Boston Marathon Strava-verse: Paul Revere's ride

In seventh grade, Miss Phillips had me memorize "Paul Revere's Ride" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. So I did. After finishing "Jabberwocky" to start off the year of run naming, it seemed obvious what my next effort would be. I calculated that I could arrange to end it on the day of the Boston Marathon, thus neatly tying the verse with the running. And to top it off, the "18th of April" cited in the poem was exactly 250 years ago on Friday.

"Paul Revere's Ride" was first published
in The Atlantic Monthly in 1861.

On looking up the poem, also titled "The Landlord's Tale", I discovered the poem's political undertones. It was written in the leadup to the Civil War, and Longfellow had been outspoken as an abolishionist. The poem was a call to action to Northerners, recalling their role in the American Revolution. So not irrelevant to the current situation.

Listen my children and you shall hear

of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

and of my runs like this one here.

On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five

Hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year,

or when the end of this poem shall arrive.

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night”

They be lost in New Jersey, no turnpike in sight.

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

of the North Church tower as a signal light,—

One, if by land, and two, if by sea;

But if it be 'puter, then ye shall put three.

And I on the opposite shore will be,

ready to ride and spread the alarm

the royalists are coming and they mean to do harm!

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm.

On up the Park Street and down by the pond

to Chester, where merriment and good folk were found.

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore

safe from the royalists and and their childish roar.

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

An emperor who would have his way

The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship

... with each mast and spar

across the moon like a prison bar,

that traitorous rogue will go too far.

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

by its own reflection in the tide,

For the pacer and the patriot,

there's no place left to hide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street

Wanders and watches with eager ears,

wondering what we can do in these years.

Till in the silence around him he hears

the muster of men at the barrack door,

while the good folk of the country wish back on before.

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Forgetting their watches, they ran point eight four.

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet

and the measured tread of the grenadiers,

...already tired of the next few years.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

the view kept coming, no need to search

To the belfry-chamber overhead,

"Resist! Resist!" he angrily said

And startled the pigeons from their perch.

On the sombre rafters, that round him made masses

and moving shapes of shade,

seen through hay-air glasses.

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

to the highest window in the wall

for in the coming fateful brawl,

he will see the mighty fall.

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town

the sun would soon rise and the breads would be round.

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Crescent and full, they're having a ball.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead

in their night-encampment on the hill

Warning lights blaring red,

this couldn't be a drill.

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

that he could hear,

like a sentinel's tread,

the muskrat's sneer

as he left them for dead.

The watchful night-wind, as it went

creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!",

but veterans all, ’twas bad news to tell.

A moment only he feels the spell

of the place and the hour,

A code for unlocking the library’s power.

and the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead;

Sixteen falcons thundering overhead

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

on a shadowy something far away

Put in the water, a drone menace on the quay.

Where the river widens to meet the bay,

three walkers ramble in a state of dismay.

A line of black that bends and floats on the rising tide

like a bridge of boats coming to destroy, despite our votes.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurred

with a heavy stride he knew that those soldiers were on the wrong side.

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side,

no yielding today,

he was wholly without fear.

Now gazed at the landscape far and near

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

Hoping present horrors would give way to rebirth.

And turned and tightened his saddle girth

But mostly he watched with eager search

Five or six hundred? He wondered the worth.

The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, as it rose

above the graves on the hill,

his fear for his country grows and grows.

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,

a somber thought. might is not right.

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns;

danger approaches with heighted concerns.

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

a second lamp in the belfry burns!

By sea it will be

that good people defeat the tyrant's might.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

a shape in the moonlight,

a bulk in the dark,

a sheet on the mark.

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet

Feet flying forward like a harley in heat.

That was all!

And yet, through the gloom and the light,

the fate of a nation was riding that night;

in two years or late, all will be put right.

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight

Kindled the land into flame with its heat

for justice and doing all that is right.

He has left the village and mounted the steep

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

are the values and promises we keep.

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders, that skirt its edge,

trouble may be coming but still hope resides

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

Our trusty band stay true to their pledge.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town,

he heard the crowing of the cock,

running round and roun' the anserine flock

And the barking of the farmer's dog,

Who sniffed a rat come into town

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

when he galloped into Lexington

while everything had gone amok,

way down in Washington

He saw the gilded weathercock swim

in the moonlight as he passed

No time for talk, too late now,

the tyranny would not last.

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

gaze at him with a spectral glare

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

With a figure of love he took the walk

He heard the bleating of the flock

and the twitter of birds among the trees

the sheep felt a shock

and the twitter said "Oh Please!"

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

blowing over the meadows brown.

Till the running faeries squeeze

colors over cap and gown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Not from the sleet pelting on his head

Nor from fog depressing us all

Who that day would be lying dead,

pierced by a British musket-ball.

Facing a taxing dread,

against a tyrant we must still stand tall.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

how the British Regulars fired and fled,

They failed the test as shall we all,

if we don't heed the siren call.

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,

Poor souls trapped in the tyrant's thrall.

Chasing the red-coats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Confused by the tumult of where and when.

Under the trees at the turn of the road

They’ve trampled good faith,

ignored all the code.

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

hoping to save values we hold dear.

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,

by Essex schools in hurried flight.

A cry of defiance and not of fear

Shouting a message so powerful, so clear.

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore!

Two hundred fifty years to the day

That echo rings, it won't go away.

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last

The present is tiny, our future is vast.

In the hour of darkness and peril and need

The people will waken and listen to hear

No matter their sex, gender, color race or creed

A message so powerful, so urgent and clear.

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

The crowds of townsfolk who shout and cheer

Those who run today and speed

the midnight message of Paul Revere.

I came up with a name for what I'm doing: "intercalated verse". Look it up.

Why I'm doing it? Sometimes I get an idea and I am unable not to do it.

Strava Verse

The internet gives us new ways to express ourselves. One of the more strenuously esoteric forms of artistic expression is Strava art, in which people do runs that, when mapped, draw pictures. None of my strava art was particularly good, but my running club friends in Stockholm regularly run "elefanten". I spent a year attempting "Found Strava Art", where you just run a new route and give the run a name based on what it looks like. I ran a lot of flowers and space ships, but meh. Last year I named each run with a line of a song that came up on my iPod. Too obscure.

This year I decided to serialize poems with my Strava runs. I didn't have a plan, but I started with Jabberwocky. It seemed appropriate to comment using nonsense words, because, Jabberwocky. I ended up with this:

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe

I love running with my slithy toves!

All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.

My right knee was a grobble mimsy today, but mome what a rath!  

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

Also, the Jabberrun can be hard on the knees.

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

ERC hosted run had quiche to bite and George to catch.

He took his vorpal sword in hand

New York Sirens game. Women with vorpal sticks. Slain by the Charge 3-2.

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!

Definitely well salted and frumious out there today.

Long time the manxome foe he sought

But quick the manxless chill he caught

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

Covered with snow in filagree

And stood a while in thought.

Though clabbercing in a profunctional dot!

And, as in uffish thought he stood

Trolloping thru the Brookdale wood.

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame

Cheld and hord, a glistering name…

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood

And caught the two burblygums because he could.

And burbled as it came!

So late the Jabberrun slept

For Eight Muyibles passed as though aflame

O'er Curbles and Nonces the pluffy sheep leapt.

One, two! One, two! And through and through

Three four! Three four! Sankofa’s coffee’s fit to pour.

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

The Icebeest of Hoth kept blobbering back.

He went galumphing back.

He left it dead, and with its head

... the Garmind sprang to life

And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

The ice, the snow, it's hard as rock.

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

Think of my knees! Oy oy oy oy.

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

O jousbarf night! The fluss! The fright!

He chortled in his joy.

(And padoodled the rest of of the way!)

‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves

Did not, had not, could not loave.

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe

“Dunno.” said the wormly autoclave

All mimsy were the borogoves,

Again and again, beloo and aboave

And the mome raths outgrabe.

The end. Ooh ooh Babe!

Terrible right? But it has its moments.

I've started a new one. I fear it will get more topical.

Notes:

• I previously invented "clickstream poetry". It never caught on.

Thank you, New York City

fresh off the bus

It was 11:15AM in the pink D corral of the fifth wave, and surrounding me were runners of all shapes and sizes, from around the world, all of us waiting for our race to start in 15 minutes. We had waited through the morning (five hours for me) as our faster friends drifted away excitedly and cannons sounded the starts of earlier waves. There was a determined silence as each of us thought ahead to our 2024 New York City Marathon.

A few meters to my right I saw a woman wearing a large pink button proclaiming her status as a "Birthday Girl". Her shirt had the name "HEATHER" across the front. I shouted "HAPPY BIRTHDAY HEATHER!", and she turned to look at me, a bit startled. I walked over and we chatted a bit. She was from the UK, and was running New York to celebrate turning 50. I told her she was going to have fun, and that the crowd would be calling to her the whole way. "Really?" she said. "Hey, this is New York", I reassured her. "You don't have to know someone 10 years before you can talk to them on a first name basis!"

Then, over to the side of the corral, I saw another woman, wearing a BIRTHDAY GIRL shirt. "Heather, you must go over and wish her happy birthday!" Heather hesitated, but I said "Aw come on!" and led her through the crowd to the other birthday girl. The two marathon twins hugged, and everything felt right with the world. I looked around and the crowd seemed a bit anxious waiting. I shouted "Hey everyone! We have two birthday girls running with us! Let's sing Happy Birthday!"

And so I led a happy chorus of more than a thousand runners in a joyful rendition of "Happy Birthday". Miraculous. My whole day was like that. From start to end, the crowd was shouting my name. They got riled up when I acknowledged them, sometimes chanting "ERIC, ERIC, ERIC" as I gave them high fives. 

I had decided to run the 2024 New York City Marathon about ten months earlier. A friend heard me talk about running and suggested that I get a fundraising entry through the charity he was involved with. At that point I had just run my 11th Half Marathon but never a marathon. A marathon seemed an unnecessary stretch for me and my creaky legs. But I decided in an instant. Two days later I told a running friend, Janell, and a few others about my decision. I knew I couldn't back out after that.

still looking good at mile 9

The first 10 miles of the race flew by as I ran at a pace that was faster than I expected (I was doing a 3:1 run:walk). Axel and Karen were there rooting for me at mile 9 with my Fleet Feet friends and then again around mile 12. The crowd on 1st Avenue at mile 16 made me forget that I had never raced that far.  More running friends were waiting at mile 18 where it really helped. At mile 21 my 3:1 cycle became 2:1, and at mile 23 it was 1:1. On Fifth Avenue it seemed like everyone I knew was there cheering me on. The bearded prophet with "The End is Near" on a sign could have been a hallucination. Coming out of the Bronx I had switched to my running playlist, and in the Park I started "singing" the lyrics out loud: "It's the End of the World and We Know It!". I wasn't feeling that fine and I switched to 100% brisk walk.

Re-entering the park for the last half mile, I was determined to finish it running. BIG MISTAKE! I cramped up immediately and could barely stagger on. But after a few minutes, my legs consented to a sloooow walk and finally relented on a brisk finish. Then a second miracle occurred. I knew I had friends who were volunteering at the finish line, but to see and hug them all was a blessing I had not expected. And to get the medal from my friend Janell! 

Back of the medal with braille text "TCS New York City Marathon"

Thank you to everyone who donated to my fundraiser for Amref Health Africa. Thank you to Karen and Axel for getting me home with my cramping legs. Thank you to the coaches, runners and PTs who helped my get through the training. Thank you to all the spectators and to the volunteers who got me from the start to the finish, and thank you to the zombies that trudged with me for the long long long walk out of the park. 

Strava: All my friends are in New York

This series of posts:

• We'll run till we drop
• Running song of the day 
• All the Streets in Montclair
• Running away from home
• Thank You, New York City

Running away from home

(I'm blogging my journey to the 2024 New York Marathon.)

For a long time, it's been a goal of mine to live and work someplace where the language is something other than English. I've studied French in school and I've studied a bit of Mandarin and Japanese. And Swedish. But I'd never had the opportunity to live in another language, to get comfortable enough to have casual conversations and say the things I want to say.

Two years ago (2022) my Aunt Siv planned an 80th birthday celebration for herself, inviting the whole family to join her for a party in Lappland (northern Sweden). Coming out of two long pandemic years, we were eager to go and travel. There was still a lot of uncertainty about Covid, and with the invasion of Ukraine adding to the feeling that the trip might or might not happen, we booked refundable tickets for a vacation in Sweden. 

Swedish was my first language! My parents both grew up in Sweden, but met and married in Ohio. My mom's teenaged sister Siv came over to help my mom with the baby (me) so there was a lot of Swedish in the house. When I started going to nursery school I quickly learned English, and began refusing to speak Swedish. By the time I got to kindergarten, I had completely forgotten all of my Swedish language. But traces remained. After college I decided I should learn Swedish and I took a class in Stockholm. Learning Swedish was completely different from learning French in school, because I could hear in my head if it was right. After one day of class, I could speak 2 sentences of perfect Swedish. I confidently went into a shop, used my 2 perfect sentences, and got into deep trouble because I had no clue what the answers meant. I had a good accent without much trying. This has been very helpful, because when swedes hear a foreigner try to speak Swedish, they immediately switch to English, making it rather difficult for the foreigner to learn. Not me. Swedish people are amazed that I seem to be able to speak good Swedish.

I wanted to improve my Swedish, so I wanted a little longer in Sweden than the rest of the family, and our planning took its final shape when my wife said "Eric, you should just stay! For years you been saying you want to live somewhere in another language, and now the internet lets you work from where ever you want!" So all of a sudden I was going to spend four weeks in Stockholm on my own without much of a plan. I was scared. How would I meet people? Sure, I could sit in my AirBnB and work as a digital nomad, but what would be the point?

Running was one of the answers. There was a half-marathon to run, RUNmaröloppet,  that would take me out to an island in Stockholm's archipelago. I had identified a running club, Mikkeller Running Club Stockholm,   that seemed sociable, as they meet at a bar on Tuesdays and have beers afterward. Both of these turned out to be awesome. And so I started running away from home. 

Running with a group is universal and local at the same time. No matter where you run you can have the same conversations with whoever's running next to you. "Are you training for a race?" "My legs are so stiff." "I'm recovering from an IT-band strain." "My name is Eric, have we run together before?" But every route you run is different in its own beautiful way, and the group helps  newcomers (and often the regulars!) to avoid getting lost. By the end of the run, the group has shared an indelible experience and there aren't strangers anymore.

RUNmaröloppet was a blast. You have to take a boat to the island. The course is quite technical in places and is also the most beautiful race I've ever run. I did it again this year, and finished 5th in my age group, despite a lingering knee injury that force me to use walk-run again. Full disclosure: I also finished DFL (Dead F-in Last) out of 282 runners, and was never so happy with a finish.

Mikkeller Running Club Stockholm meets every Tuesday on the lively urban island of Södermalm. Good people, good beer, 5K, 7K and longer routes. The 5K is at a "cozy" pace and welcomes runners of all paces. (Linguistic note: back home we call it "sexy" pace. Maybe this has deep sociological meaning. Or maybe it's the conversion from km to mi.) 

In Stockholm I discovered this thing called ParkRun.  These people have taken "running away from home" to extremes. ParkRun started somewhere in England and has spread around the world like a pandemic. They have special t-shirts to commemorate milestones such as a runner's 100th ParkRun. I've now run the ParkRun in Stockholm's Haga Park 6 times. It's a timed 5K run. At every run there are people from all over the world - last week I met a couple from Sheffield who had hopped off their cruise ship and took a taxi to the ParkRun so they could add Sweden to their list of ParkRun countries.  Some of them even try to run ParkRun places starting with every letter of the alphabet! I love how crazy runners can be.

My Stockholm 2022 sojourn was topped off by a 10K race around Södermalm called "Midnattsloppet".  Midnattsloppet is sort of a night-time EuroPop Bay-to-Breakers. 22,000 runners in the 10K, another 17K in the 5K. There was a musical act every kilometer to fire up the runners but only two water stations on that pretty warm night. At the top of the first big hill, there was a choir of ~20 blonde women singing “Waterloo” which I thought a poor choice given the pre-ABBA history of Waterloo. The faster waves of runners got “We are the Champions”. At the start, runners were prompted to sing a song which apparently is the anthem of the Hammarby Football Club, written by a guy who must have been the guitarist for a Swedish Spinal Tap. Apparently he caused a scandal by wearing a "69" T-shirt on Swedish television and sadly died at a young age. On Midnattsloppet night you can walk into any bar in Stockholm in a shirt dripping with sweat and the bouncer will say "Good Jobb!". (I verified this.)

I now have a pair of ruby red New Balance 1080 version 12s. (NOT v13!) My running gait is such that there's a flat wear spot where my feet click together. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

This series of posts:

• We'll run till we drop
• Running song of the day 
• All the Streets in Montclair
• Running away from home
• Thank You, New York City

Running Song of the Day

(I'm blogging my journey to the 2024 New York Marathon. )

Steve Jobs gave me back my music. Thanks Steve!

I got my first iPod a bit more than 20 years ago. It was a 3rd generation iPod, the first version with an all-touch control. I loved that I could play my Bruce, my Courtney, my Heads and my Alanis at an appropriate volume without bothering any of my classical-music-only family. Looking back on it, there was a period of about five years when I didn't regularly listen to music. I had stopped commuting to work by car, and though commuting was no fun, it had kept me in touch with my music. No wonder those 5 years were such a difficult period of my life!

Today, my running and my music are entwined. My latest (and last 😢) iPod already has some retro cred. It's a 6th generation iPod Nano. I listen to to my music on 90% of my runs and 90% of my listening is on my runs. I use shuffle mode so that over the course of a year of running, I'll listen to 2/3 of my ~2500 song library. In 2023, I listened to 1,723 songs. That's a lot of running!

Yes, I keep track. I have a system to maintain a 150 song playlist for running. I periodically replace all the songs I've heard in the most recent 2 months (unless I've listened to the song less than 5 times - you need at least that many plays to become acquainted with a song!) This is one of the ways I channel certain of my quirkier programmerish tendencies so that I project as a relatively normal person. Or at least I try.

Last November, I decided to do something new (for me). I made a running playlist! Carefully selected to have the right cadence and to inspire the run! It was ordered to have to have particular songs play at appropriate points of the Ashenfelter 8K  on Thanksgiving morning. It started with "Born to Run" and ended with either "Save it for Later", "Breathless" or "It's The End Of The World As We Know It", depending on my finishing time. It worked OK. I finished with Exene. I had never run with a playlist before.

Last year, I started to extract a line from the music I had listened to during my run to use as the Strava title for the run. Through September 3, I would choose a line from a Springsteen song (he had to take a health timeout after that). For my New Year's resolution, I promised to credit the song and the artist in my run descriptions as well.

I find now that with many songs, they remind me of the place where I was running when I listened to them. And running in certain places now reminds me of particular songs. I'm training the neural network in my head. I prefer to think of it as creating a web of connections, invisible strings, you might say, that enrich my experience of life. In other words, I'm creating art. And if you follow my Strava, the connections you make to my runs and my songs become part of this little collective art project. Thanks!

This series of posts:

• We'll run till we drop
• Running song of the day 
• All the Streets in Montclair
• Running away from home
• Thank You, New York City

We'll run 'til we drop

(I'm blogging my journey to the 2024 New York Marathon. )

 It wasn't the 10 seconds that made me into a runner.

I started running races again 20 years ago, in 2004. It was a 10K sponsored by my town's YMCA.  I had run an occasional race in grad school to join my housemates; and I continued to run a couple of miles pretty regularly to add some exercise to my mostly sitting-at-a-computer lifestyle. I gradually added 10Ks - the local "turkey-trot"  because the course went almost by my house - and then a "cherry-blossom" run, through beautiful Branch Brook Park. But I was not yet a real runner - tennis was my main sport.

In 2016, things changed. My wife was traveling a lot for work, and one son was away at college, and I found myself needing more social interaction. I saw that my local Y was offering a training program for their annual 10K, and I thought I would try it out. I had never trained for a race, ever. The closest thing to training I had ever done was the soccer team in high school. But there was a HUGE sacrifice involved - the class started at 8AM on Saturdays, and I was notorious for sleeping past noon on Saturdays! Surprise, surprise, I loved it. It was fun to have people to run with. I'm on the silent side, and it was a pleasure to be with people who were comfortable with the  somewhat taciturn real me.

I trained really hard with that group. I did longer runs than I'd ever done, and it felt great. So by race day, I felt sure that I would smash my PR (not counting the races in my 20's!). I was counting on cutting a couple of minutes off my time. And I did it! But only by a measly 10 seconds. I was so disappointed.

But somehow I had become a runner! It was running with a group that made me a runner. I began to seek out running groups and became somewhat of a running social butterfly.

Fast-forward to five weeks ago, when I was doing a 10-miler with a group of running friends (A 10 miler for me, they were doing longer runs in training for a marathon). I had told them of my decision to do New York this fall, and they were soooo supportive. I  signed up for a half marathon to be held on April 27th  - many of my friends were training for the associated full marathon. The last 2 miles were really rough for me (maybe because my shoes were newish??) and I staggered home. That afternoon I could hardly walk and I realized I had strained my right knee. Running was suddenly excruciatingly painful.

By the next day I could get down the stairs and walk with a limp, but running was impossible. The next weekend, I was able to do a slow jog with some pain, so I decided to stick to walking, which was mostly pain-free. I saw a PT who advised me to build up slowly and get plenty of rest. It was working until the next weekend, when I was hurrying to catch a train and unthinkingly took a double step in Penn Station and re-sprained the knee. It was worse than before and I had only 3 weeks until the half marathon!

The past three weeks have been the hardest thing I've had to deal with in my running "career". I've had a calf strain, T-band strains, back strains, sore quads, inter-tarsal neuromas and COVID get in the way of running, but this was the worst. Because of my impatience.

Run-walk (and my running buddies) were what saved me. I slowly worked my way from 2 miles at a 0.05-to-0.25 mile run-to-walk ratio up to 4 miles at 0.2-to-0.05 mile run-to-walk, with 2 days of rest between each session. I started my half marathon with a plan to run 2 mimutes and walk 30 seconds until the knee told me to stop the running bits. I was hoping for a 3 hour half.

The knee never complained (the rest of the body complained, but I'm used to that!!) I finished with the very respectable time of 2:31:28, faster than 2 of my previous 11 half marathons. One of my friends took a video of me staggering over the finish. 

 I'm very sure I don't look like that in real life.

Here's our group picture, marathoners and half-marathoners. Together, we're real runners.

After this weekend, my biggest half marathon challenge to date, I have more confidence than ever that I'll be able to do the New York Marathon in November - in one piece - with Team Amref. 

We're gonna get to that place where we really wanna go and we'll walk in the sun

Jim Thorpe Half Marathon 2024 results. 

My half on Strava.

This series of posts:

• We'll run till we drop
• Running song of the day 
• All the Streets in Montclair
• Running away from home
• Thank You, New York City