Philosopher's Way 15k Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall in 58:42, a course record in this pretty storied NC trail race. It has been a while, and I am so happy to check back in with everyone! Fortunately, I now have two functioning Achilles tendons and a law degree! Thus, I can now physically perform my own original ballet, then legally sue you in the state of North Carolina if you infringe on my Swan Lake adaptation. However, after reading so many Scalia dissents during the last three years, I am now a strict Constitutional originalist. So in my ballet, there are only white swans, all male, which conceal carry massive, phallic assault weapons in a totally heterosexual way. AS THE FOUNDERS INTENDED.

If Obama had it his way, they wouldn't be able to hold hands.

Pre-Race:
So I am all done! Call me David, B.S., J.D. A major in Environmental Science wasn't even a Bachelor's of Science degree at Columbia (it is a B.A.), but I hear that whenever anyone has a law degree, the BS comes complimentary. BOOM LAWYERJOKE.

Addie laughs at lawyer jokes. Puppy is easy to please.

Oh gosh how I have missed all-caps. They are frowned upon in law journals, academic writing, and Ryan Gosling fansites.

Add "Ryan Gosling Eating Ice Cream" to the list of reasons that the first provision of my will is to delete all Google searches.

Anyway, things are going really well. School is officially out for the longest summer, with a bunch of super-humbling news updates (which I won't bore you with here...basically, my plaque collection is no longer confined to a few hard-to-reach teeth). Possibly the most random piece of news is that I'm the law school flag bearer at graduation. First, the law school has a flag (?). Second, I have seen too many war movies to think this is an honor. It's like being commissioned on the Enterprise, only to be given a red uniform and a Russian accent.

Training has been rolling along awesomely! My training partner is a puppy. She is younger, faster, and a more experienced running shoe minimalist. I think inov-8 sponsored the wrong member of the Roche household.

With law school in the rear-view mirror, a puppy on my lap, and absolutely no dead bodies in the back seat, I traveled down to Carolina North forest for the Philosopher's Way 15k. I have never run on these trails, and it was awesome to finally experience this race. It always has a sell-out crowd of 400 runners with some studs in the mix. The group that puts it on (the Trailheads) has a uniquely eccentric outlook, possibly best embodied by this picture:

He made the mistake of signing the liability waiver 65 million years ago too.

The warm-up included either 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, or 42 poops in the woods. SPOILER ALERT: that is what the Lost code meant all along. BRAAAAAHHHHHMMMM..

Finally, for the first time in inov-8s (the awesomely fast and durable Trail Roc 245s), I was ready to race. After returning to racing post-injury a couple weeks ago at the awesome Medoc Spring Races (where Alex Varner, 4-time Dipsea champ, took my lunch money by a minute and we both lost to Lorraine Young in the handicapped-starting system), it was great to feel like myself again. We lined up, did butterfly stretches as an excuse to covertly fart, and THEY'RE OFF!

Race:
The 15k course is shaped like the digestive tract. We started at the mouth, spent a quarter mile on the straight bridle path (the esophagus), got tossed in a loop on some single track that led into the forest (the stomach), then proceeded to go back and forth over and over on technical, leg-muscle-digesting trail (the intestine), only to somehow exit at the finish in the same place the race started. So I guess that in this analogy, the mouth and the butt-hole are in the same place and have similar excretions. Basically, that gives the course map all of the qualifications necessary to run for the House of Representatives.

Did that make any sense? NO. Was it worth it to make a political joke? Skittish rattle shrimp forklift.

Anyway, after turning on to the technical single-track 1/4 mile in, I attempted to get out of sight as quickly as possible. At races like this, out of sight can be out of mind because every turn requires focus. Once a little bit of focus leaves, a runner can lose 2 or 3 seconds per turn (so a billion seconds over the course of this race). With trail superstar and multi-time defending champ Duncan Hoge chasing, it seemed like sprinting was a solid choice. Each time the trail opened up, even for 10 meters, I'd try to recommit, pumping my arms and flailing my legs before screeching into the next corner.

Yes, I am not accustomed to shirts, and yes, neither are my nipples.

Apparently, based on that meters comment, I was using metric in my race execution. I blame the race organizers for advertising a carbon neutral event. Global warming and kilometers are two things only Communists care about.

After a few miles of trail intervals, we came to the first water stop. Based on the cheering echoing through the trees, Duncan was about 30 seconds back. When we dove back into the single-track to get thrashed around in the surf, I decided to make one big push to make it to calmer waters. The Trail Rocs climbed so well (I am not accustomed to light-weight, grippy shoes!), and by mile 6 the sound test revealed over a minute gap. Thoroughly knackered, I eased into a more cautious approach, gaining a semblance of concern for the well-being of my ankles. Dazing out on the twisty trails, I suddenly heard the loud cheering of the finish line. I glanced down at my watch to see 57:xx. After being told before the race that breaking an hour would be really tough on this course (the previous best time was 1:00:06), I put my head down for the last few switchbacks and crossed the line in 58:42. The award was New Balance shoes. My training partner is going to get an expensive chew toy.

Seriously, I owe you all so much for the last few years. I have now periodically blogged for half a decade, and the support, brilliantly evil comments, and just the knowledge that you people are out there (whether in person or over the internet) means so much. Thanks for everything guys :) 

Sponsored Puppy Job

Without the proper punctuation (which would be multiple exclamation points between each word), that title appears to be a really awesome vocation. Or a horribly depraved sex act. I blame the internet for both possibilities.

Spoiler Alert: THIS IS OUR NEW PUPPY!

I will start by addressing the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Mr. Gorilla, what is your zip code again? Haha, I am sure you missed that type of subtle irony. It would have been even better if I didn't translate the question from his Gorilla language. Proper meaning in Gorilla is all about the spin you put on the poop when you throw it. That is also how the House of Representatives communicates.

My guess is that his poop packs a punch, as his diet consists solely of carrots.

Two paragraphs in, and there have already been references to poop and politics. It's like I never stopped blogging for FOUR FREAKING MONTHS. Man, that is a fail. It all started when I was given legal council (or is it counsel? cou$il if they work at a big firm?) to have the blog go dormant while I was being considered for some honors positions within government agencies. In one of those interviews, I used the phrase "seeing the sausage get made." TWICE. I did not get that job. So yeah, probably not the blog's fault on that one.

Anyway, on the racing front I DNF'd the US Trail Marathon Championships in November. My running style (prancing delicately like a newborn gazelle on uphills and crashing snortily like a sexually frustrated boar on the downhills) was not suited to the terrain in Moab, Utah, and my ankles learned that the hard way. On Thanksgiving, I won a turkey at a 5-mile race, then won the Run at the Rock Trail 14-Miler in December in 1:19:04 (course record!). Which will be my last shirtless race for a while because..........

Building the suspense...

I signed with inov-8! Inov-8 is an amazing running shoe company that is starting to take over trail running in the U.S., and I am so honored to represent them. I want you guys to know that, unlike all of those other sponsored athletes, I'll always be honest about inov-8 products. I mean, we all know that a pair of Trail Roc 245s will make you irresistable to the gender/species of your choosing, but initial lab reports are only strongly suggestive of a causal connection between wearing Road-X 233s and spontaneously gaining the powers of every superhero in the Justice League. The hold-up in on Aquaman's whole "being able to talk to fish" thing. Inov-8 generally only supports the cool, non-schizophrenic superpowers.

Mardi-Gras cat gave me permission to celebrate!

Seriously though, inov-8 is an incredible company, and I am lucky as hell. The shoes are also very popular among the Crossfit crowd, so to be the best spokesman I can be, I am practicing communicating by typing in all caps for short periods of time. RAWR KETTLEBALL FUNNY PULL-UP.

Anyway, we are targeting some big races this summer, so I'll keep everyone updated! I owe so much to you guys and your support over the years, thank you :)

Yes we can!

In even more cool news, Megan and I are now puppy owners! A month ago, we were driving west to Hanging Rock State Park for a weekend of exploring. In the last little town on the road, a big cardboard sign was being put up on Main Street. “FREE PUPS -->”, it said (how that sign didn’t have an exclamation point, I’ll never know). Neither of us had ever owned a dog, but that sign was too amazing to resist. So we made the turn, and 7 puppies were unattended in the back of a pick-up truck. We waited for 15 minutes, the whole time falling deeper in love with the puppy that came over and licked Megan’s hand. Finally, a man shows up and says, “Yeah, they are beautiful animals…we just had a few too many pups on the farm.” That day, we were given the gift of an awesome puppy. That night, we were given the gift of an awe-inspiring amount of poop on the carpet.

Trail running poop intermission.

Addie the Adventure Puppy is really great, and I have learned a lot from her. For example, did you know that puppies from farms can poop entire strands of angel hair pasta? Wait...you're telling me that wasn't pasta? 

/vomits 
//Addie eats vomit 
///"It's the circlllllle, the circle of bile"

Finally, I am incredibly fortunate to have an amazing job for next year. After taking the bar exam this summer, I will start the Public Interest Fellowship at the Environmental Law Institute in DC. It is my dream job out of school, and I hope to make as much of a difference as I can in ELI's world-changing mission. Duke Magazine must have had a particularly slow news cycle, because they wrote an amazing, humbling profile that has even more updates:

http://law.duke.edu/news/david-roche-13/

I promise to never, ever have a blog be this self-centered ever again. Like, ever. Those of you that are Taylor Swift fans will know that it is almost impossible not to bust out in song after saying that last line. Those of you that are not Taylor Swift fans....haha, we all know that people like that don't exist outside of remote outposts in Siberia. And a massive, freak asteroid almost just hit those people. So basically I am saying that everyone should listen to Taylor Swift because she writes really great music, and can control the cosmos.

The river of time continues to flow. That should probably be a T-Swift lyric.

You guys are so amazing! Thanks for helping me appreciate the sausage as it gets made. Or something like that.

 

Medoc Mountain Trail 10 Miler Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall in 55:47, 1:51 faster than last year. I think that time margin is a palindrome. But I am not entirely sure, because Big Bird taught me what that word meant, and I just heard that he is the budgetary devil. incarnate. DEVILINCARNATE.

All consumption is good. It lead to growth. Cookie Monster/Ryan 2012. 

Pre-Race:
Assuming I pass, this is my last year of school. Luckily, I have classes with titles like "Readings in Happiness" (seriously, that is one of my classes). The curriculum is geared towards lawyers, so we do things like read "Inferno" and think about home.

So this year is primarily concerned with the law journal, the company, and the public interest job search. The journal is going realy  good. The company now has a full-time lab in Research Triangle Park and has had some great local media coverage (CEO Justine is a superstar). And the job search has been amazing!

MALARKEY!

Crap, it looks like Joe Biden is fact-checking me. I hope he never looks into the details behind the 1 hour, 30 minute marathon I did before climbing all of Colorado's 154 fourteen-thousand foot peaks in a single day. I'm a numbers guy. P89X!

If he was using the Shake Weight, it would be physically impossible not to vote Republican.

To be serious, public interest jobs move at a much slower pace than private firm jobs (where, over a year ago, many had a general idea where they'll be working, how much they'll be paid, and how rarely they'll feel the sun on their skin unless their office is strategically placed near an east-facing window). This results in a lot of applications and networking. And, most of all, it involves waiting. That's the hard part, I guess. Waiting is the opposite of how I like to approach problems. A 20-page paper? Just start writing. A 20-mile race? Go out in a 4:40 mile. But this is different. I hope to make a positive difference for people and for the environment, and I guess that waiting is an integral part of that goal. I just hope that when Godot arrives, I can do my part to make the world just a slightly better place.

DAVID, [smirk], IN BECKETT'S PLAY, GODOT NEVER ARRIVES.

Screw you and your facts Joe! 

Yes, Joe, Paul Ryan excites my base too.

Anyway, things are amazing, and the uncertainty is actually really exciting. In some ways it is a lot like lining up for a race, taking a deep breath, and having no idea how the day on the trails is going to unfold. And, if Medoc is any indication, it is at that moment, with my loved ones cheering, the Fall air crisp, and the nervous energy flowing, that it is impossible not to realize just how awesome it is to be alive, in this or any moment.

But the start line is getting ahead in the story, because first I needed to get lost on the way to the race. I exited I-85, and started driving east. About 20 minutes later, I passed 85 again, still going east. The Bermuda Triangle has nothing on North Carolina's Triangle. Also, if you say "Triangle" a bunch of times in your head, it begins to lose all of its meaning. Then you realize that language is a social construct. Shit, so is money. And pooping in toilets. ANARCHY!

After adding an hour onto the 90 minute drive, I arrived at Medoc just in time to see my dad off on his first-ever marathon. I was so proud of him, and got a quick hug just before his race began. It's a good thing I got it in before the race, because based on the two pools of red on the front of his shirt at mile 20, a chest-to-chest post-race hug would have resulted in severe trauma.

A quick warm-up, saying hi to the best Race Director ever Michael Forrester, dousing myself with water (a pre-race routine), AND THEY'RE OFF!

The cover on my romantic novel can be used to induce vomiting. And, surprisingly  to cure hemorrhoids. Don't think about it too much.

Race:
The best thing about dousing yourself with water when it is 40 degrees is that you go really fast in the first mile to avoid a reenactment of the end of "Into the Wild." So I went out way too hard on the park roads, hitting the mile marker in 4:41 before we careened off onto single-track. My mom was at the turn screaming her head off, which sent empowering chills down my spine. Or that could be hypothermia. 

She is 61. Holy crap she looks incredible.

After looking for Rose to tell her how cold it was, I decided to let go of the floating door and commit to every acceleration. I think that is my number one tip for trail racing--commit to each turn, each slight downhill, and each rock-jump, trying to make up a second or two at a time. Those seconds add up, and I think that fast trail racing is anything but meditative. I think it's best to be in the moment, with your brain screaming "Go! Go! Go!" As the old road bike racing saying goes, "If you're not moving forward, you're moving backward."

On the climb up Medoc Mountain, however, my brain was screaming "No! Go! Slow!" 

...JOE?

Get out of here Biden! 

I'm sorry Joe.

So I was having a bit of a tough day on mile 4 as the trail went up, but was able to regroup on the flat bridle path along the ridge. For some reason, this race was biting into my legs and searing the pit of my stomach. But the awesome thing about trail running is that it's not a scientific calculation where you want the slope of the lactic acid line to result in you reaching 100% fatigue at the finish line. The trails are anything but linear, with inflection points and asymptotes that correspond with the terrain. 

On the descent off the ridge, I got that smiley feeling thinking about loved ones at the finish line and on the trails. I started to pass marathoners (they started 30 minutes earlier), and each one of their encouraging words added some pep to my step. At mile 7, Mom once again unleashed an empowering cheer, and I began sprinting down the next section of single-track.

Everyone on the course was amazing, echoing my mom's yells, and I tried to use each inspiring word as motivation to make the next section hurt. Crossing a grass field toward the finish line, Michael began screaming over the loudspeaker, "David is WAY under course-record pace!" With one last acceleration, I crossed the finish line in 55:47, around 9 minutes up on 2nd place. 

Medoc is one of the best races I have ever done, and an example of that are the "trail names," where you make up a nickname for your bib. It is custom to use the trail names in conversation, as I learned when the reporter came up and addressed me as "FartSTRONG." The best thing about the day, though, was seeing my hero finish his first marathon (in record time for his age group) just 4 months after his diagnosis. Love you "Nose Hair the Magnificent"!

Thanks so much to Michael (the best RD ever), all of the amazing friends at Medoc, and everyone reading. You guys are awesome :)

James River Trail 8 Miler Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall in 44:49 in what is becoming one of the bigger trail races in the region (7 waves!). I was visiting my brother's house in Richmond, and had eaten my last Clif Bar the night before as my dessert appetizer (aka "dinner"). That was followed by dessert (ICE CREAM!) and dessert dessert (children's cereal). On a positive note, there was no dessert desert. That's the metaphorical meal describing the emotional desolation of eating an entire pint of Chunky Monkey alone in your New York City apartment during freshman year of college.

Overweight Primate thinks Bloomberg's Soda Ban is fascist.

So I did not have my usual breakfast at hand, and had to round up some sustenance from the house of 4 twenty-something bachelors. After making a pot of coffee using a paper towel as a filter, I sat down for breakfast: two handfulls of chocolate chips and two handfulls of Reeses peanut butter chips. Not actual Reeses, but just the fake peanut butter that is usually in the middle, in chip form. During the race, my stomach felt great. I am becoming more and more convinced that nutrition is a liberal hoax perpetrated by Michelle Obama to socialize our children through school lunches.

Pre-Race:
Last Monday was the big event of the semester, when my law journal held our Symposium on "Conservative Visions of Our Environmental Future." While the cynical devil on my shoulder asked why I included at least 2 oxymorons in the title of the event, the conference actually turned out really well and taught me a lot. For example, the free market can solve any problem. After hearing the speeches, I am pretty sure that the invisible hand could reverse global warming, arrange an infinite number of Rubix cubes, AND give everyone on Earth an especially sensual massage, all before dinnertime.

Corgi Michael Jackson. The market has spoken.

To be serious, it was eye-opening and shifted my perspective a bit. We got some local and national press, so hopefully we can help move the environmental debate past bumper-sticker slogans. Strategically tailing a Prius should not count as studying all of the reasons and methods for environmental protection.

However, if you are in the Whole Foods' parking lot, strategically rear-ending a Prius will always count as tax-deductible public service. Anyway, after getting to know the amazing speakers and doing some interviews, I was ready to get back to racing! Training has been awesome despite some lingering shin issues, so I was looking forward to getting in a blow-out before a couple huge races over the next month.

Fortunately, there was a big trail race in Richmond, where my brother lives. After a hectic week of catching up on job applications and interview practice ("Fries you that would like with. F**K"), I drove up on I-95 on Friday night, passing my favorite ever road sign: "Exit now for Richard Bland College." His parents clearly did not have high expectations.

Upon glancing at my brother's face, I hope my parents did not either. Just kidding, of course. Jesse is awesome and has all of the looks of one of Mitt Romney's sons with the added benefit of probably not being a WASP cyborg. I say 'probably' because he owns at least one pink polo and cannot pass through a metal detector without setting it off (braces seem like too convenient an excuse).

My shirt says "Your Face...3 million people dislike this." Yes, it was a gift from my brother.

The race started early, and my dad (who just entered the 60-64 age group!) and I traveled to Maymont Park just before 6 AM. My goal for the race was to go over the red line as many times as possible, especially on hills. Don't let Benjamin Netenyahu know about that last sentence, or he may tell the UN that the time has come to bomb my strategic locations.

Speaking of bombing strategic locations, I toed the line mere seconds after doing a "butterfly stretch" in the bushes lining the park. If you are playing race report bingo at home, you can put a chip down if your card has "Poop reference." There is a good chance that is Free Space.

STRIP (clothes), SIP (water) and RIP (farts)!

Race:
The race began with 3/4 of a mile on roads before plunging onto single-track. Second and third place kept distressingly close on the road (who are these guys?), and my competitive juices were flowing as we hit the rocky trails. As you could probably guess: rocky, muddy trails PLUS competitive juices EQUALS faceplants.

I hit the mile marker in 4:43 and was both muddy and bloody at mile 2 when we crossed the bridge over the James River. I have a hard and fast rule that I never, ever turn around in races, so I do not know where the chasers were, but I thought I heard footsteps echoing over the footbridge. Whether they were there or not, the tellltale heartbeats on the pavement led to a furious sprint over the last few meters of bridge, followed by a 5-step-at-a-time jumping down the 4 flights of stairs.

I panicked and hit the extreme button. It has a picture of Channing Tatum on it.

Back onto trails, in my element, I got in a mid-race zone, where my mind blanked except for the 5 seconds of a random pop song that played over and over in my head on repeat. My inadvertent mental playlist during races is basically designed by Ryan Seacrest with amnesia. Or Casey Kasem with amnesia if the start line speakers are playing oldies.

Around mile 5, we hit a stretch of bridle path and I was able to get in a road running rhythm for just over a half mile. I felt awesome with only the occasional synthetic peanut butter burp, and was really happy to be running as I traversed the bridge one last time. After one more section of technical trails, and one more fall, I was running toward the finish line.

Or, rather, perpendicular to the finish line, but down the wrong chute. The race announcer panicked and started screaming NO! NO! NO! as I went further down the high school XC finishing chute. Adding to the legend of my going-off-course abilities, I was creatively increasing the distance I would have to run while simultaneously getting closer to the finish.

Does this mean I have a friend?? 

Putting Carly Rae on mute, I stopped, and pondered my options. Turn around and waste 20 seconds, or attempt to jump the 4-foot high barrier in between the chutes? Jump it was, and I got enough air to clear at least one phone book. From a smaller metropolitan city. Like Mayberry circa 1950. EXTREME.

Stumbling over the barrier, the few hundred spectators suddenly had a much clearer explanation for why I was covered in blood. Doing my best Carrie impression, I crossed the line in 44:49, around 5 minutes under the previous course record. Dad ran an incredible time in his first race after the surgery, and seeing him accelerate over the last 800 meters made me so happy. Afterward, sitting with my family having a slightly more proper meal (so real peanut butter and dark chocolate chips), it was really clear what is important. Friends. Family. Neosporin. Korean Rap Videos. Hidden Cameras at Political Fundraisers. Not Hitting Your Head on Rocky Trails. Skaddish forty-seven banana.

Thanks for reading, and for everything else :) You guys are awesome!

U.S. Trail 10km National Championships Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall (National Champion!) in 41:19, a 1:22 margin over USA Cross-Country Champion (and sub-4 miler) Bobby Mack. The race came with a 4-figure payout, which is about what my expected monthly salary will be next year as a public interest environmental lawyer. In preparation, I raced in 6-month old Nike shoes with about 2,000 miles on them and full-blown little toe holes. Smart financial/footwear planning for pubic interest lawyer runners.

To be serious, I want to thank the amazing people in my life. Mom, Dad, Jesse, Megan, Greg, Lauren, Karen, Dylan, Kim, Tim, and so many others--I could not have done it without you. I also should thank U.S. Government loans, the Peanut Butter Panda Puff panda, and a complete disregard for the well-being of my ankles. To paraphrase the POTUS with the mostus, I did not build this.*

*While meant as a compliment in this instance, it is an insult when used to excuse my love of country music (Megan built that), my Very Hungry Caterpillar eyebrows (Dad definitely built that), and my Type 2 diabetes (the Peanut Butter Panda Puff panda is currently building that).

Jungle Fever.

Pre-Race:
For the Duke Law Class of 2013, Monday was the last first day of school. To celebrate, I mistimed my morning run, and went into a meeting with an administrator in spandex booty shorts. While formality may never be my strong suit, no authority figure will question my aerodynamics. Wind-tunnel tested! And by that I mean that on the way back to the law school, I farted while running through a tunnel.

This year is so exciting, with an active job search (Would you like fries with that? Would you like fries with that? Fries that would like you? SHIT.), Editor-in-Chief duties on a law journal (doody!), and a start-up company with a full-time lab in Research Triangle Park.

It's definitely not a full-time meth lab!

I am fortunate to work with amazing journal colleagues, amazing job-search helpers, and amazing business partners. Also, as you can see, I was elected the head of the Department of Superlative Redundancy Department. My internal record skipped during the interview, and I said the word "awesome" non-stop for 3 days straight. If I didn't succumb to exposure and dehydration (and, surprisingly, chafing), they would have declared me a deity.

So this is a year of transition. I have no idea where I'll be next year. The only requirements are happy trails, which leaves North Carolina, Colorado, California, or really any YMCA men's shower room. I have no idea what I'll be doing. And I have no idea who I'll be scaring when, standing on the sidewalk after a run, I spread my legs, put my hands on my hips, and thrust (it's most likely just a hip flexor stretch, I promise). As a mentor told me, trying to work in public interest law means living with uncertainty. "That can be daunting, or exciting," he told me. "It's your choice."

I guess the only things I'm certain about are the constants--the people I love [a long list that resembles a 5 year-old letter to Santa (in that it includes a reference to Justin Bieber)] and adventure. I've found that if I can distill daily life down to one uncontrollable laugh and one adventure, then everything else falls into place. For me, running is that adventure.

And this race was the culmination of those adventures. The U.S. Trail 10km National Championships was the first time I've truly targeted a race. In Colorado, as Megan and I biked up mountains, I knew the strength would help me ascend sheer rock faces. In North Carolina, I knew that the 80 minute all-out tempo runs would build mental toughness. And on the track, I knew that tons of 400 reps would prepare me for potentially vomiting on my shoes. Luckily, there were small toe holes in those shoes, so my littlest of piggies could breathe through the bile.

Yuck! Continuing down the yucky path, I grabbed my Bull City Track Club singlet the day before the race, only to find it had been lying in a bag that also included dark chocolate chips and uncapped garlic powder. While somewhat annoying at the time, the dark brown spots and Olive Garden smell would provide a convenient excuse later.

Post-race team shot. Surprisingly, I am on the far right because of the smell, and not because I am complying with the age old adage, "Stay far away from a man in a kilt."

The race directors (the amazing runners/people Alison and Jason Bryant) put me up in a hotel at the race site, and I arrived to the smiling faces of the amazing (there are no off days as the Head of the Department Head) Shannon Johnstone and Anthony Corriveau (the race photographers). We talked, laughed, and played Scrabble. Some of my key words included "SPRAIN," "BOWELS," and "UNDULATE." Before trail races, I have a one track mind. And digestive tract.

After a restful night's sleep and a liter of coffee with Anthony, I ambled over to the race site, feeling like a lean mean grilling machine. Or a fighting machine. Whatever.

I ran the first 3 miles of the course, formed the plan, and stripped down to my undies. Bouncing up and down at the starting line, amazing person George Linney came up and gave me a silent fist-bump. Looking into his eyes, a supreme rush of confidence coursed down my spine. I am not sure Chik-Fil-A will serve me after that sentence.

BOOM GOES THE DYNAMITE.

This will be updated with a start-line picture soon. In the meantime, an amazing picture by Anthony of Amber Moran.

Race:
The plan formed during the warm-up was to give everyone else a choice. That choice was simple: go with the pace, and risk the race in the first half-mile, or fall off, and risk never seeing the front again.

So I went. We ran the first flat/downhill mile like a workout, dipping down into 4:20ish pace on some of the less technical sections. The final section before the first climb bombs down a steep, dry waterfall, with grades well over 20%. After a brief moment of pre-pubescent yelping caused by a false step, I hit solid ground again and worked into the first half-mile climb.

Post-race picture with Bobby. My thought bubble is probably centered on a present desire to be a certain straw.

There was still breathing over my shoulder. And its rhythm was even, undisturbed. The race followed the hillside, with only orange flags to mark the way. As the grade pitched further up, Bobby came by as if on a Saturday stroll. At the time, his effortless, powerful stride pissed me off. With 100 meters left to the crest of the climb, I decided to do something about it, and put the second part of the pre-race plan into effect. Now it was time to give Bobby, the best runner I've ever competed against, a choice.

So I went again. This time I went with everything I had. His 10-meter lead evaporated by the top of the hill, and I sprinted as hard as I could muster on the rolling trail. This was the race--the next 3/4 of a mile was the final fast section, and I had to get out of sight. I felt crappy, but his breath became uneven. Then I couldn't hear it anymore. He must feel crappy too. 2.75 miles in, I had a gap.

Maxed out, red-lined, and still running on pissed off fumes, I made the sharp left turn down the side of the mountain. From here on out, the trail alternated between extremely technical and completely non-existent, with a few stretches of unrunnable thrown in for good measure. By the valley floor, I had recovered enough to think logically. Bobby is one of the USA's best runners, at cross country and on the track, I cannot let him see me ever again. The big hill was coming, and staying out of sight on that hill would decide who was the national champion.

An amazing photo by Anthony Corriveau of the women's winner, Megan Kimmel, on the big hill.

A sharp right and that hill appeared as if out of thin air. Suddenly the trail two feet ahead seemed to be at eye level. Commit, commit, commit. The pain was a good sign, I thought. It meant he would be in pain too. It meant I wasn't selling myself short.

Cresting the climb with my hand in the mud to help pull the final few meters, I heard cowbell up ahead. Then, a voice. "Goooooooooo DAVID!" It was Kim, an amazing human being and Bull City Track Club's ace in the hole. Her voice sent empowering chills into the pit of my stomach, replacing the burning of the climb. 4 miles in, and an amazing friend changed everything.

Kill it! KILL IT WITH FIRE.

There were no more choices--now it was just running. 2 miles of adventure, and 2 climbs to explore the edge. On the off-camber, muddy descent, I decided to fall as many times as necessary. Even with that thought, the first stumble onto my stomach was a shock. "Fuck!" I yelled, attempting to roar but squeaking instead. I came up gripping a branch, and for some reason that connection to the ground was reassuring.

Swinging that branch back and forth, I attempted to power up the second to last climb. High-turnover, I thought. Nope, not able to do that. Powerful strides? Fail. Okay, stop thinking. And whatever you do, don't ever look back.

Another sharp right, and I was in the final treacherous, switch-backing descent. After kissing the ground 2 more times, the trail made it's final left hand turn onto the infamous "Rock Wall." Professionals rarely race this course twice, and I imagine that is because of the rock wall. The best trail runners in the country are reduced to crawling in the last half-mile of this race, and I was no different. But each time my hands hit the ground, I grabbed as hard as I could and ripped my body upward. A few hundred more feet of adventure.

One last time, there it was. The cowbell. The prescription for my fever was officially filled, and I let myself turn around one time, just 10 seconds from the finish line. I half-expected to see Bobby smiling at my presumptuousness. But he wasn't there. "The 2012 National Champion is David Roche!" That was a really catchy tune coming from the loudspeaker. My time was 41:20, a good bit ahead of past times from so many amazing runners (better runners than I consider myself, certainly).

All-in-all, it was an amazing experience. I hope for it to be the start of a string of national-level performances. But, regardless of results, it was one hell of a daily adventure.

Thanks so much for reading, and for everything else. I know it's cheezy, but I love you guys. Hope everything is...ummm....AMAZING.

Mt. Falcon Trail 15k Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall in 1:05:09 (3:40 margin over 2nd place Ted Howard). After finishing, the race chiropractor did her thang, and as soon as she touched my leg she gasped, "Ohhh, this is not good." While not as distressing as it would be coming from an oncologist or plumber, it is always scary to horrify a professional. So I asked her what was wrong. 


"Has your IT Band ever ripped?" she responded. 


"Umm...I don't think so," I replied. I did not reply,  "Unless you meant my MITT Band, which rips it EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT."

Our bass player REALLY supports Chick-Fil-A.

Anyway, she also went on to ask if I'd broken my hip. Her line of questioning probably means my muscles did really well at the race and pushed to the edge, or it means my legs are one false step from collapsing like a house of cards featuring Twilight's Bella and the Spain's Finance Minister. No es bueno. 

Me at the Chiro table.

Pre-Race:

The big news is definitely Dad's miraculous recovery from prostate surgery (after being diagnosed with the most aggressive type of cancer last month). Based on my research (Googling "60 year old man wearing spandex, pictures"), he is a superhero. Good thing a new Spiderman movie just came out, because the important lesson from the movie is necessary with his new superpowers: with great power comes great responsibility. 


As usual, I am talking about waste excretion. I imagine it doesn't take him nearly as long to pee without a prostate. Before, urination was more of a hope than an act. So assuming he spent 4 extra minutes staring at the toilet per day for the last 20 years, that is 20 days lost, longingly staring down, hoping for the best. So, Dad, 20 extra days to save the world with your superpowers over the next 2 decades. GREAT RESPONSIBILITY.

Responsibility? Man, I just want to like, eat cake and stuff.

Also, Megan visited Colorado for a month! As she recovered from a triple-stress fracture (thinking about the pain she ran through to get to that point is somewhat horrifying), we mountain biked all over the state. Or, a more appropriate thing to say is she mountain biked all over the state, while I expended 30% less energy sucking wheel through every canyon outside Boulder, Mt. Evans, Independence Pass, and Estes Park. 


Awesomely, there were spray-painted T's in front of a bunch of road signs for that last place. Sutlety is soooooo overrated. Especially when it involves silent letters. 

Anyway, the bike made my legs strong like bull. However, it made my running legs slow like turtle. And the legal briefs made my writing forced like unwanted hamster into microwave.


So last week I went down to Colorado Springs to race the Classic 10k to blow out some of the cobwebs. It was my second race called the "Classic 10k" in just a couple months. At both, I ran pretty much the same time (31:26, although this one was way more frustrating because I started moonwalking on the last 2 miles after hitting 4 in 19:35). 


Clearly, I need to experiment with race adjectives to run faster on the roads. Maybe experiment with a little "Alternative" 10k, using it as a gateway to "Punk" 10k, then "Grunge" 10k, until I go off the deep end, racing every single night for a half-hour on end in a "Jam-Band" 10k, only to end up broken, sleeping under a bridge, with red, cracked eyes and debilitating paranoia. But I might have a sub-30 road 10k time, which is all that really matters. Well, that, and STOPPING THE GOVERNMENT FROM WIRE-TAPPING MY TOASTER.


After acclimating to suffering with that trip on the suffer-bus, I was super excited to race Mount Falcon today. The amazing race director gave a last-minute entry, which was especiallly awesome because Active.com still refuses to accept bodily fluid payments.


Stretch, sweat, strip, and start! 

Don't ewe be hatin.

Race:
The course goes up the mountain (~3.5 miles with 2,000 feet of climbing), does an up-and-down loop, then bombs back down the rocky trail. I figured the stick part of the lollipop was the best place to make up time on some of the great runners at the race (Dan Goding, winner of Quad Rock 25 and 2:32 marathoner, and Ted Howard, UMich runner making a name for himself in CO), so I attempted to lope ahead on the steep sections. Like a deer plagued by buckshot and osteoporosis, the loping was not particularly graceful. However, it got me across the road before any pick-up trucks seduced me with their hypnotic shiny lights, and I hit the top with a good gap.

Other hypnosis-inducing things that can almost make me get hit by cars.

There was good gift certificate money at Mt. Falcon, which is especially good because (as a public interest environmental lawyer), I am perpetually needy. 

Seriously though, I spent 2 weeks on a diet of peanut butter ($2.99 per jar), avocadoes (3 for $1), and sweet potatoes ($0.69) per pound. My bowel movements could be used as life preservers.

With my ballast in equilibrium after throwing all of the life preservers overboard in the bushes before the race, I began to feel really good on the rolling section. I kept hearing the phantom footsteps of Ted and Dan, which motivated some good downhill running on the gnarliest sections. Or narliest, depending on your feelings on themes and crap.


The rest of the race involved plunging down the mountain, hoping that sitting at a desk all day for a few months has given me cankles, thus throwing the injury-seeking rocks/roots off the scent. Or sent. Whatever. English is weird.


Crossed the line in 1:05:09, a few minutes up on Ted and just over 6 up on Dan. The Colorado summer has been amazing, but I am super excited to head back to NC next week. One, Megan and a bunch of awesome friends are in Durham. Two, without altitude screwing with cooking times, gourmet roasted hamster is much easier to microwave. Well, it's less of a roast than a chunky ragout, but there are far too many silent letters in that last word.


Thanks so much for reading, and for everything else. You guys are amazing :)

Dear Dad

The grown men went streaking by the young children.

Oh crap...let's start again.

The multi-colored peloton blew past Jesse and I, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in its wake. It was 1991, so I guess we were 5 and 3, respectively. Or, in the case of Jesse's face, disrespectively. Microsoft puts a red underline under that last word, so those programmers must have never seen Jesse's face.

Anyway, as the cyclists blurred into the distance, Mom's face puckered into a look of apprehension. She whispered at the mirage fading into the distance..."Where's Michael?"

Jesse and I had no such doubts about Daddy. We went to hundreds of bike races, and we were never good at spotting Dad's red and white jersey in the crowds of florescent pro cyclists. Mom, though....she never failed in the spandex Where's Waldo. Suddenly...somehow...she just knew. With her sixth (or seventh) sense tingling, Mom loaded us into the Econoline van.

That weekend, and that year, you were on a fucking roll. As a 39-year old, you were at the top of the standings at the Superweek Bike Race in Wisconsin. You were an engine attached to two well-shaved pistons, sneakily sitting in the pack until that decisive moment when the pre-race pancakes gave you the power to kick it into high gear. In case you couldn't tell from my Hot Wheels collection, I really liked cars as a 3-year old.

So Mom loaded us into the van, a vehicle designed for a young family, or a mystery-solving dog. I wasn't worried though. If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that Daddy was invincible. After winning this race, you would probably hop off your bike, grab a Coke, then play hours of baseball with us. So as the van came upon the flashing lights, I was obliviously clutching my Hal Morris-signature glove (the most forgettable signature in the entire glove kingdom), wondering when we were going to get to the field.

Mom dismounted off the front seat, sticking the landing like the gymnast she was as a kid, and sprinted towards the lights.

"Ma'am, we took a rider to the hospital...


...it doesn't look good."

Under the lifeless florescent lights, Daddy did not look invincible. A roided-up pro had hooked handlebars with your 1st-generation all-carbon Trek, and ridden you off the road at 30 miles per hour. That is one tactic to stop the star of the peloton, I guess (he must have idolized the Russian from American Flyers). Your lungs collapsed, many bones broke, and your shoulder...well, your right shoulder appeared to no longer exist.

Mom is so good in a crisis (we tested this hypothesis many times in the years since), and she immediately began whisking us away. As we reached the precipice of the door, I turned around, scared out of my chubby, curly-haired, 3-year-old wits. Just then, you opened your eyes, saw that crying cherub, and smiled. That smile moved to my face. Everything was perfect. Daddy was invincible.

Usually, the story would have a disclaimer at this point, narrated by Morgan Freeman: "It was a long, winding road back..." But fuck that, and fuck Morgan Freeman, because this road was short, and soon enough you were back on it, tearing down the road with your arm in a sling.

You were never going to bike race again? Fuck that, you came back the next year stronger than ever, placing in a domestic pro race as a 40-year-old.

You were never going to lift your arm above your shoulder? Double fuck that crap, you probably threw me 1 million pitches of batting practice after the crash.

Things wouldn't be the same? Triple fuckshit, you came back so fast that the accompanying movie montage would not have had enough time to get to Oates after Hall belted out the opening verse.

21 years later, the chubby cherub has grown up a bit. And everything you did since the crash, all of the adversity you overcame, shaped my outlook on the world. Thousands of hours of batting practice taught me hard work, and it taught me that love is throwing just one more bucket of balls through throbbing shoulder pain. It also taught me to hit pitches that moved 2 feet, because your reconstructed shoulder seemed to make your pitches possessed by the Devil (a Yankees fan, certainly).

Thousands of hours on the bike, riding at your side, taught me strength, and it taught me that friendship is cussing at someone for an unexpected acceleration, then high-fiving after a record two-person time trial. It also taught me to withstand the smell of a truly horrible baked beans fart (also Devilish).

Most of all, though, thousands of hours with the best dad in the whole world taught me what it means to be a man. You taught me the easy things, like character, empathy, and caring. And you taught me the hard things, like faith, optimism, and rooting for the Orioles. In the decades since that nearly life-ending crash, you taught me everything about being alive.

So now, 21 years later, I owe you everything. Dad, you are the best person I have ever met, and my best friend. Now, my best friend faces new adversity, this time in the form of a slow-motion crash into a shitty diagnosis. Cancer sucks, surgery sucks, and the Yankees suck (unrelated, but a necessary point). But I have watched you come back to national-class cycling less than a year after almost dying on the road. I have watched your fastball pop from an arm that was left for dead. And, for 23 years and 364 days, I have had a front row seat to watch you make the world an infinitely better place just by being yourself. So after all this time watching and learning, there is one thing you don't have to teach me. There is one thing I know for sure.

Going into tomorrow, after 24 years, the one thing I know for sure is that Dad is invincible.

Love,
David

XTERRA Balarat Trail Half-Marathon Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall by 9 minutes in 1:22:05 (over great person/runner Chris Grauch, who recently finished 2nd at the Boulder Half-Marathon). Whenever I first come out to Colorado for the summer, I forget what it's like to race above 8,000 feet. Hint: it's not good when you can taste pennies. Hemingway said that's what death tastes like.

In olden times, I remember going up hills on the bike part of races, hating life/gravity, and swerving to hit every pebble in the hopes of getting a flat tire. Unfortunately, that is not an option when running. But there were tons of warnings about mountain lions at today's race, and I was ready to apply the same tactic if I saw a cougar.

"Is that your cub? Because it looks like Simba had a love child with Pumbaa."

/slaps lion with hamburger

Each dolphin voted twice in the Russian Presidential election.

Pre-Race:
I just started working at EarthJustice, which is an amazing/inspiring public interest environmental law firm. And it is decidedly better than EarthInjustice. However, the big-firm bros don't have to worry nearly as much about student loans, which are like IOUs. Well, they are like IOUs except that the person you owe might double interest rates every few years because of a dogmatic pledge authored by a person named Grover. NEVER TRUST ANYONE NAMED GROVER.

What is he hiding under that faux manchu?

Anyway, the People's Republic of Boulder is amazing. This can be quantified by my handy formula:

CITY AWESOMENESS = (# of Whole Foods' within a 10-mile radius) - (# of Confederate flags within a 5-mile radius X infinity)

As you can see, Boulder scores 7, and Mississippi scores lower than Syria.

Okay, the formula might need some work. But Boulder is great, and the people/places are incredible. Jogging has been great as well, so I was really excited to race. XTERRA half-marathons are often very competitive, and there is something about being on Colorado trails that makes the taste of pennies delightful. (Note: Initially, I posted this with a very unfortunate typo in the last sentence).

So I traveled to Balarat (about 20 miles N of Boulder) off of some really exciting track workouts, and really filling trips to Whole Foods. I eat enough kale and quinoa that if I can ever afford a Prius, I will be banned from ever driving into a red state. Even if my driving is disturbingly quiet.

Warm-up, see some long-lost friends, ask one of said friends to dump ice water on my back, AND THEY'RE OFF!

Those are piglet Hokas.

Race:
It was hot and sunny in the high-country, introducing a very high probability of sunburn. If there is anywhere to get burned, it's in Boulder, because melanoma sounds like something that the locals would treat with trips to one of the many dispensaries.

Anyway, the race started up a 500 foot climb, with bunches of switchbacks. I was able to do some reps up a local hill (Mt. Sanitas) on Memorial Day, so I fell into the somewhat familiar rhythm of taking small, bouncy strides. Chris stayed on my tail for the first bit, then he dropped off slightly (probably water dumped on my back + hot sun = squiggly smell lines that may be strong enough to open up a wormhole, thus proving string theory).

Irrelevant, but important.

When I couldn't hear his breathing, I decided to make a go of it. That is probably not a smart thing to do halfway up a hill, a half-mile into a half-marathon. But racing intelligence is not my strong suit (girl, my strong suit is hearts), so I turned it up to eleven and red lined. After a quick, treacherously switchbacking descent, the course opened up on a dirt road. As the course continued down, I tried to use the good footing to get as close to 4:30 pace as possible. By the mile 3 aid station, the awesome volunteers said there was no one in sight, so I let off the gas just a little (that is not to say I wasn't farting every chance I got).

After some rolling single-track, the course bottomed out around mile 5, with an 800-foot climb on the horizon. Dehydration began to kick in, and I started to feel very warm on the uphill. At that moment, dazing off in my own little world, I missed the aid station. Poop! I thought. However, the amazing volunteer cut a switch-back, and handed me a refreshing cup of water.

Of course, I dropped it. Oops. I survived the long climb, and continued the sprint downhill/survive uphill tactics for a couple miles. By mile 9, we joined the 10k course, and some awesome encouragement made me forget about kidneys doing a prune impression. The final climb was over a recently burned-out pine forest, and the sun got a little crazy. I survived to the finish because of some over-the-top cheers, and crossed the line in 1:22. Hopefully I will be able to pee sometime today.

Thanks so much to the volunteers and spectators at XTERRA Balarat. You guys really helped when the going got tough. Sorry if I hallucinated and slapped you with a hamburger. And thanks to you for reading! You guys are awesome :)