.

Even so, the cowardly Boston bombings are less 9/11 and more a copy cat crime of the Atlanta Olympic Park bombings of 1996. In that instance, a backpack with three pipe bombs with nails packed around them was deposited at a concert. Two people died and 111 were injured, very close to the current Boston toll.

To say so many died and X amount were injured is so antiseptic.

An eight year old boy had his life torn from him while waiting to yell encouragement at his father.

In the hospitals, they are cutting limbs off people. Surgeons told the press the bombs had already done the work and they were just finishing it.

Bystanders tried to shield young children from seeing the gore – and failed.

My heart is heavy.

As are the hearts of countless thousands of others.

Such an act is aggressively anti-social. It strikes directly at the democratic right of assembly.

Such a right is enshrined because instinctively it recognizes a fundamental of human behavior: people like to herd.

We congregate to celebrate our existence, with giant music festivals, Olympic games and, yes, marathons.

To stop those celebrations because of fear is to let those who would terrorize us win. That won’t happen. We cannot let it happen.

We must feel free, safe and, yes, defiant, to gather in large crowds and exercise our democratic right and express our happiness and pure joy at the wonder of who we are and the accomplishments we are capable of performing.

On Sunday the London Marathon will go ahead. Runners will observe a 30 second silence, wear black ribbons and, in a more informal observance, cross the line with their hands on their hearts.

Runners will not be stopped. Marathoners will not be stopped. People will not be stopped.

The spirit of the marathon lives on. The spirit of the human race perseveres.

In which I deviate

Oh, I know what you’re thinking, you nasty little people. Just because I use the word “deviate” in a post, your minds immediately sink to the lowest common denominator.

Sure, I’ve written about “naked” running and all of you piled in looking for…well, I’m not sure what you were looking for, really.

Ashamed! All of you should be ashamed!

It’s not what you think.

I’m talking about my training plan.

Okay, now that I just lost three-quarters of my reading audience, I’ll continue to write for the rest of you nice, decent-thinking folk.

Yes, it’s true. I did deviate…from my training plan. And in fact this story comes with a moral.

Alright, so only one of you is left reading now. That’s fine. Really.

As many of you know, I set out several weeks ago to follow a – ahem – rigorous training plan that Greg Wieczorek over at Project PB (http://www.pbrunningcoach.blogspot.ca/) set up for me.

It didn’t work out the way I hoped – not through any fault of Coach Wieczorek’s. The biggest problem was trying to balance the schedule with teaching spin classes and, ultimately, I wasn’t able to do that.

Instead, I ended up with ridiculous work loads where I’d run 24 km in the morning and then teach two hours of spin in the evening for a total of three hours and 45 minutes of workout time.

Great stuff – except I wasn’t ready for it yet. And, more to the point, the key quality workouts suffered. I was so tired by the time my important workouts rolled around that I either bailed on them or didn’t hit the mark.

Oh, you weak little man. I know that’s what you’re thinking.

It’s okay. Heap abuse on me. I’m used to it. It makes me run harder. If it makes you feel better, go ahead. But I’ll shred you at the next race…if I can get my darn training plan under control.

After missing enough important workouts, I went back to Wieczorek and told him I needed to revise my goal race target. To my surprise, he not only agreed, but told me how he’d done the same.

Look out! Here comes that moral.

Don’t be afraid to revise your plan. All too often, if we take on a training plan, I think we believe we have to follow it to the letter.

Guess what? You are master and commander of your own destiny – to quote from Clint Eastwood’s film, Invictus (the actual lines come from a William Ernest Henley poem and are slightly different).

I have returned to an earlier point in the plan with a later goal race in mind. But even as I start down this path again, I feel as if improvisation may be more my style.

This may be a classic example of working within rigid parameters or training by feel and that’s something you can only learn through experience – and that can take a long time. I’m still picking my way through.

Ultimately, you need to find the method of training that will best suit you.