I’m always willing to help a fellow scientist in his/her pursuit of knowledge:

Dear Daniel,

You might at first think that these responses are facetious, and might distort the results of your study, but my aim is simply to make sure you receive a healthy diversity of perspectives.

Why did you start ultrarunning?

I was tricked by Keith Knipling.  I thought the Eagle Run was over at mile 14 when we all stopped and ate pizza.  Turned out that was just the halfway point. 

Why types of ultras have you done?

The shortest ones possible (although occasionally I get tricked into a little longer).  The 50k distance is generally where I cap out.

Do you have a personal goal for your ultrarunning?

To run a 50k without barfing (or feeling for the last 10 miles like I’m going to barf). 

Do you tend to do your running alone or with other people or a mixture of
both? Explain.

I only run alone when abandoned by my friends. 

Where do you like to do runs?

Far away from the icky people (ie, not my friends) and anything that reminds me of life responsibilities (buildings, cars, computers, etc.). 

What challenges do you face as a runner?

When I go into glycemic debt around mile 18-20 I get really nauseated and sometimes spew. 

How did you overcome those challenges?

I have actually found that eating papaya helps.  It’s known that papaya has special enzymatic properties that help to break down proteins.

For you, are there any aspects to running outside of the physical (mental,
spiritual, etc.)?

I go absolutely nutters if I don’t get to run regularly. 

During your races, do you feel like you were running by yourself, with
others or a mixture of both? Explain.

Um, that depends on whether I’m running by myself (in which case it feels like I’m running by myself), or with others (in which case it feels like I’m running with others).  I find that in road races I like to run alone and in trail races I like to run with a male with whom I’m not competing directly. 

Describe a favorite moment during your ultrarunning.

-any aid station, particularly those manned by Quatro and those stacked with golden oreos

Describe an unfavorable moment during your ultrarunning.

-falling in the glacial river during a 55k in Iceland (2012)

-losing the lead in the last 3 miles after barfing 4x consecutively at the last aid station at Holiday Lake 50k (2012)

What does finishing an ultra feel like?

usually like hell: when I won Uwharrie they handed me a beautiful ceramic vase as my prize and I thought they were supplying me with a canister to barf into

Jingle All the Way 8k

Freedom Plaza, Washington, DC

Sunday, December 8, 2012

Aaron’s Ten-Time Finisher Award at Hellgate

While Aaron was off at Hellgate (see the special prize he won this year — that’s so going over the mantle at the Chophouse), I opted for the Jingle All the Way 8k with Team Floo Fighters from Fogarty (Cecile, Dan, Bernard, and Dan’s wife, Megan — actually, Megan bailed because it was raining in the morning, so our team was disqualified for only having 4 runners.  For those not in on the Floo Fighters pun, our team consisted of fellow influenza virus researchers at the NIH.  Cecile and Bernard are the fabulous Frenchies; Dan is moving to Yale in a few weeks to commence an academic career as Professor Weinberg.  I forgot to take a picture of our team at the race, but here’s a picture from one of our NIH races.

winner of the santa with stroller division

Sean seems to think that some day I’ll run Hellgate, but I believe the JAW 8k will remain my preferred alternative for the near future.  Pacers put on a pretty good gig: even with 4,700 runners the logistics were smooth at the start; the course was nice, going down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capital and looping around the mall to finish back at Freedom Plaza; there was a well organized bag check; and people really got into the Holiday costume thing: there were santas, reindeer, penguins, a menorah; even a pack of (seasonally confused) Easter bunnies.  And it really felt like Christmas when I got a pre-race port-o-potty!  I only had two complaints: (a) the race had at least three hairpins, including a brutal one with only a quarter mile left in the race (REALLY??), which were particularly hairy on the wet pavement; and (b) the awards ceremony was delayed (despite continuous announcements of its pending arrival) — so I jetted before getting my $60 prize for 5th place (I finished in 29:08, a new PR (5:52/mi), and good enough to win my 30-34 age group and 39th overall).  The only good thing about all the bloody hairpins was that I could confirm that no women were sneaking up behind to steal the last of the top-5 prizes — and it was also nice to see Dan, Cecile, and Bernard when we crossed each other.  The Floo Fighters had a fine showing, despite the absence of our critical 5th teammate (the kicker was when Dan admitted that Megan had gotten up, put on all her running stuff, and then saw the rain and balked — frankly, I’m holding Dan liable for insufficient cajoling — isn’t the whole point of being married that you have someone to kick your ass out the door when you’re being lame?).  Cecile finished in 40:10 for 16/337 in her age group; Bernard was 36:25 for 25/173 in his age group; and Dan went 38:26 for 98/345 age group placing.  Go FLOOsies!

Post-race interview with Aaron:

Me: Hi, Aaron. How was Hellgate?

Aaron: Long and warm.

Me: What do you think of your 10-time finisher award?

Aaron: It’s beautiful.

Me: So are you going to hang it over the mantel at the Chophouse?

Aaron: Not likely.

Me: So why were the times so fast this year, just because it was warm?

Aaron: Yeah, when it’s that cold you devote so much of your energy to just figuring how to eat and drink.

Me: So who was the guy who broke the CR?

Aaron: He’s from Montreal, that’s why no one knew him.

Me: So is it called Hellgate because of the 66.6 miles?

Aaron: No, there is a Hellgate Creek at the start of the race.  They didn’t know how long it was until someone GPSed it later.

Me: Eerie.  So did Horton say anything mean?

Aaron: First thing when he sees me: Hey Schwartzbard, you still ugly!

Me: So are you going to run it next year?

Aaron: Gotta go for twenty.

Awesome Hellgate 2012 video

one could scrawl a complete dissertation on the existential meaning of “authentic” in quotes in the modern era

It was past 1am and Aaron and I were downing breakfasts with a chunky monkey shake at the Silver Diner in Reston, VA.  I was kind of loopy because I had passed out hard in the Jeep on the way there (for the second time that day — the Jeep’s suspension always seems to lull me to sleep).  We can always hear the conversations of the people in the adjacent booths very clearly there, so we entirely understood why our waitress had this exasperated look of someone who is about the throw a plate of runny eggs at someone (why diners there seem to do everything in their power to get their entrees infused with waitress saliva I’ll never quite grasp).  Anyway, the most significant moment of the Silver Diner post-midnight breakfast was not the bastard in the other booth moaning about his undercooked turkey bacon or even the pile of chocolate chips awaiting at the bottom of the shake, but the sign explaining the “authentic” (in quotes) 1955 Seeburg Jukebox System.  At once the perplexing oxymoron crystallized why the Neil Young concert we had just come from had been worth every penny we had blown on it, including the ridiculous Ticketmaster fees.

click to see undistorted

The only thing disappointing about Neil Young and Crazy Horse’s Patriot Center performance was the fans.  Maybe it was the section we were in (the diehards were probably standing on the ground floor).  Maybe it’s that even though appropriately named Neil Young doesn’t seem to have aged (I’m referring to his exuberant energy, not his shriveled face that looks like Chucky when it grimaces real hard), his fan base certainly has.  And while Mr Young continues to grow his music, many of fans are still stuck in the 60s and 70s.  Although Young chimed in with enough old classics to placate the fans who came the see CSNY (‘The Needle and the Damage Done’, ‘Cinnamon Girl’, ‘My, my, hey, hey (out of the black)’, ‘Mr Soul’), many completely tuned out (or tuned into the beer or bathroom line) when he turned to the material from his recently released ‘Psychedelic Pill’ album.  NY & CH ain’t no CSNY.  I’ll admit, the prolonged feedback at the end of the 25-minute ‘Walk Like a Giant’ (which was otherwise fantastic) was a little rough on the ears.  And it was kind of hard for the audience to get into the show when Neil never seemed to be able to actually finish a song, making it hard to release a hearty applause.  (I told Aaron I considered this a metaphor for his possessed refusal to let the music (and his career) come to a close, but more likely it was just that he was getting a little carried away — and knows that as Neil Young he can pretty much get away with anything.)  I also found the random lady wandering the stage with a guitar case during ‘A Girl with No Song’ somewhat baffling.

But aside from these minor perturbations, the concert was brilliant.  One song he’s thumping his electric guitar ‘Blackie’ with enough incendiary heat to exorcize his 68 years worth of demons.  The next moment he’s plaintively stroking his acoustic guitar, as if transporting the audience to a Montana campfire drinking whiskey and watching stars.  The trance couldn’t even be broken by the lady sitting next to me who couldn’t seem to unglue her nose from her phone’s data plan or all the people who kept getting up in the middle of the song.  But it was heartening when the fresh aroma of pot wafted by during a transcendent version of ‘Cortez the Killer’ — at least someone else in my otherwise loser section 110 was digging it (although to enjoy this particulary song I have to consciously block out the lyrics and his absurdly overly rosy depiction of the pre-Spanish arrival Aztecs as folks of peace and love — really, Neil??).

The brilliance of the Neil Young performance is that you combine fresh creativity (even at 68 he’s still churning out fantastic new albums that take full advantage of his loose creative license) with the wizened comfort of someone who has earned the right not to give a fuck.  Normally, I’d write f&%k or something, but he dropped so many f-bombs during the show (one song consisted of a good five minutes of him repeatedly uttering the phrase with increasing thrill, ‘He’s a fuck up!’) that it’s more appropriate in this case to just write the damn word.  Neil Young kind of reminds me of what Tom Corris would be like if he had musical talent.  Except that one of the greatest features of Young is that he strikes you as the kind of guy who’s never picked up a lady in a bar, ever.  Even after becoming one of the most famous singers.  Aaron pointed out that Neil Young looked exactly like the kind of guy you would instruct your kids not to talk to if he lived down the street.  In a floppy flannel and worn jeans that were most likely whatever was on the top of the pile, Young shreds all pretension.  One of the best moments of the night was when he was musing to himself about which classic he should play to appease the crowds and about how he could time capsule back to an older era; imagining that the crowd was not convinced of his ability to time warp he spat out ‘Fuckin’ doubters!’  And for that one ‘Cinnamon Girl’ he did, the biggest crowd-pleaser of the night.  Unfortunately, most of the fans in the Patriot Center that night were looking to replay their nostalgic 1960’s past.  And for that purpose they could have much better spent their quarters at the Silver Diner’s “authentic” juke box.  Neil Young has powered into the present, with an authenticity and easy fierceness that at least Aaron, myself, and the dude lighting up in the back of section 110 were there to revel in.

(‘Neil Young at Patriot Center: Still a Heart of Gold’ concert review by the Washington Post: I always refrain from trying to write about things like music because I’m god awful at trying to describe musical qualities in type, so here’s the Post guy’s take — some a nice picture and some hilarious comments, particularly the lady who opposes Neil Young’s apparent fondness for cats.)

Our dear Mr Paul P, age 50

Um, yeah, so Aaron did some reconnaissance and we’re no longer going to abet Mr Paul P’s quest for runner love.  We are 100% certain that pictured at left is our suspect. We are less certain about the identity of the female, as we have no name.  But based on the Baltimore Marathon results and the kind of personality that would humor a guy like this on a Friday night running along a highway, this is our best guess.  Unfortunately, the age of this woman is 22.  But it doesn’t entirely make sense as this woman, Christina England, is from Silver Spring.

suspect #2:

I can’t say that I’ve ever started spontaneously running with a stranger on a casual run (in fact, it becomes quite annoying when I converge with someone running a similar pace on the trail and do my up).  During a long race I’m willing to be very chatty, but there is a sense of camaraderie around a race that I don’t have when running in public.

In an effort to help Paul P. who emailed me this morning in his quest for a shiny spandex runner romance, I’m pasting the contents of the message below.  If any of you have info on this mysterious woman (maybe she Paul Ryaned her marathon time to him), lend a brother a hand!  Why Paulie here was running on a highway like Shady Grove Road last night (I always see joggers running on the least attractive roadsides), and why he didn’t use the Baltimore Marathon’s extensive collection of marathon photos, well I guess I’ll never find out.

And yes, my alibi is correct: Aaron and I spent our Friday evening in the company of Neil Young and Crazy Horse.  I could write my review of the experience here, but honestly, Mr Young deserves better than to be clumped in with Mr Paulie here.

Also, for the record I ran yesterday in Glover Park and running through Dumbarton Oaks I passed a outing of children from the nearby British School.  As they stepped aside to let me run by one of the little uniformed boys shouted out to me in his thick British accent, ‘Good morning!  Happy jogging!’  Seriously, next time I see you on the trail I’m using that awesome line.