Having returned to Tucson from Wisconsin on Thanksgiving day, thus neatly avoiding any cooking responsibilities or overeating opportunities, it was time to gear up for the Tucson Winter Running Season. I did miss the annual Turkey Trot up the street in Reid Park, but oh well. I had closed down my Midwest running season with a Quad Series consisting of a back to back weekend of the Tyrenea Beer Run Half Marathon in Lake Mills, followed the next day by the Badgerland Striders 15K Turkey Trot predictor in Greenfield, where once again, I managed to avoid winning a turkey, or, for that matter being one. The next weekend with my constant Wisconsin Race companion’s Greg (Texas Greg) and Gregg (Attorney Gregg), joined by Carol and her husband John, we made a trek down to Columbia City, Indiana where we partook of the Inaugural Veterans Run. Greg and Gregg completed the half marathon in admirable shape, while Carol and I slogged out the full 26.2 on the sunny rural (and hilly and windy) Indiana roads. Or, as I chortled several times to anyone who would listen, it took two Gregs to run as far as one of me!
Veterans Run Finish Line - Photo thanks to John KuhnMaybe I’ll blog on that race later, however, the next weekend brought the same cast of characters as well as my running partner Rhonda, Mary Lynne and Mary Elizabeth to the “Run around the World 5K” at Wisconsin State Fair Park, where again, all performed admirably, and thankfully Gregg Herman won in his age group, adding a coffee mug to his already immense pile of Swag and Trinkets.
The Around the World Gang - Photo thanks to Scott WeilandHaving thus fortified myself with four excellent Midwest race experiences, I was ready to tackle the Tucson trails upon my return.
First one that came on the radar, was the “Pecan Classic 8-miler” an inaugural event to be held at the Green Valley Pecan Farm in Sahuarita, a community about a half hour south of the Tucson Command Center. The event is run by Tagg Racing events, I had met Steve Taggart the race director at two other events he had run and I enjoyed his setup, old school scoring and small unique fields.
I had procrastinated on deciding to do this race, so I mailed in my registration (there was a $3 coupon for mail-in registration) past the cutoff day for the guaranteed Technical T-shirt. I was somewhat less than chagrined about this at the time, thinking to myself that I have plenty of T-shirts – technical as well as others.
So, comes the day – Saturday, and I’m up late the night before talking with Step-son Jeremy. Alarm goes off a few hours later at 5:52 am, and I grudgingly roll out of bed, and eventually find my way out the door to head to the race. And, just as quickly head back inside, because it’s COLD outside!!! Thermometer reads 39 degrees – in Tucson – so I go back upstairs and add a long sleeve technical shirt, gloves and my sweats to the gym bag
And, a darn good thing I did, too…..
I roll the Toyota out onto Barrazza Aviation Parkway, exit on Kino, pick up I-10 and swoop out onto I-19 south, and in less than 30 minutes, I’m hanging a right off of Sahuarita road into a brightly paved reddish brown parking lot across the street from the Green Valley Pecan Farm. I park, and head over to the registration table to pick up my bib. A blast of cold wind howls around me as I trudge across the crunchy surface, and looking down, I suddenly realize, that I’m actually walking on crushed pecan shells. Nutty!
The volunteers are handing out cool looking technical shirts with the bibs, except when it comes to me, I’m handed a bib and no shirt. Checking my name and age to be sure it’s me, also printed in capital letters are NO SHIRT on the information tag. In spite of my earlier resolve, I’m instantly glum, it’s bad enough not getting a cool shirt, but also to have it emblazoned on my bib for all to see feels shameful.
I crunch my way back to the car and hop back in shivering. I had worn shorts and a short sleeve shirt, thinking “it’s Arizona!” and that it would warm up by the 8:00 am start time but now I’m rethinking my attire. As I'm now at a little more altitude than Tucson proper, the outside thermometer now reads 36 degrees, the sun had risen and then promptly sank into a bed of clouds and the wind is picking up, whipping the tree branches of the acres of pecan trees that we are parked on the edge of. It’s cold! And, one thing I’ve learned about Arizona cold is that what temperature-wise is not a bad day in Wisconsin, is frigid in AZ – because it’s a “dry” cold. Cuts like a knife!
I dawdle in the warmth of the Toyota until the last possible minute, watching groups of runners clad in tights, sweats, and winter gear trudge back and forth. There are few, if any people in shorts, and those that are generally are wearing hoodies or other arctic-type gear including wool hats and gloves. Mentally shrugging, I do a quick costume change in the car, pull on my Carlsbad Marathon long-sleeve technical shirt and my nylon sweats, dig out the cotton gloves and join the stream of runners heading across the windy field (and, actually, a deep drainage ditch) to the start of the race. Even with the extra layers, I’m freezing.
I try to blend subtly into the crowd of about 200 runners, attempting to stay close to other runners to block the wind, still it’s a few minutes of hopping, shivering and looking miserable before Steve the race director fires up the bullhorn, chivvies us up, twirls the LED Clock around to face us and then finally, we’re off, and heading down the rutted dirt orchard roads on an 8 mile trek.
Or, at least, that’s what I thought………….
I blast off with the crowd, feeling challenged and stiff because of the cold, , altitude, and uneven surface, and follow the leaders for awhile. The first mile is a square loop, which actually takes us back to the start line before heading out on a longer trek and I complete it close to the front of the pack. I shout at Steve as I go by – he knew me also on sight from previous racers, he’s an exuberant man who has a lot of fun running his events. Then, I’m off into the distance, following the orchard roads through what seems like thousands of pecan trees that stretch out as far as the eye can see.
We head out for a long time, taking an occasional right or left and the roads go on and on. There is a stiff cold headwind and as I assess my legs and the grade, I’m instantly convinced that it is ever so subtly, but gradually, uphill (and into the wind) as we head out. Later my GPS printout will confirm this. Shortly (or so it seems) after I leave the start/finish area for the second time I pass what looks like a large chalk marked “Infinity Symbol” on the left hand side of the trail as I thunder outwards. It didn’t register at the time, however, later the ramifications of this sacred geometry symbol would become clear.
I continue outwards as the pack spreads out. I began to be passed by some faster runners, including some members of the Border Patrol (I can tell because they’re wearing jackets that say “Border Patrol”) and a pair of pony tailed young girls who thunder by me about mile three, chattering away. The smell of bubblegum hangs in the air behind them.
I’m as usual not feeling great, so I settle into about a 7:55 per mile groove. The cold, the altitude (touching 3,000 feet) the extra clothes, the gradual uphill, the stiff headwind all takes it’s toll – and an eight mile trail race? How do you gauge and pace that? It’s not a 5 or 10K, it’s not a half Marathon – I can’t find a pace for this, so I resolve to just gut it out as a tempo training run. I’m a slow bastard anyway, and anyway, not only is my running partner Rhonda 2,000 miles away, there is no Greg or Gregg to compete with.
There is a water stop around 3.5 miles and then a deeply scooped out boot camp- like drainage ditch to traverse. I grab some water (it may be cold, but it’s also dry!) and hurtle down into the ditch feeling the impact on my knees and quads, and clamber up the other side. The road continues to stretch outwards and uphill as I forge ahead.
Eventually, after endless rows of trees, I come to a fork in the road and see runners coming from the left, heading back, obviously the leaders of the pack coming in. I’m directed right and it’s another long square loop that takes us west, around the far end of the Pecan Ranch, then south, then east and then west again, back to the fork, where once I complete the big square, I’m now headed back to the start line.
After not feeling great most of the way, I’ve now got a tail wind and am getting back the uphill as a downhill. Up ahead of me are three male competitors who could in fact be in my age group, though being heavily clad against the elements it's too hard to tell, and they have eased past me in the first five miles and we’re now heading for mile 6. I again traverse the deep drainage ditch, pass the six mile marker and as if from a long way off, I feel my kick coming on. I start to accelerate, easing the pace up as the road stretches down towards where we had come from. I soon pick off my competitors, one, two…….three as I’m stretching out. I blow past the seven mile mark, (and a fading female track star as well) and actually have more gas in the tank than I thought, and thinking “last mile to go!” I start to pour it on.
The pace per mile on my GPS which had crept over 8 minutes per mile starts winding down, as my mileage starts to wind up. In spite of my pace, the last mile seems to take forever, I'm watching my GPS avidly - 7.3, 7.5, 7.7 – off in the distance I see some orange cones, and I sneak a peek back and see that I’ve vanquished my close competitors by a long stretch so I hold pace…..and turn a corner by the cones, which turn oug NOT to be the finish line – and, actually there is no finish line in sight either. “WTF?” I’m thinking. By now I’m all out and in the final stretch – I think.
Then, I pass the Eight Mile Marker.
First one that came on the radar, was the “Pecan Classic 8-miler” an inaugural event to be held at the Green Valley Pecan Farm in Sahuarita, a community about a half hour south of the Tucson Command Center. The event is run by Tagg Racing events, I had met Steve Taggart the race director at two other events he had run and I enjoyed his setup, old school scoring and small unique fields.
I had procrastinated on deciding to do this race, so I mailed in my registration (there was a $3 coupon for mail-in registration) past the cutoff day for the guaranteed Technical T-shirt. I was somewhat less than chagrined about this at the time, thinking to myself that I have plenty of T-shirts – technical as well as others.
So, comes the day – Saturday, and I’m up late the night before talking with Step-son Jeremy. Alarm goes off a few hours later at 5:52 am, and I grudgingly roll out of bed, and eventually find my way out the door to head to the race. And, just as quickly head back inside, because it’s COLD outside!!! Thermometer reads 39 degrees – in Tucson – so I go back upstairs and add a long sleeve technical shirt, gloves and my sweats to the gym bag
And, a darn good thing I did, too…..
I roll the Toyota out onto Barrazza Aviation Parkway, exit on Kino, pick up I-10 and swoop out onto I-19 south, and in less than 30 minutes, I’m hanging a right off of Sahuarita road into a brightly paved reddish brown parking lot across the street from the Green Valley Pecan Farm. I park, and head over to the registration table to pick up my bib. A blast of cold wind howls around me as I trudge across the crunchy surface, and looking down, I suddenly realize, that I’m actually walking on crushed pecan shells. Nutty!
The volunteers are handing out cool looking technical shirts with the bibs, except when it comes to me, I’m handed a bib and no shirt. Checking my name and age to be sure it’s me, also printed in capital letters are NO SHIRT on the information tag. In spite of my earlier resolve, I’m instantly glum, it’s bad enough not getting a cool shirt, but also to have it emblazoned on my bib for all to see feels shameful.
I crunch my way back to the car and hop back in shivering. I had worn shorts and a short sleeve shirt, thinking “it’s Arizona!” and that it would warm up by the 8:00 am start time but now I’m rethinking my attire. As I'm now at a little more altitude than Tucson proper, the outside thermometer now reads 36 degrees, the sun had risen and then promptly sank into a bed of clouds and the wind is picking up, whipping the tree branches of the acres of pecan trees that we are parked on the edge of. It’s cold! And, one thing I’ve learned about Arizona cold is that what temperature-wise is not a bad day in Wisconsin, is frigid in AZ – because it’s a “dry” cold. Cuts like a knife!
I dawdle in the warmth of the Toyota until the last possible minute, watching groups of runners clad in tights, sweats, and winter gear trudge back and forth. There are few, if any people in shorts, and those that are generally are wearing hoodies or other arctic-type gear including wool hats and gloves. Mentally shrugging, I do a quick costume change in the car, pull on my Carlsbad Marathon long-sleeve technical shirt and my nylon sweats, dig out the cotton gloves and join the stream of runners heading across the windy field (and, actually, a deep drainage ditch) to the start of the race. Even with the extra layers, I’m freezing.
I try to blend subtly into the crowd of about 200 runners, attempting to stay close to other runners to block the wind, still it’s a few minutes of hopping, shivering and looking miserable before Steve the race director fires up the bullhorn, chivvies us up, twirls the LED Clock around to face us and then finally, we’re off, and heading down the rutted dirt orchard roads on an 8 mile trek.
Or, at least, that’s what I thought………….
I blast off with the crowd, feeling challenged and stiff because of the cold, , altitude, and uneven surface, and follow the leaders for awhile. The first mile is a square loop, which actually takes us back to the start line before heading out on a longer trek and I complete it close to the front of the pack. I shout at Steve as I go by – he knew me also on sight from previous racers, he’s an exuberant man who has a lot of fun running his events. Then, I’m off into the distance, following the orchard roads through what seems like thousands of pecan trees that stretch out as far as the eye can see.
We head out for a long time, taking an occasional right or left and the roads go on and on. There is a stiff cold headwind and as I assess my legs and the grade, I’m instantly convinced that it is ever so subtly, but gradually, uphill (and into the wind) as we head out. Later my GPS printout will confirm this. Shortly (or so it seems) after I leave the start/finish area for the second time I pass what looks like a large chalk marked “Infinity Symbol” on the left hand side of the trail as I thunder outwards. It didn’t register at the time, however, later the ramifications of this sacred geometry symbol would become clear.
I continue outwards as the pack spreads out. I began to be passed by some faster runners, including some members of the Border Patrol (I can tell because they’re wearing jackets that say “Border Patrol”) and a pair of pony tailed young girls who thunder by me about mile three, chattering away. The smell of bubblegum hangs in the air behind them.
I’m as usual not feeling great, so I settle into about a 7:55 per mile groove. The cold, the altitude (touching 3,000 feet) the extra clothes, the gradual uphill, the stiff headwind all takes it’s toll – and an eight mile trail race? How do you gauge and pace that? It’s not a 5 or 10K, it’s not a half Marathon – I can’t find a pace for this, so I resolve to just gut it out as a tempo training run. I’m a slow bastard anyway, and anyway, not only is my running partner Rhonda 2,000 miles away, there is no Greg or Gregg to compete with.
There is a water stop around 3.5 miles and then a deeply scooped out boot camp- like drainage ditch to traverse. I grab some water (it may be cold, but it’s also dry!) and hurtle down into the ditch feeling the impact on my knees and quads, and clamber up the other side. The road continues to stretch outwards and uphill as I forge ahead.
Eventually, after endless rows of trees, I come to a fork in the road and see runners coming from the left, heading back, obviously the leaders of the pack coming in. I’m directed right and it’s another long square loop that takes us west, around the far end of the Pecan Ranch, then south, then east and then west again, back to the fork, where once I complete the big square, I’m now headed back to the start line.
After not feeling great most of the way, I’ve now got a tail wind and am getting back the uphill as a downhill. Up ahead of me are three male competitors who could in fact be in my age group, though being heavily clad against the elements it's too hard to tell, and they have eased past me in the first five miles and we’re now heading for mile 6. I again traverse the deep drainage ditch, pass the six mile marker and as if from a long way off, I feel my kick coming on. I start to accelerate, easing the pace up as the road stretches down towards where we had come from. I soon pick off my competitors, one, two…….three as I’m stretching out. I blow past the seven mile mark, (and a fading female track star as well) and actually have more gas in the tank than I thought, and thinking “last mile to go!” I start to pour it on.
The pace per mile on my GPS which had crept over 8 minutes per mile starts winding down, as my mileage starts to wind up. In spite of my pace, the last mile seems to take forever, I'm watching my GPS avidly - 7.3, 7.5, 7.7 – off in the distance I see some orange cones, and I sneak a peek back and see that I’ve vanquished my close competitors by a long stretch so I hold pace…..and turn a corner by the cones, which turn oug NOT to be the finish line – and, actually there is no finish line in sight either. “WTF?” I’m thinking. By now I’m all out and in the final stretch – I think.
Then, I pass the Eight Mile Marker.
Which, it instantly dawns on me was actually the “Infinity Symbol” I’d seen on the way out before……………..
Suffice it to say that the obscenities and Invective that coursed through my mind at that point would have turned the air blue, and probably caused a blight on the pecan trees for years to come had I had any breath to give voice to them. And now, since every part of the orchard looks the same and STILL no finish line in sight, I’m wondering “How far is this race anyway?”
(This is NUTS! Hah-hah!! I am too breathless to cackle out loud)
Not TOO Far as it turns out, but far enough that even though I keep pace and actually manage to eke out a little more leg, I’m starting a major fade as the finish line finally hove into sight a half mile later. I blast across the line, punch my GPS and glare at it. 8.50 miles on the nose – time of 67:56 or 7:59 per mile.
Suffice it to say that the obscenities and Invective that coursed through my mind at that point would have turned the air blue, and probably caused a blight on the pecan trees for years to come had I had any breath to give voice to them. And now, since every part of the orchard looks the same and STILL no finish line in sight, I’m wondering “How far is this race anyway?”
(This is NUTS! Hah-hah!! I am too breathless to cackle out loud)
Not TOO Far as it turns out, but far enough that even though I keep pace and actually manage to eke out a little more leg, I’m starting a major fade as the finish line finally hove into sight a half mile later. I blast across the line, punch my GPS and glare at it. 8.50 miles on the nose – time of 67:56 or 7:59 per mile.
I've done better. Still, Eight-point-Five Miles???
As is the usual case with Tagg Running events, I’m handed a card upon finishing to attach a sticker from my bib on to. According to my card, I’m number 35 across the finish line, apparently, but I don’t know what this means as of yet. I turn in my card and sticker and walk around in circles for a bit, looking for someone to complain to, however Race Director Steve has wisely disappeared and the finish line volunteers are busy with the stream of runners that are slogging their way in from the Nut Grove.
I amble over to the parking lot and over at the registration area, there are crates of bananas, what seems like thousands of Clementine Oranges and an enthusiastic grandmother type passing out great big handfuls of of small bags of pecans. I stuff my pockets, peel a few clementines, suddenly realize that I’m freezing YET again (it hasn’t warmed up at all!) and jog over to the Toyota to add some layers to my damp gear.
I dump out the pecans (I’d wind up having several handfuls pressed on me in the next hour or so – later I counted about 40 bags that I got away with) and don a hoodie, a fleece, a dry pair of gloves plus a hat. It’s a long wait for the finish results, but now I gotta know, so I stand around, talk on my cell phone with running partner Rhonda back in Wisconsin, chat with some of the local runners including a few of my vanquished foes, and eat about 18 Clementines while I wait for the results. Steve doesn’t post results so there is no checking out in advance to see if you have to wait around
The Awards finally get underway. Steve sheepishly starts off by saying “okay, next time the race WILL be advertised as an eight and a half mile course!” We all guffaw appreciatively, by now having forgiven him even though the T-shirts (which I don’t have) the entry form, and the Awards all still say “Eight Miles”, and after watching the fast guys get their gift certificates and big-ass plaques, the age group awards begin. Being in the old guy age group (though not as old as Attorney Gregg) I have to wait for awhile, but as usual in a Tagg Event, I’m second in my Age group, and go up in front of the now drastically reduced crowd to accept a magnetic Lucite plaque with my finish place on it. Steve shouts as he always does “Tell them where you’re from!”
“Oconomowoc, Wisconsin!” I declare proudly. “I Love it!” he shouts, then mutters to me “Hey! Can you hang around for a minute afterwards?”
“Sure” I respond, wondering what that’s all about.
As is the usual case with Tagg Running events, I’m handed a card upon finishing to attach a sticker from my bib on to. According to my card, I’m number 35 across the finish line, apparently, but I don’t know what this means as of yet. I turn in my card and sticker and walk around in circles for a bit, looking for someone to complain to, however Race Director Steve has wisely disappeared and the finish line volunteers are busy with the stream of runners that are slogging their way in from the Nut Grove.
I amble over to the parking lot and over at the registration area, there are crates of bananas, what seems like thousands of Clementine Oranges and an enthusiastic grandmother type passing out great big handfuls of of small bags of pecans. I stuff my pockets, peel a few clementines, suddenly realize that I’m freezing YET again (it hasn’t warmed up at all!) and jog over to the Toyota to add some layers to my damp gear.
I dump out the pecans (I’d wind up having several handfuls pressed on me in the next hour or so – later I counted about 40 bags that I got away with) and don a hoodie, a fleece, a dry pair of gloves plus a hat. It’s a long wait for the finish results, but now I gotta know, so I stand around, talk on my cell phone with running partner Rhonda back in Wisconsin, chat with some of the local runners including a few of my vanquished foes, and eat about 18 Clementines while I wait for the results. Steve doesn’t post results so there is no checking out in advance to see if you have to wait around
The Awards finally get underway. Steve sheepishly starts off by saying “okay, next time the race WILL be advertised as an eight and a half mile course!” We all guffaw appreciatively, by now having forgiven him even though the T-shirts (which I don’t have) the entry form, and the Awards all still say “Eight Miles”, and after watching the fast guys get their gift certificates and big-ass plaques, the age group awards begin. Being in the old guy age group (though not as old as Attorney Gregg) I have to wait for awhile, but as usual in a Tagg Event, I’m second in my Age group, and go up in front of the now drastically reduced crowd to accept a magnetic Lucite plaque with my finish place on it. Steve shouts as he always does “Tell them where you’re from!”
“Oconomowoc, Wisconsin!” I declare proudly. “I Love it!” he shouts, then mutters to me “Hey! Can you hang around for a minute afterwards?”
“Sure” I respond, wondering what that’s all about.
My "Fridge Award" Photo thanks to ME
After the final old people awards are given, the crowd disperses and I again approach Steve. Once again, I learn what a class act he is and how he takes care of his “customers” He looks left and right and says “Can you wear a large shirt? I saved you one in my car because I knew you didn’t get one” Instantly, I’m exhalted, I now get a shirt!!!!!! He accosts a volunteer who retrieves it for me and after thanking him a few more times, I trudge back to the Toyota, pockets stuffed with Nuts and Oranges, my new shirt in hand (which, by the way still says 8 Miles!), and my Lucite Plaque in an inside pocket. It’s still not warm, but it’s been a great day………….
So, I went nuts at the Pecan Classic - all 8.5 miles of it - did well in my Age Group, got the shirt anyway, and now it’s time to do the Tucson Marathon (which will be Marathon 48) this weekend. We’ll see how this crack at the 26.2 goes, early indicators are that they have changed the course – again – and it looks mucho downhill for sure. If it’s inspiring, I’ll pop a few paragraphs on the blog to bring you all up to date. Looks like I’m on track to complete 50 by the time I turn 50, next stop is the Lost Dutchman in February, followed closely by the Mardi Gras Marathon at the end of that month with Step-Daughter Jenna. Stay tuned
Hope to see you all at a race soon!
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