The Annual Rider Rock And Stroll Marathon Recap
Steve Rider

"It's not that you aren't good at a marathon, you just don't train that much."

Don't you just hate it when you're minding your own business, and then some guy, disguised as your buddy, smacks you with such a cold hard dosage of reality that it's painful to just look in the mirror? Dang Dave Monico, former teammate of mine and assistant coach at UCSB pretty much did that in the above statement.

As an indication of time flying by much faster than it's supposed to, I find myself yet again writing my 3rd Rock N Roll Marathon recap. In the past, I've brought you the uncensored truth about this race - nauseating people in the finish area, deceptive vaseline being administered to unsuspecting runners, hot girls willing to leave their significant other based solely on being overwhelmed by other guys' corral seeding number. More shocking events did unfold this year with some Big West rivalries reigniting, international romance bubbling, cops, politics and who knows what else I'll think of.

My expectations for this race were sorta mixed. Rusty Snow took over my training last Fall. If I had to describe Rusty in two words it would be "intense," "optimistic" and "driven." Rusty put me on all these crazy miles, running all over town, doing fast Sunday runs etc. He brought me back into respectable shape in December. Unfortunately we ran a marathon in January and it didn't go so great. Since then, I've been running on my own and tried to maintain my mileage and get back into respectable shape. It hasn't, technically speaking, worked.

Things have changed in San Diego from a year ago. For one thing, my dad has an alarming chance of being the next mayor. Recently San Diego's mayor resigned because the city is in a financial crises. This is mostly due to some pretty shady accounting that resembles my "two" words to describe Rusty. There will be a special election in July. Right now my dad is polled at 3rd or 4th position with 15-25% of the vote and hopes to make the runoff in November. My Dad's platform (in one sentence) is that he's a cheap guy and wants the city to employ some frugal tactics in order to avoid bankruptcy which is the most likely outcome.

As evidence of my Dad's frugality, I am given this T-shirt to wear which modestly says "RIDER FOR MAYOR" in big letters that I think he may have written in pen or crayon, I'm not sure. He says to wear this thing even though it bears no resemblance to a running singlet. This creates an ethical question for me because, one, I am sponsored by Asics and am supposed to be wearing their gear for the next 8 months (that distant screaming you hear is Rusty and Aaron yelling "WHAAAT?!?!?"). The other dilemma is that this shirt could create a liability with the race because of its weight and texture. After some elegant tailoring of the garment, namely me ripping off the sleeves, I decide to support my father's race in my race.

So here I go, waking up at the unusual hour of 5 and head down to good old Balboa Park. It's chillier than I remember but that doesn't prevent me from unzipping my jacket to casually advertise that I've been misplaced in corral numero uno. To this day I have received zero female attention for this little maneuver, but that doesn't stop me from freezing my buns off before a 26 miler.

In my corral, two kids were sporting some Long Beach State gear. My adrenaline surges as my old Big West killer instincts begin to surface. Us Gauchos pride ourselves not only on having Nobel prize winning academics, but a solid running program as well. Long Beach State, not known for either, has become regarded as having some of the most intimidating skin paintings known to mankind. These two 49ers have no doubt sought out the Yoda equivalent of this practice, as they have masterfully painted "LBSU" in big scary letters on their arms for those that didn't see the writing on the jersey.

6:30 and a gunshot and we're off and running. It's always fun to see who does what the first 400 yards or so. People running all over the place in zig zag fashion trying to extend their traveling distance to 26 and a HALF miles. People cheering and high fiving acting all goofy. I settle in to a comfortable pace that seems reasonable to hold for another 26 miles. The two Long Beach kids whiz by me in very Long Beast State fashion going through the mile easily under 5:30 pace. Less than a mile later, and I swear this is true, as I am passing them I overhear one guy say to the other in an out of breath tone, "man this is going to suck!"

My goal was 6 minute pace and I'm pretty close at the start. The lead women's pack is going pretty slow, but I know they'll be holding around 5:40's based on prior races. Three miles in and I've settled in with some guys all holding 6 minutes. One guy examines my shirt (which again says "Rider For Mayor") and after careful contemplation he says to me, "Rider huh? He's running for mayor?" I am guessing that Long Beach State had more representatives in the race than just our finger-painting heroes behind me.

At mile 6, a woman catches us and her outfit offers some pretty inspiring reasons to hold her pace. Now while I might be willing to sabotage my race for female attention before the race, I'm careful to not let my personal feelings provide any bad tactics. But she seems intent on also holding 6 minute pace. I conveniently navigate next to her and she's quite pretty, even flaunting some makeup. Thinking back on this, I should be grateful that I didn't trip on a curb as I was running staring at her. How would I explain that to you all? I'm guessing she was Russian, which as my company's IT department will tell you, is my brand.

We cruise together for 4 miles. One of the mile clocks was off by about 10 seconds which I tried to explain briefly outloud to her by saying, "that's not right, I think it's ten seconds slow." She replied less than enthusiastically with, "da," which I'm guessing is Russian for, "Shut-up you capitalist pig, and stop looking at my outfit."

I say this in just about every one of my articles, but this elite Russian definitely was not an honors student when it comes to geometry. She was all over the course, paying no mind to the shortest distance to a turn being a straight line.

Mile ten and the honeymoon ends. I decide to let my international affair fizzle as she charges up the hill without me. Mile 13 and I get the impression that I have miscalculated my fitness and may be in danger of bonking. I come through the half in just under 2:40 pace, which would have been satisfying to hold for another 13 miles. Mile 15, the course has changed a bit and I'm now going in uncharted territories. People have been passing me fairly consistently as my pace has dropped to mid 6's. Being the Magellan kind of guy that I am, I somehow manage to veer off the course for a bit. I go for about 10 seconds before people start going crazy. It takes me an additional 10 seconds before I realize they are yelling at me because a cop car used his bull-horn. And it takes yet another 10 seconds for me to agree that maybe this isn't the best way to go. Saying I ended up in La Jolla seemed like a pretty good excuse for not finishing.

Mile 17 and I'm officially in the hurtbox. Damn marathon, why did I signup for this. I see my Pops and curse myself for promising him that I'd finish. Him and his stupid shirt which has turned into a very soaked garment weighing, in my objective estimation, 80 pounds.

I check my pace and I've fallen to about 7:10 pace with a cool 9 miles to go. "Ooh this will be fun," I say to myself. I am a bit of a numbers guy, so this whole time I've been forecasting my finish. "If I can hold this pace and lose some time here and there yada yada." My hopes of cracking 2:40 are bumped up to 2:50. At mile 20 I realize that sub 2:50 is not looking so good. I get a bit annoyed at this. Last year when I ran, I had next to no training, and was just trying to hit the Boston time. This year, with considerably more training, I'm very much in danger of running my slowest ever.

Sure enough at mile 23 I have fallen to very near EIGHT minute mile pace. A very very slow recovery day for me will entail clicking off 7:30's, more typical is a 6:45-6:30 range. I'm now in slight danger of not even cracking 3 hours. I do the math and with two miles to go I realize that as long as I hold 10 minute miles I'll be under the big 3 hour barrier. My frustration continues to mount, as the race is now for all intents and purposes over. My time is already set to be in the mid 2:50's, I'm just going through the motions of wrapping it up. Some really not-fast looking guys are passing me now and I wonder how stupid I look. Fortunately the 49ers don't catch me and I can only imagine their pain after that first mile. The last 1,000 meters get really ugly as my stomach mysteriously explodes sending excruciating pain throughout my side. I start to tilt a bit, but I maintain the course of forward. Down the homestretch in front of all the fans I crawl at my 8 minute pace. Two guys pass me, but the last ounce of pride I have comes to life and I drop the hammer on them as I unleash a furious kick that had to be at least 6:50 pace and I get to the line ahead of them.

As usual, I am not so well afterwards. I greet the volunteers in the finish area with my usual throw-up routine and empty stare that is often used when asking questions like "where am I?" This year I had much better manners though as I expelled my fluids in a nice bucket. A nice woman rubbed my back and helped me stay upright, and said she was a mom so don't worry. These volunteers really are a mystery to me. Who gets up at 6 in the morning on a Sunday and agrees to hangout in an area where you'll be dealing with these zombie-ish people incapable of speech, waddling towards them demanding water, carbohydrates, a medal, and even occasionally throwing up on them. Such generosity is truly a wonderful thing.

Anyway, reflecting on the whole experience, the race was pretty much a disaster. As I said, I've been trying to train hard, but I just haven't been getting it done. Part of me thinks that maybe I'm more of a 5k-10k runner, and that marathoning just ain't my thing. But as my "friend" says, I just haven't been training like the old days.

In response to Liz Werhane's article that pointed out the pluses to not giving 100% to running; one issue she didn't touch on was what happens when you go back to being a regular runner? As someone who used to do 100%, and now probably gives around 60%, it's tough to step on the line and perform at a laughable level compared to the old days. I'm like one of those genetically breaded dogs that is really small. No, I am not coveted by Paris-Hilton wannabes. I have this internal frame of mind that believes I'm really a big scary fire-breathing 14:26 5k dog, when the truth is quite the contrary.

It's all just a matter of return on your training investment. See you all this Saturday. I'm going to see what kind of 3k shape I'm in.